Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Perhaps they are occupied in Florida? I do wish that those two would get on with it.
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, November 15, 2000 at 21:59:16 (PST)

Valmont knew the woman was being coy. Of course she wanted him. In private. He assessed the staircase, he’d already assessed the woman, he knew he could lift her, but he didn’t want to do so unless he could …go the distance. The staircase was long but it was not steep. He set down his champagne glass and made his move. He scooped her up, and she put her arms around his neck balancing her champagne flute. If he expected a squeal of alarm he was disappointed. He began to ascend the staircase, his movements still graceful as he glided up the steps. The casual air with which he carried her suggested he was not unaccustomed to carrying burdens of this sort.

As he topped the stairs he paused, he did nothing so gauche as to breath heavily, that would come later. He simply paused and turned her so that she could admire his portrait which was located just to the left of the top of the steps. “And where exactly are we going?” inquired Joya.

“To a quiet chamber, down that hallway off the gallery,” he replied. He actually waggled his eyebrows to indicate the direction.

As they had neared the top step Eamon de Valera’s damsel in distress meter went off. He looked up and saw Valmont carrying a figure in black with long blondish hair cascading down her back. It had to be Joya. Without thinking he excused himself from the group of people with whom he’d been chatting and headed for the stairs. He took them two at a time and reached the top just as Valmont and Joya, still held in Valmont’s arms, reached the end of the gallery where a smaller hall intersected it. His hand reached to his side to the whip which hung at the ready. He plucked it from his side, ready to restore Valmont to his proper place in the proceedings.

Valmont turned at the sound of de Valera’s footsteps. “Oh no, not the whip again Monsieur.”

Joya gave de Valera an appraising look, “Valmont, you’d best put me down. If there’s going to be a fight you really ought to have your hands free.” He set Joya down carefully and stood upright, tugging at his gloves in turn. Joya stood there, sipping champagne. She hadn’t spilled a drop in their journey up the staircase and she was ready to watch the show unfold.

Dev noticed Joya’s air of nonchalance and belatedly realized that perhaps this damsel was not actually in any distress.

Valmont
Really not lilking that whip, - Wednesday, November 15, 2000 at 19:12:23 (PST)

There’s an art to perambulating in thigh-high boots with stiletto heels – even more so when the floor is newly polished and one is leaning on the arm of a total stranger. But it’s not impossible and in the opinion of the crowd the tall, statuesque, not-quite-blonde young woman with the preening escort was doing just fine.

“They envy us.” Valmont gestured to the room at large with his glass of champagne. It was a statement of fact, oiled with satisfaction.

“You think so?” Joya gave him a sideways glance. “Why’s that?”

He smiled down at her. “Me, they envy because I am with a beautiful woman, I might even say the most beautiful woman in the room.” He paused dramatically. “You, they envy because you are with the one man here tonight who knows how to appreciate a beautiful woman the way she deserves.” A slow smile spreading across his face, he leaned forward and clinked their glasses together again.

“If that were true, then they'd have reason to be envious.” Joya watched the sudden flurry of bubbles rise to the top of her glass, her thick lashes concealing her gaze. “But perhaps they’re just curious about our costumes.”

“I am certainly curious about yours. So – how do you say it? – unusual for a woman to dress as a motorcycle outlaw.” He stepped back and subjected her to a minute scrutiny from head to toe. The sight obviously pleased him.

"I like to be unusual." Joya stifled a yawn.

"I can tell." Valmont took her arm again and they resumed their walk. "But tell me now, about this costume of yours. What are these chains for?" He stroked her sleeve, catching his finger in the links.

"For decoration only. A real biker would be more practical." Joya smiled, watching the chains swing against the leather.

"You jest! A woman like you needs no ornamentation." Valmont loomed over her, his breath hot on her shoulder. "I think these fetters serve another purpose. They allow you to secure the poor souls who are enslaved by your beauty."

She laughed. "Monsieur Valmont, you are the one who jests. These chains are not strong enough to hold anyone."

"Ah but you are wrong!" He backed away, his brows raised in mock astonishment. "They are as iron shackles to a man who is weak with love, mad with desire. Such a man would be your prisoner, at your mercy for as long as you chose to keep him."

They had circumnavigated the entire hall by this time and found themselves at the foot of the stairs to the gallery. Valmont caught her arm to pull her up the steps. "Come, let us come up here where we can be more private. I would tell you more about the strength of these chains."

Magda
Has everyone else gone home?, - Wednesday, November 15, 2000 at 17:20:50 (PST)

The suave Frenchman saw them enter the Hall. The man was ….nothing. He dismissed him immediately from his thoughts. But the woman… she had the self confident air of a woman who knew what she wanted. And, of course, what she wanted was him. All he had to do was make sure she knew it. He watched as the man left her side and headed to the bar. Even better. Certainly no man who abandoned such a beautiful creature to the predators that were lurking about did not deserve any consideration. The fact that Valmont himself was the primary predator did not bother him in the least.

He watched the woman make her way until she was standing at the bottom of the staircase. He reacted instantly, sliding down the banister of the staircase and landing with a flourish just in front of her. He gave a low and courteous bow, appraising her openly as he stood and extended a gloved hand. “I am Valmont.”

His manner suggested that it would not have surprised him had the woman swooned away at that moment. As it was she simply extended her hand and replied, “I am Joya.” She watched with amusement flickering in her eyes as his hand, swathed in cream colored leather, lifted her hand, to his lips. He favored the hand with a kiss that was too lingering to be called courtly. His smile, as he allowed her fingers to escape his, was smug and self congratulatory.

“So, mademoiselle Joya, why don’t I get you a drink and you can tell me what you do with these,” he purred, fingering a chain at her sleeve.

Joya’s glance flickered to the bar and she nodded, “Yes, do. Pick something nice for me, I’ll put myself in your hands.” She gave her head a toss.

Valmont noticed a waiter passing by with a tray of full champagne flutes. He clicked his fingers imperiously. The gesture was wasted, however, as the glove muffled the sound. He was forced to ask nice. “My good man, could we please have two glasses over here.” The waiter complied and Valmont handed Joya a glass. He tipped his glass towards hers and they clinked, “To new friends.”

“To new good friends.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

He looked triumphant and extended his arm to her. She threaded her arm through his and they proceeded to stroll, sipping champagne, around the hall.
Valmont
- Tuesday, November 14, 2000 at 18:37:10 (PST)

"He had a one-way ticket to oblivion and his boarding pass had just arrived" OH ROFLMAO!!

I LOVE that expression...think I might have to purloin that for future use when we go out drinking.
Chris
- Tuesday, November 14, 2000 at 15:31:59 (PST)

“The decorations are lovely.” The tall woman stopped on the threshold, lifted the visor on her motorcycle helmet and looked around. “Come on, don’t be a bear. Admit it, they did a wonderful job.”

The man beside her glanced perfunctorily at the walls, the ceiling and the tables. “Charming. Now cover up, men, I mean, people are staring.”

“They are not. You’re just making it up. By the way, I’m getting rid of this.” She pulled the helmet off and a tawny mane of not-quite-blonde hair cascaded down her back, completely covering the large embroidered emblem of a local motorcycle club on her leather jacket. Dropping her steel-studded gloves inside and tucking it under her arm, she breathed deeply. “That’s better! Now I can hear the music.”

“Do you have to do that?” The man asked, an aggrieved tone in his voice.

“Don’t be cryptic, George. Do what?” She waved at a passing waiter loaded down with a tray.

“Inhale like that. It’s indecent.” George lasered the waiter with his scowl. “It’s cold in here, Joya. Zip up that jacket.”

“You know something, George? You’re getting very tiresome.” Joya tossed her head and the light in her deep blue eyes promised imminent storms. “I took care of myself for years without your interference and managed quite well. So stick a sock in it, all right?” She turned on her heel and marched into the room, causing the chains hanging from her sleeves and skin-tight leather pants to swing and clink in harmony with her steps.

George watched her until she disappeared into the crowd. It figured, he thought bitterly. She never listened to anything he said. Why did he even bother? Who needed this? He looked around. What he did need was to find the bar. Immediately. He marched across the room, scattering partygoers with every shove and push, ignoring their outraged comments and indignant glares.

The bartender wore a black half-mask. He looked up from polishing a glass. “Yes, sir? Something I can get for you?” Vampire fangs flashed as he spoke.

“I want that.” George pointed at another partygoer’s drink.

“Very good, sir. Coming right up.” He stooped for a bottle under the bar.

“Give me three – no, better make it four.” George climbed up on a stool and propped his chin on his hands.

The bartender paused. “Four, sir? Treating your friends?”

“No, they’re all for me. Put them in one glass.” He glanced over his shoulder and missed the sight of the bartender barely rescuing the bottle from a sudden demise. Joya was nowhere to be seen – no, there she was. By the stairs leading to the gallery, talking to some woman. He stared at her for several seconds, willing her to turn and face him. It didn’t work.

The sound of ice in a glass brought his attention back to the bar. The bartender slid his drink in front of him, not a little awed at his own creation. George took a first sip, then a deeper draught. Yes, this would do nicely. He had a one-way ticket to oblivion and his boarding pass had just arrived. He set the glass down on the polished wood and hunched his shoulders.

Spurn his attentions, would she? Well, Miss Joya was on her own tonight.

Magda
Une histoire toute en anglais..., - Tuesday, November 14, 2000 at 10:40:16 (PST)

English, I beg of you.
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, November 13, 2000 at 20:49:33 (PST)

FOF Ball:

Cindie continued to feed Alexander the strawberry until he had demolished all but the ruffle around the stem. She never noticed the midnight blue cloak waft past the open door of the morning room.

They kicked back for a few minutes, reveling in the temporary food induced coma. Then they picked up their plates and deposited them on a side table and rejoined the main party. Alex spotted Sandy sitting with Jamie and excused himself to head in her direction. Cindie glanced about the room and spotted Claudia and Ed. She grabbed a chair and joined them.

“You know, you really edited out the best bits from my painting.” This from Ed as Cindie pulled up her chair next to he and Claudia.

“Your ‘best bits’ would’ve gotten some of my bits in a sling if the Director saw them on display,” Cindie replied.

“What, your bits on display, where?” Ed feigned a look around.

“Ed, honey, if you haven’t noticed my bits you’d best move that bandage to somewhere where it will do some good. I feel like I’m wearing nothing but spray paint. But you, why aren’t you Gomez?”

Claudia gave him a look of triumph. “See. I told you.” She socked him in the arm.

“Claudia,” Cindie said laughing at Ed’s pained expression, “Can you actually walk in that get up? I think I’d tip over.”

Claudia stood up and demonstrated her best Morticia shuffle. “These roses…. . need some pruning… Oh, Thing, my pruning sheers, please….” Her impression was dead on. “Ed thinks dancing will be a problem in these heels though,” the last comment in her Claudia voice.

“Let’s see who’s are bigger,” said Cindie holding out her a foot.

“Yes, lets,” chimed in Ed.

“Is he always this incorrigible?” asked Cindie.

“Always,” Claudia replied, bumping Ed out of the way as she stuck out her own foot. “I think they’re about even,” she concluded after inspecting the footwear.

“Yes, but can you dance in them?” challenged Ed. As if on queue the band began to play, the strains of If Ever I Would Leave You an answer to his challenge.

“Oui monsieur,” she said demurely.

“You spoke French…..” Ed proceeded to plant kisses up Claudia’s arm, scoop her up and head for the dance floor.

How she managed it Cindie could only imagine but dance she did. Ed dipped her so far back it was gravity defying. What a wonderful looking couple, she thought to herself. She found herself again scanning the room.

She caught sight of Valmont pacing the Gallery. He appeared to be talking to himself, gesturing wildly. She thought she saw him scowl at the portrait of Mary Anne. As she watched he stopped in his tracks and stared at the entrance to the hall. Her gaze followed his and she could make out two figures silhouetted against the door. The woman appeared to be wearing a helmet and seemed to be sporting….chains? The male figure loomed large next to her and had a possessive air about him. Cindie’s gaze returned to Valmont, the man was positively drooling.

Cindie
Who really likes Number One, - Monday, November 13, 2000 at 19:45:52 (PST)

Actually, I believe that should be: "Tout est pour le meilleur dans le meilleur de tous les mondes possibles." You can email me privately to chat about it "entre nous".
Magda <mgrantwich@yahoo.com>
With thanks to Babelfish.com, - Monday, November 13, 2000 at 17:06:46 (PST)

Tout est pour le mieux dans les meilleure des monde possible.
Valmont
Ou est Joya?, - Monday, November 13, 2000 at 16:45:05 (PST)

Perhaps Valmont should meet Joya.
Magda
- Monday, November 13, 2000 at 09:09:23 (PST)

The portrait gallery:

Mary Anne is examining the portrait of Renie in her "chocolate confection" gown when she feels the tap on her shoulder. Turning, she sees Valmont smiling at her, and warily, she returns the smile. "Good evening, Valmont."

"Good evening." His smile widens as he glances at the portrait. Ah, yes, that gown—from the Egdon Heath episodes. His character has made a gift of that gown . . . A good omen, that.

"A good omen of what?"

He must have spoken aloud without realizing it. "Do not pretend not to understand." L’audace, toujours l’audace.

"Understand? What do you mean?" Mary Anne frowns in puzzlement.

Perhaps he has miscalculated? Non, c’est impossible . . . "I mean—" Moving a step closer. "That you are Guenevere. And—" Silkily. "Lancelot was French, after all. Does this mean nothing to you?"

Mary Anne is now thoroughly on her guard, and sets her back against the wall. "It means," she replies, "that this costume was a match for Christopher’s. He is King Arthur and I am Guenevere, and that is all there is to it."

That would be enough to discourage most men, but to Mary Anne’s dismay, Valmont moves even closer, and she sighs to herself as she prepares to do whatever is necessary. Oh, Lord. A good party ruined. And he’s probably had too much to drink, besides. Valmont’s pursuit of the women on the set is often quite amusing, but things turn ugly when a man is drunk, and with her, he should know better; her attachment to Brandon is well-established, as is her complete willingness to abandon the stance that a woman should be nice and pleasant and not cause a scene. If Valmont takes too many liberties, she is ready to stage an entire production.

"And where, then, is your king?" Valmont insinuates.

"I told him I wanted to see the portraits, and he said he would find us a good place to sit down and eat our dinner . . . for in case you hadn’t noticed . . ." Sarcastically. " . . . it is the refreshment break. How much did you have to bribe the orchestra leader?" Mary Anne sneaks a glance down the stairs, trying to catch the attention of the conductor—but what she sees, instead, is Dev and Therese, who look up just in time to catch her desperate and silent appeal.

Dev sizes up the situation at a glance and is instantly on his way up the long staircase, closely followed by Therese.

Valmont, however, notices none of this. "He should know better—" Leaning closer. "—than to allow your beauteous majesty to leave his side. Particularly since your character was not known for her fidelity. Why should he take the risk?"

Now you’re getting nasty, and you WILL regret it, thinks Mary Anne. Still, she holds her peace, for Dev has almost reached the top of the stairs.

"For a woman like you, that costume sends an interesting message. Of course, you and Brandon are not married, save in the script. But Guenevere was an adulterous wife—who took a French lover . . ."

Mary Anne had been willing to show a certain forbearance; the man is slightly drunk, after all. But now there rises up in her the fury of every woman who, in such an encounter as this, is told that it is her own fault, that she must have done something to provoke it, and that things like this don’t happen to good women. To Valmont’s complete astonishment, she makes no further attempt to shrink back against the wall but steps boldly forward, almost directly into his arms, which open to her as he smiles triumphantly . . .

Dev and Therese have gained the top of the stairs.

Mary Anne’s hands come up to rest on Valmont’s chest, and she follows through with a mighty shove that propels him backwards several feet. "Laisse-moi, monsieur," she snaps, "ou je te mettrai Le Decalogue au visage, avec mes ongles!"

And at that precise moment, before Valmont can recover . . .

TSSSS---SNAP!!

Valmont whirls with a startled exclamation, just in time to see Eamon de Valera, AKA Gunther Gebel-Williams, ready his whip for another crack . . . and Mary Anne takes advantage of the confusion to slip past Valmont and gain the top of the stairs.

"Thank you, Mister de Valera. I owe you." All coolness and dignity. "Therese." Therese is about to burst out laughing, but manages to return Mary Anne’s courteous nod with the stateliness befitting the occasion.

Mary Anne gathers her long skirt to descend the staircase. "I’m sure Christopher is wondering where I am, so if you’ll excuse me . . ." And with that, she departs in grand style, her back straight and her head erect, indignation in every line of her posture.

Valmont, who has now recovered enough to be sure that the lash had not actually struck him—merely cracked in the air behind him—tries to follow, but Dev’s raised eyebrow (not to mention the whip held at the ready) makes him think better of the idea, and he stalks off down the gallery . . . trying to look as if he is in no hurry.

Dev coils the whip and re-attaches it to his belt, and Therese gives way to her hilarity at last. "What on earth did she say to him?"

"Oh? She said something?"

"You know perfectly well she did, Mister Innocent, and you know more French than I do. Any idea what it was?"

"If I understood it correctly—" Dev finishes securing the whip and offers Therese his arm as they turn to walk down the stairs. "—I believe she told him to leave her alone, or she’d write the Ten Commandments on his face."

"On his face?"

"Yes." Grim smile from Dev. "With her fingernails."

And the band is still playing as, below the stairs, Mary Anne locates Brandon and hurries to him, favouring him with such a radiant smile that he wonders what on earth he has done to be so privileged, and as he leads her to the table he has secured, Mary Anne reflects that the music has turned out to be quite appropriate to the occasion:

. . .No, no, not in springtime,
Summer, winter, or fall;
No, never would I leave you
At all . . .

MA--" . . . I'd set my ten commandments in your face." Shax, of course.
Okay, "Valmont," is this enough trouble for you? ;-), - Monday, November 13, 2000 at 07:36:36 (PST)

Confess. Yes, don't you feel better now? I will be your friend, philosopher and guide. Tell me everything.
You know.
Would you like some broth?, - Sunday, November 12, 2000 at 12:17:19 (PST)

The Ball:

The handsome Frenchman surveyed the room. Certainment, there were many beautiful women here tonight. He would now allow one of them the greatest thrill of which he knew, namely, his *attentions*. He again spotted the woman he had mistaken for Madame de Tourvel. He shivered involuntarily. Mais non, best to stay away from that one. He continued his perusal. La petite blonde? She was tres bon but had not been properly appreciative of his charms when they had danced. He cast about, sending out his net. Looking for a woman who was sending the signal. It was bound to be there. Women found him irresistible. It was a given that he would find a woman who longed for him. Who was perhaps too timid to approach him. Too in awe of him to make a move. But she would show herself to him, in time. He just had to recognize the sign when he saw it.

Suddenly, he found his mark. It was so obvious. A wonder he had not realized it immediately. She was crying out to him. They had many encounters in the past and he had thought her affections were firmly attached to another. But she must have had a change of heart and realized that he was the man for her.

He watched and waited for an opportunity. He wanted to approach her when she was not surrounded by other people. He did not want anything to hinder her. He wanted her to be able to speak her desire for him freely. The presence of others might cause her to maintain a charade of indifference for him, which, she had clearly abandoned in his favor. He located the orchestra leader and had a brief word with him, a bill changed hands.

At last the moment she had no doubt been waiting for this evening arrived. She was standing alone at the top of the staircase making a pretense of inspecting one of the portraits. She was obviously waiting for him. But she was clever and had chosen to study a portrait of someone else rather than the one of him. No doubt to cover her true feelings.

He approached her quietly. When he stood at her shoulder he said in her ear, “Mademoiselle, you need wait no longer. When I realized what your costume meant I flew to your side. I am here in answer to your call.” When the woman failed to respond with the expected fervor he continued, “Oui, Guenevere, I am your Lancelot du Lac. You need no longer feign affection for the king whom you do not love. I am the Frenchman who is the true love of your life.” He smiled triumphantly at her. Yes, she chose this costume of a woman who forsook her English King for a superior French lover just pour moi.

At his signal the band resumed playing. The song, If Ever I Would Leave You.
Valmont
- Sunday, November 12, 2000 at 08:49:38 (PST)

I am the Lurker. I check these pages, oh, once a week or so. Hoping that one day I'll find something other than what I expect. I am still waiting... I am challenged by variety, by risk. My endorphins, my cocaine. The energy to run my idling mind. Take me somewhere I have never been before... That's all I ask./ There is a bitterness, no question. A wistfulness as well. Lust. Always lust. A youth, ever more appealing, dominates me and bores me in a passionate embrace. I am old. And part of me is tired. And part of me is in love. Repeatedly, passionately in love. And part of me is dead. It is, after all, for my own good./ I prefer intellectual exercises to keep my thoughts at bay. I find my comfort in the bosom of my mother, now long gone. I have, in the end, truly been fortunate to have had a never-ending childhood, after my baptism into adulthood as a child. Of course I care...about...you. As you care about me. Really./ I'll be back. I'm never really far away. And never really here... I am the Lurker. And I Lurk...and wait...
The Lurker
A Confession, - Saturday, November 11, 2000 at 21:17:07 (PST)

side note:being a city boy, I doubt that AR would knows the details of lawn care, such as aereating, but then again, maybe he does.....who knows? Alexander might have been a gardener in LA between acting gigs......
a Rickman admirer
- Saturday, November 11, 2000 at 02:14:26 (PST)

Sandy's eyebrows drew together as she went over the events of her and Jamie's confrontation with the Texas governor. Something's just not right about what happened here earlier. I can't put my finger on it, she thought to herself as she headed for the buffet table.

"Aggravated that you didn't get a chance to tell him off a little bit more?" Jamie's voice, filled with laughter, interrupted her thoughts as he joined her. She chuckled and watched in amazement as he piled his plate with food and selected a glass of red wine. "You weren't doing so bad yourself," she pointed out as she took her own plate and a glass of chardonnay, looking around for somewhere to sit.

"There's a spot over there," he indicated a small table with a couple of chairs that was unoccupied in a corner. "Care to join me?" he asked, arching his eyebrow. "Sure," she replied and the two sat down, Jamie placing his pith helmet on the floor next to his chair.

"Mmm. Feels good to relax for a bit - and I'm starving," Jamie said, tucking into his food with relish. "I really would like to know why they were here. This is the most unlikely place I would have expected them to show up," he growled.

Sandy took a sip of her wine before answering, enjoying the slight oak and apple flavors she could taste. "I agree. It was very strange for the potential next president of the US and his mother to appear at a Halloween party for a show where over half of the people present aren't even eligible to vote in the election!"

"Perhaps it was to make his first venture into foreign relations," Jamie suggested darkly. Sandy shuddered at the very idea, still a little spooked that the Texas governor actually had the audacity to sliiiiiide his hand down her arm after her refusal to shake his hand. Well, that WAS bad form on my part to not shake his hand. I suppose I should be glad I didn't really lose my temper and kick him in the shin when he did that. That would have been cute...

Jamie didn't notice her reaction to his off-the-cuff remark and continued thinking aloud. "The really odd thing was when I was looking at Mrs. Bush. I had the strangest feeling that I knew her from somewhere, although I've never met her before. What a bizarre idea." He shook his head in puzzlement. "Kind of like that weird Oompa-Loompa vibe?" Sandy quipped.

Jamie's lips quirked up in a smile underneath his mustache. "Well, that wouldn't have been how I would have stated it, but I daresay that would be a relatively accurate description," he snickered, eyes twinkling with good humor. "Here's to getting a once in a lifetime opportunity to tell powerful people off." He lifted his glass, Sandy doing the same, their glasses touching briefly in a salute.

Sandy - Alex does have a weird sense of humor doesn't he? But then again, so don't I!
Have fun with Alex, Cindie-just don't say you-know-what to him ;-) I haven't forgotten your earlier question about what he really meant, so I hope I get to 'speak' with him soon. , - Friday, November 10, 2000 at 19:07:56 (PST)

FOF Dress Ball:

As the applause died down the crowd headed towards the tables lining the hall. As Cindie joined the moving people around her she looked over her shoulder. He was gone. Mistral had evaporated into the swirl of costumes. She craned her neck but could not see him. She absently picked up a plate and started making selections. The caterers had done fabulous job, the selection was varied and everything looked wonderful. Cindie fixed a plate and grabbed a glass of lemonade. It looked refreshing after all the dancing. She headed to the “morning room”, deciding that a little quiet time might be in order.

She sat down on a settee and placed her dinner on a small occasional table nearby. There was a fire burning low in the grate. She smiled, thinking that really there ought not to be a fire in this room at this hour. The fire would be in the library. They probably had one going in there as well. She sat back and stared into the embers. Her thoughts, not surprisingly, strayed to Patrick Mistral. They didn’t need to stray far to get there. What was going on in his head? Since their initial …encounter, and the quiet moments in that first dance, he had been almost entirely absent from her side. She mentally shrugged, of course not only were the dances partnered but he had many friends here. She was new and was still getting to know everybody. She couldn’t expect him to stay with her all evening when he had other people with whom he surely wanted to spend time. Besides, maybe he did just need some time to think.

She picked up her glass and took a sip of her lemonade. Now her thoughts turned to an alternate time line. One where after that mind bending kiss he never left her side. Where the tango she danced was with him, and instead of Dev’s whip, her fingers caressed… “O.K. – this can’t be healthy….”

She didn’t realize she’d spoken out loud until she heard a startled but bemused voice respond, “You want me to go then?”

She looked up to see Alexander Dane carrying a plate piled high with food, a big bowl of salad and juggling a glass of what looked to be Guinness. “Here let me help you!” Cindie stood up and extricated the glass from his hands so he was able to set the food down cleanly on the little table, the surface of which was now completely obscured. She patted the space next to her indicating he should sit.

“Thought I’d find a quiet spot to eat," he said, "I haven’t danced this much in years.” She handed him his glass, “Thanks,” he took a sip, “This is wonderful, my last job didn’t have a set that doubled as a pub.” He gave her a side long glace, “Sure you don’t mind if I stay?”

“I’m sure. I was getting too lost in my own thoughts. Besides, now that you’re here you can throw another log on the fire.”

He obliged her, stirring up the embers a bit and sat back down. “So how’s it going?” he asked. “You started after I did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, its going great. The people are wonderful and the work is interesting. I’ve been following your story line. Can’t wait to see what happens next.”

“Neither can I, but one thing is sure, with Sandy writing its sure to involve more sand.” They both laughed. “But really, I agree, this is a good job – I didn’t think I’d want to do series work again but the way this is set up you really get to stretch your acting muscles and with the multiple story lines you’re not working yourself into the ground.” He said this last between mouthfuls of food. This man could eat.

“Come on now, I can’t believe you’ve ever complained about too much work. You’d have to be unconscious not to go on when the curtain goes up, and even then I bet you’d manage to have yourself propped up on stage.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Lucky for the rest of us.”

He smiled at the compliment. He reached over and pulled an ottoman over in front of the settee and propped his feet up. “That feels good.” He scooted the ottoman towards Cindie, “Here, let’s share.”

She put her feet up as well, and commented, “that is nice. I’m not used to three inch heels that have tips that could puncture cheap linoleum.”

“Well, just think, if you mowed your lawn with those on you could aerate the grass.”

She threw a grape at him. “Have you ever been told you have a very peculiar sense of humor?”

“Oh, let’s see…,” dramatic pause, “only by anybody that knows me.” He popped the grape in his mouth and took another lingering look at the heels which were the topic of conversation. The look extended up the heels to the boots and took in the rest of the outfit. “There’s no arguing that the ensemble is quite, ah, effective.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you going to eat that strawberry?” he asked pointing to her plate.

She smiled and shook her head. “No, here, open wide.” She began to feed him the strawberry, holding it by the stem just above his lips as he nibbled at it.
Cindie
Sandy, I promise I won't keep Dr. Dane long., - Friday, November 10, 2000 at 17:33:40 (PST)

Better late than never. *grin* Love the costume. Thanks, MA!
Suzanne
Always wanted to try red hair. :-), - Friday, November 10, 2000 at 07:04:14 (PST)

The costume ball:

There is a slight lull in the issue of tickets for the change dances, and in the interval the partygoers stand about in small groups, conversing, laughing together, getting caught up with each others doings on and off the set.

Cindie stands near Mary Anne and Brandon, who are busy teasing Dev and Therese about their costumes—in particular, how long it must have taken to apply Therese’s impressive tigress make-up and that it was worth being "fashionably late" for such an effect as that, for Therese does not look at all comical or cartoonish; rather, this is exactly what a beautiful woman would look like if she were metamorphosing into a tiger, and several men who had approached to rag her with "Here kitty kitty" had backed off in pretended terror at the display of her fangs and claws. Or perhaps they had backed away from the looming presence of Dev and the thought of what he might be prepared to do with his whip.

Cindie smiles to herself, remembering another event in the "fashionably late" department: the arrival of Suzanne, got up in dazzling splendour as Elizabeth I of England. Not the chalk-faced figure of the portraits, but the fresh and young Bess, newly-crowned against all hopes and prayers and odds, with a river of golden-red hair spilling over a white dress so thickly embroidered with pearls that it appears capable of standing on its own. And escorting Her Majesty Elizabeth is Rupert, costumed as Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester—Elizabeth’s dear "Robin," the childhood companion who became her lifelong friend and confidant.

There had been an interesting moment when Mary Anne, followed by Brandon, had hurried over to hug Suzanne: one queen of England greeting another, a graceful encounter between the Arthurian era and the Elizabethan, before Suzanne had turned to Brandon and extended her hand to him.

"I hope," she had smiled as he bowed over her hand, with a flourish of his fur-trimmed cloak, "that you aren’t planning to take my throne from me," laughs Suzanne. "Legend has it that Arthur will return."

"When he is needed," smiles Brandon, releasing her hand. "The ‘once and future king.’ Naturally, he stands ready to serve you whenever necessary."

Mary Anne, meanwhile, had been joking with Rupert about his doublet and tights—with plenty of wolf-whistles from the other women present to back up her opinion of how he show to advantage in the garb of Elizabethan England. Rupert had taken it in good spirits, with a flourish of his velvet cape. "You know how Suzanne adores capes," he had murmured low to Mary Anne. "An event like this should be a thrill a minute, for her!"

Thinking of capes and cloaks, Cindie emerges from her reverie to catch a glimpse of Mistral, distinct from the crowd in his enchanter’s finery with its glowing signs and symbols . . . and it occurs to her that since their last dance together, he appears to be keeping his distance. Well, that’s logical. With these ‘change’ dances, he can’t dance with me until the next set, so . . . And yet, there seems something deliberate about it—deliberate and provocative. Is it a teasing game, this holding himself aloof, playing not the seeker but the sought? Or . . . Cindie thinks on what Brandon had told her, that she may have power and influence with Mistral that she had not suspected. Or is he more like me, after all, than I thought? Does he just need some time to think? Her eyes follow him as he moves through the groups scattered about the floor—and it is a pleasure to watch him, for while he is not conventionally handsome, he is an elegant figure, long-limbed, lean but strong, beautifully made, his angular and mobile features capable of expression ranging from the tenderest affection to the most terrifying rage. And as she watches that figure, his cloak lifting behind him in a wide fan as he paces across the floor, it seems to Cindie that the other figures in the vast hall are blurred as if seen through water, their voices distorted . . . her eyes are fixed upon the cloaked man who had kissed her in a manner fit to draw the soul from her body . . . if she watches him long enough, he will turn, she will catch his eye . . . Look at me, Patrick. No one else can call him that: it is theirs alone . . .

Cindie is abruptly returned to reality by a little shriek from Mary Anne, and a chorus of gasps as everyone turns toward the staircase . . .

The music has abruptly ceased, for there at the top of the stairs is a figure in red—a complete suit of true blood red, from top to toe, the only note of white the terrible face, with its stark and gaping grin, the face of a skull glowering down at them with macabre hilarity, as the figure begins its slow advance down the stairs.

Mary Anne has recovered her composure, though she is white and trembling, leaning on Brandon, and Dev had automatically moved to put his body between Therese and . . . whatever that is, on the stair.

"Mary Anne?" Cindie steps closer. "Are you all right?"

"I’m fine. I think." Uneasy laugh. "It’s just a costume, after all—but you see, I was introduced to the stories of Poe at an early age. An early and impressionable age."

"The Red Death," intones a voice, and Cindie jumps; Mistral has suddenly appeared at her very shoulder, and though his face betrays neither fear nor concern, her heart warms at the idea that he may have come to protect her, as Dev and Brandon protect Therese and Mary Anne. "And darkness and decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all . . . Is that how it is, Mary Anne?"

"Close enough," she replies, more steadily now. "It just really caught me by surprise, that’s all." A smile. "I’ll be fine, really. Thank you."

At this point, the red figure on the staircase lifts a threatening hand—but it is to cue the musicians, who burst into the five-note descending and ascending theme from a popular Broadway musical, and with a maniacal laugh, the figure tears loose the skull face . . . and the red draperies.

The costume is tailored to "break away" cleanly from the body, and as the scarlet trappings drop to the floor, there stands . . . The Director, impeccably attired in white tie for the evening, as elegant and self-possessed as Maxim DeWinter in this facsimile of Manderley.

There is a moment of stunned silence, broken first by whispers and murmurs and then by applause that begins gradually and build to a roar, until The Director, smiling down at his cast, lifts both hands for quiet and announces: "There will be a break in the dancing, for refreshments—for you, and for our excellent orchestra." He gestures toward the minstrel’s gallery, and everyone heartily joins in the applause for the musicians, before making their way to the buffet tables . . .

MA--Suzanne, you said something about being "fashionably late," I believe. *grin* (And yes, I'm seeing Phantom soon!)
Cindie, the very IDEA of Hans in a powder-blue leisure suit: horrors!! =8-O But your'e right; he could be swoon material, even in such an abomination. , - Wednesday, November 08, 2000 at 21:07:26 (PST)

Is it o.k. to say here, in front of the Director and everybody, what a wonderful person Renie is? And what a talented kid Brennan is? Hope so.
Cindie
- Wednesday, November 08, 2000 at 19:53:41 (PST)

Flights of Fancy Dress Ball: Cindie stood gazing at her ticket. After the last two dances her head was spinning. She looked up searching for her next partner and finds herself looking – straight into the eyes of Akhenaten. Gulp. She stared at him. She couldn’t help herself. Hans Gruber really hadn’t been around the set that much since she’d started and this was their first face to face meeting. He could manage to be smooth and irresistible to women in a powder blue leisure suit, but as the King of Egypt – the effect should qualify as a lethal weapon.

‘Fraulein Cindie, I believe zis ticket allows me the pleasure of zis dance.”

The song was slow and mellow. They moved on to the dance floor and he took her up in his arms. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Hans smiled at her, leaned forward and whispered. “You know, I’m not really the King of Egypt.”

She chuckled, “I know, I’m sorry… its just that its been a big night for me. First the King of England, and now the King of Egypt. What’s a girl to do?”

“I know how you feel,” he said, his tone confiding. “I seem to be have an abundance of riches in Mary Annes to dance with tonight.”

“Oooooh no, don’t even say that!” Cindie looked up at him dismayed, “I know I adopted the costume for the night, but I assure you I don’t presume to be compared to the original wearer.” She gave him a guilty smile, “But if your character had any detonators to be placed tonight I feel like I’d be up for the task in this outfit.”

“Amazing isn’t it, the power of the proper garments…” Hans took up this topic and continued on in this vein for awhile, Cindie commenting here and there. It didn’t take long before she’d almost forgotten to be awe struck by him. At the conclusion of the dance he took her hand and pressed it between his, “I hope we will have an opportunity to speak again soon.”

If her head had been spinning before this dance it was in danger of taking flight now. She looked at her next ticket – it appeared she was paired with Alexander Dane.
Cindie
Sandy, hope you don't mind if I borrow him for a little while. Claudia, loved the picture -- Morticia never looked so good!

, - Wednesday, November 08, 2000 at 19:51:32 (PST)

A return curtsey in reply, Leigh. My pleasure.
Sandy
- Wednesday, November 08, 2000 at 02:16:03 (PST)

Hart regained his composure, and his character, before Grace did. He hung his head a bit, forcing a sheepish look up at Sandy from under his eyebrows. He thought quickly to himself, I barely know her, how could she have seen through the disguise so quickly? This crazy scheme *is* doomed after all ---

Sandy's voice cut into his thoughts. "You call yourself compassionate. How compassionate is it to give your rich friends a nice juicy tax cut when there are people without access to health care and decent housing? You must think other Americans are as stupid as you are." Relief flooded Hart; she was attacking the candidate's positions, not his impersonation. The illusion was intact. A victorious smile started across his mouth, but he quickly resumed his apologetic look. Sandy immediately regretted the personal insult -- after all, nobody could really help their IQ -- but there was nothing to do but stand her ground. She swiveled her eyes to look at Jamie, who had turned away from Mrs. Bush to look at her. Mrs. Bush retreated a pace away from Jamie and spoke quickly to a Secret Service agent.

The governor reached out his hand toward Sandy again, this time toward her shoulder. "I'm not the brightest bulb in the lamp, that may be true. But I'm not here to talk politics. I was wond'ring if, mebbe, you could teach me to salsa? I just couldn't take my eyes off you and that other gent'lman." He nodded toward Alexander as he rested his hand on Sandy's shoulder and let it sliiiide down her arm.

Before Sandy could react, Grace cleared her throat and Secret Service agents sprang into position. Grace threw a sharp look at Sandy, then at Hart. "I'm sure she's a lovely dancer, son, but we're late for that benefit in Century City." It was their prearranged exit signal. Hart silently agreed. They had dodged a bullet. The test was a success. Best not to tempt fate. Although . . Mary Ann looks glorious, and that Egyptian beauty... and who *is* that vision in white, and..." But Grace was right. He abruptly dropped his hand from Sandy's arm. "Yes, of course, momma, duty calls." To Sandy, with the same winning smile he had flashed earlier, "Another day, perhaps. Mebbe you'll come and visit me in the White House." He nodded expansively, including Jamie in a graceful wave goodbye to the knot of spectators who had gathered. He and Mrs. Bush turned and were swept out of the room in a phalanx of black-suited agents.

Sandy was charmed and repelled at the same time. Wasn't he married? She and Jamie watched incredulously as the Bushes departed. She turned to her friend. "What just happened?"

"I have no idea," Jamie replied absently. There was something oddly familiar about Mrs. Bush, but he was certain he had never met her before. Something quite odd about the whole thing.

Hart and Grace collapsed, exhausted, into the back seat of the limo. She closed her eyes, calculating. Twenty minutes to join the campaign plane. In a matter of hours, it would all be over. Either way.
Leigh
Sweeping bow of thanks to Sandy -- and apologies if I took any liberties with your political views, but I took a chance based on your earlier post. Sitting here in LA awaiting election results..., - Tuesday, November 07, 2000 at 21:41:02 (PST)

Jamie strode purposefully toward the ring of Secret Service agents. Sandy hurried after him, black harem pants swirling deliciously around her legs.

"What do you want with them?" she asked.

"As an Englishman, I'm curious about compassionate conservatism," Jamie threw back over his shoulder, "want to see it if knows how to dance."

Black-clad agents moved to block Jamie's advance. Watching Jamie with interest, the Texan nodded to the lead agent, who reluctantly stepped back, muttering into his headset and glaring.

"Hiiiiiyyy," W said, extending his hand toward Jamie, "mighty glad to meet 'cha," he said, in a broad Texas twang. Jamie looked at the proffered hand with noticeable distaste. "Ta, governor, no thanks, it's your mum I'm interested in," Jamie replied in a broad fake Cockney accent with studied rudeness as he nodded dimissively toward Bush. He strode past the governor and came to a stop in front of Mrs. Bush. He stood still in front of her, looking closely at her face.

Sandy was unsure what to do. The governor, embarrased by Jamie's rebuff, extended his hand to her. "If you won't shake hands with me, I'll have to hang up my spurs as a politician," he said with a winning smile, appreciatively taking in her gold sequined blouse and jeweled belly button.

Sandy looked at him skeptically, her arms crossed across her chest. She had never heard him utter a complete gramatical sentence.

Even during the most vibrant parties, there sometimes falls a sudden silence. If someone happens to be speaking, she can be heard even in farthest corner of the room.

Sandy began speaking just before one of those lulls. "Governor, I know you're a guest here, but I have to tell you... I think you're a total fake."

Hart's face went pale a moment before Grace's.
Leigh
Sandy, thanks for idea -- I'll return Jamie and "Sandy" in a moment. Renie, Kari, Claire -- great to see eveyrone here!, - Tuesday, November 07, 2000 at 20:45:38 (PST)

“Madame de Tourvel?” queried the masked woman as Valmont released her hand and looked at her expectantly. His brow furrowed momentarily as he realized that if this was Madame de Tourvel she no longer had her “aksont doo frahnsezzzz”.

She lowered her mask slightly and peered at him with piercing brown eyes. Valmont gasped as the memory of this woman came flooding back like the rains from Noah’s day. This was not Madame de Tourvel. This was the woman he had tried to have for lunch during one of his escapades at the Downtime Bar. He had flung himself at her as she wandered through the doors and tried to unzip her dress. He shuddered as he recalled her reaction. He had been unprepared for what followed. The upending of a potted palm. His sizable nose tweaked between her small fingers in a most unfortunate manner. His ending up on the floor in pain. Her grinding his coattails into the soil with her petite black heels. Her walking away. His crawling off on all fours in shame.

He quickly bowed in her direction, mumbled something about forgiveness, and bid a hasty retreat. She laughed as he disappeared into the crowd and then, led by her handsome pirate partner, stepped lightly into the room of dancers.

Kari
- Tuesday, November 07, 2000 at 12:11:36 (PST)

Oooh, Hans. I believe your dance ticket(s) may end up on e-bay. *wink*

Yes, Claudia--that should be interesting to dance in! And don't fret, there's plenty of time for more face-to-face meetings. A word to you all who have joined us in our merriment: if any of you are worrying about your posts, don't. These words could be about writing, instead of filmmaking:

"Filmmaking, itself, has the feeling of running or not catching up. For me, film is a dream, and shooting a film is an act of running towards a dream. And when I finish a film, am I fulfilled? Not really, because I want to make a better one the next time. But I don't consider the result very important. To aim for a dream, I mean, the act of running, itself, is important."

--Film Director Zhang Yimou [Emphasis added.] (Nov. 5, 2000. Tokyo International Film Festival)

So post away. *huge grin*

With the costume ball so well attended (Leigh! And even Claire!) and with getting to meet more of the people here, especially Suzanne, I did want to add this, as well:

"No perfect day can match our matchless mirth
As friendship's fountain waters o'er the heath
Brings forth deep roots; the cycle and rebirth
In timeless joys rejuvenate the earth. "

R (getting regally carried away)
- Tuesday, November 07, 2000 at 11:16:54 (PST)

To the would-be Gruber grabbers:

Although grabbing has its own rewards, you may stand assured that I am only too happy to oblige each lady, in her turn. Within reason. (homage)

"I am an exceptional dancer . . . "
Hans Gruber, this afternoon and evening known as Akhenaten, who commands Egypt (and ladies' hearts) , - Tuesday, November 07, 2000 at 10:49:21 (PST)

Claudia, you look a stunner in that picture! And Cindie--is Hans spoken for, you ask? Well, he will be soon if you don't grab him. Gruber-Grabbers of the world, unite!

Or should we all just keep our Gruber mitts to ourselves?
- Monday, November 06, 2000 at 21:03:45 (PST)

At The Ball:

As Valmont scoured the dance floor and then, not finding a dance partner to his liking now that Sandy was dancing with Jamie, subsequently scoured the room, he suddenly caught sight of a woman at the door to the ballroom. He stopped in his tracks and, while the dancing couples whirled around him, stood for a moment taking in the extraordinary vision. She stood looking like a soft white cloud at the entrance, her mask held up to her face with one pale, delicate arm. He raised an eyebrow and his mind raced. She was familiar though he knew not why. He watched for a moment with interest but she did not move. She simply stood and, through the eyes of her mask, watched the swirling crowd.

Suddenly he found himself making his way across the room, gliding as if on air, on the heels of his cream-colored boots towards her. And then, as he pressed on, he noticed a swarthy-looking man appear at her shoulder. He was dressed as a pirate and looked the part right down to the buckles on his bold black boots. He wore a patch over one eye and a shining, silvery sword rested at his hip. Who could he be, wondered Valmont as he continued to weave his way through the regalia. The music stopped and there was clapping. An announcement of the next song. Laughter. And suddenly he saw the woman laugh as well. She laughed heartily, throwing her head back only slightly and, despite the levity of the moment, her masked moved not one inch. And, just then, as her small shoulders convulsed in a way that made his stomach feel as if butterflies had given to living there, he realized that he knew exactly who she was. This was a woman he had known in his past. A woman who was as contradictory as she was come-hither. He had not seen her in ages.

The pirate turned in his direction as Valmont approached breathlessly and took the woman’s free hand in his grasp. Lifting it to his lips he kissed it gently and, looking up into her masked face, smiled his most Valmont-ish smile. “Madame de Tourvel, I presume”, he said with a slight flourish and a flushed face as the pirate, his hand moving slowly in the direction of his sword, looked on with a distinct lack of amusement.

Madame de Tourvel? Who's Madame de Tourvel?
- Monday, November 06, 2000 at 20:32:24 (PST)

I'm not having much luck in the writing department, but I had fun doing this!

http://claudia_riley.tripod.com/costumeball.html
Claudia
- Monday, November 06, 2000 at 20:24:49 (PST)

Loving the spin that I'm in... Under that old black magic ...Called love. Is Hans spoken for for this dance?
Cindie
- Monday, November 06, 2000 at 17:25:50 (PST)

Christopher Brandon, in his subtle and impeccably genteel manner, had managed to give Cindie quite a bit to think over. Patrick had always seemed so self possessed, so in control. It hadn’t really occurred to her that her actions could wound him in any way. Colonel Brandon (for that is how she thought of him, even in his royal finery and out of character) had commented on how long they’d known him and how dear he was to them all. She sighed inwardly, and here I come along and blithely torment the man..

Be kind to him, Christopher Brandon had said. The Colonel was clearly trying to look out for his friend. She really hadn’t meant to cause Patrick distress. Oh, but she should’ve known…. That kiss, it could have been quite a different response. It almost was judging by the look in his eyes. An enigma his friend had called him. How did that line go? An enigma wrapped in a mystery… He said they would talk later. Talk. What form will that talk take, she wondered.

Her reverie was interrupted by a very tall, almost bare-chested figure in black tights. “Are you prepared to be **tamed** madame?” Eyes, usually seen from behind glasses, sparked with amusement.

“Are you prepared to try and tame me sir? I may lack the claws of your wild jungle cat but there is no telling what surprises are concealed this cat’s suit”

“That suit leaves no room for concealment,” he countered. “Perhaps this next dance then? It appears we’re matched.” He held up his ticket with a flourish befitting a man accustomed to the center ring.

“Only if you promise to leave that whip right where it is.”

“And here I expected you to want to borrow it.”

Her face reddened, “I don’t want to give Therese the Tigress any reason to unsheathe her claws!”

He laughed as the band began the next song. “Ahh,” he said, “the tango awaits us!”

Cindie recalled Mistral’s comments about Dev’s dancing. I should be in for a treat, she thought to herself.

A mild understatement.

Eamon de Valera as Guenter Gabel-Williams with the Tango in his blood was nothing short of amazing. For the first time tonight Cindie appreciated the height those three inch heels afforded her. They allowed her to pull off some moves that her short stature might not have allowed. At first the steps were primarily the classic foot work that the tango entailed. Then he stepped back with his arms out and she fell against his chest. His instincts and movements were flawless. She trailed a foot as he pulled her in close to him, then he flung her out and back in. He was behind her now. His index finger caressed her gloved arm from the shoulder to her wrist, lingered for a moment before he pulled her back around. He bent forward and her right leg went back. He was looking down at her, her back was arched as she looked up into his eyes. This was steamy stuff. At one point she allowed herself her own lingering touch on those muscular arms and the metal armbands that accentuated them. He pulled her in close and put both arms around her, she put her hands around his neck. All these moves and all she could think about was Mistral and the upcoming talk.

Dev smiled at her, she smiled back. This was fun though. He seemed to sense her enjoyment and the next thing she knew her left leg was crooked and resting on Dev’s hip. Her right leg joined the left and she slid down his long frame. A hand reached down and pulled her up. When the dance ended she was poised with her body across his legs, one toe brushing the floor. She righted herself and tried to catch her breath.

“Wow, you certainly know your way around the tango,” she said appreciatively. During the dance they had been focused on their movements. Now they walked slowly off the floor, their bodies still close from the intimacy of the dance. As Christopher Brandon had taken on the bearing of his rank, so Eamon deValera had taken on the attributes of his profession. A statesman, even in his lengthened tresses and exposed pectorals. A negotiator, and among other skills, a natural listener. As they walked off the floor Cindie looked up and him and said “Dev, what am I going to do?”

He could have said “About what?” or any number of things which would have made her voice what she was not prepared to. Instead her put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to face him. He looked down at her, his lips in a half smile. “I’m about the last person that is qualified to give you advise my dear,” he paused remembering the last time he had seen her was when he’d torn after Therese at the Stag and Thistle. “But I will say that as trite as it sounds, things do have a way of working out if you let them. If you don’t run from them. If you’re not afraid to make a fool of yourself.” The last with a slight chuckle.

She thought of a number of responses, none of them flattering to her or to Dev so she just smiled. “Thank you Dev. I didn’t mean to lay that one on you like that.”

“Not at all. We none of know what part we play in other people's dreams. Unless we're willing to take the risks to find out. Now, we’d best look for our next partners.”

Cindie
MA: You don't need me to give you ideas! (Was that post long? Didn't notice.) Therese: I hope this serves. (The last bit was stolen from Sue Grafton)., - Monday, November 06, 2000 at 15:16:45 (PST)

The dance floor:

Mary Anne, with Mistral.

After the fervent tango, this dance is slow and melting, to the dreamy strains of "Sleepwalk," and Mary Anne feels her heartbeat gradually quiet itself. A tango with Hans Gruber, on terms however friendly, is not a thing to be taken lightly, and she is grateful for the more relaxed pace.

It is Mistral who breaks the silence. "So, what have you been doing with yourself lately?"

"You mean, besides planning for this party?" as she smiles up into his eyes.

"Planning to good purpose. You look lovely—those these don’t seem quite you, I would have said," and he lifts her wrist, eyeing the heavy silver-studded boar-tusk bracelet wrapped about her arm.

"Oh, that," agrees Mary Anne. "I saw it at the last minute and I thought it added a nice barbarian touch. But it isn’t real, you know—I wouldn’t think of depriving some poor innocent boar of his tusks, just to decorate myself for a party."

Mistral laughs out loud at this. "Poor boar! But if he saw you, he might think he hadn’t given his tusks in vain. But what have you been doing besides planning for the party?"

Mary Anne makes a face. "A women’s club asked me to come and be their guest speaker . . ."

When she does not go on, Mistral quietly prompts, "I gather you don’t find the prospect attractive. Don’t tell me you’re one of these people who’s afraid of speaking before a group."

"Who, me?" grins Mary Anne. "Never. But the woman who contacted me . . . well, I get the impression from her that they all think of my character as Miss Sweetness and Light. Or she does, anyway. Her daughter’s a big fan of the show and she went on and on about me being a good example—Mary Anne is such a virtuous woman, you know—"

At this Mistral fairly shouts with laughter, so much so that several heads turn in their direction before he can get himself under control. Finally, he swallows his mirth and manages to gasp out, "Oh, Mary Anne, that’s truly priceless. What did you tell her?"

"Well, I’ll make time to accept the invitation, if it doesn’t conflict with the set schedule. Good PR, and all that. But I’ll admit I’m tempted to point out some of the . . . less savoury aspects of my character." Wicked glitter. "Like the way Mary Anne teased Brandon’s life out, right up until the wedding—"

"True, but the point is: they waited. Until the ring was fairly on Mary Anne’s finger."

"Yes, but no thanks to her. Brandon is a gentleman, you know?" A pause. "And this woman obviously missed the whole season when I was playing my evil self."

A wide smile from Mistral. "Some of your best work; I see your point. But your character is fundamentally good." Then, catching the direction of Mary Anne’s glance, and her mischievous smile, Mistral adds, "And let’s have no remarks about the fundament in question, if you please! Or I’ll be happy to exercise my good right hand on that fundament you are so ready to disparage."

Mary Anne blushes bright red, but the grin remains in place. "What, and flatten it out even more?"

Mistral’s grasp tightens upon her, as if to lead her from the dance floor. "You wouldn’t dare," she challenges.

"I most certainly would. I’ll admit that I share this much with Brandon—" Mary Anne gives him a quick, alarmed glance, and Mistral hesitates, not certain what he has said to evoke such a response, but then he continues. "I don’t want to hear you speak ill of yourself." Slowly, his right eyebrow travels upward in what is halfway to being an Interrogator gaze. "And if Brandon is too much of a gentleman to break you of this habit, I can assure you that I am not."

"Should I warn Cindie?"

Mary Anne could hardly resist the retort, but is instantly contrite as she sees the way his face closes, draining of expression; Mistral’s playful threat, though slightly more than a bluff, had still been offered in a spirit of friendship—his own inimitable interpretation of it. She had not wished to hurt him . . .

"I’m sorry, Mistral. That was out of line. I apologize."

He does not respond immediately, but after a moment he gives her shoulder a quick squeeze, and finally she feels his body relax. "Accepted, Mary Anne. And perhaps you should warn Cindie. Or someone should."

"Warn her about what? That you’re going to whisk her off to some secret hideaway and commit unspeakable acts upon her defenseless person--?"

"Unspeakable acts, hmmmm? Speak a few—" (homage)

Mary Anne sighs in relief, for Mistral has obviously rallied his forces. "If I did that, they wouldn’t be unspeakable any longer, would they? And besides, that’s more what HE would do. You’re not The Interrogator, after all . . ."

"A point that is not always clear to some people. Imagine what would happen if I were asked to address that women’s club."

"I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that," chortles Mary Anne.

"But it’s true," he persists. "Cindie told me that the reason she wore that costume tonight was to prove she wasn’t afraid of me. But I can’t help thinking that there should never have been any question of her being afraid." A pause. "I’m certainly not tired of the role . . ."

"Not worried about typecasting, then?"

"Not really. The part is endlessly challenging; I could play it for a decade and never run out of ideas. But I can sympathize with Dane, you know. The world is filled with people whose vision is too narrow to see you any other way, and I’ve met more than my share. But Cindie . . ."

Mistral is at a loss for words, and for a moment they simply follow the music, enjoying the sway and slow pacing of it.

"Let me think out loud for a minute," offers Mary Anne, finally. "I think that a man like you gives women what they expect." When he makes no objection, she proceeds. "I’ve seen you with some others. A lot of them expected you to be more like The Interrogator, and that’s what they got. I’ve seen you do it to the fans, on set tours." She grins. "And you love it—don’t deny it! And so do they. But Cindie—"

"But Cindie--?"

"You didn’t know what she expected. I don’t think she knew, even. And that’s how she slipped past your defenses. They were fixed in place, like the Maginot Line in World War II. And she got around you . . ."

"Not a flattering analogy." Dryly. "I forget who said that fixed fortifications are monuments to the stupidity of mankind. But if my stupidity is what brought Cindie into my life . . ."

He shakes his head, and his expression is for a moment so exposed and vulnerable that Mary Anne instinctively moves closer, unable to resist offering comfort where she may have wounded. "I don’t think it was stupidity at all. And if it was, I’d say make the most of it. She seems lovely." A sly grin, as she wonders whether Mistral had witnessed Cindie's behaviour in her dance with Dev. "I’d keep her close, if I were you. Surely that’s not beyond the powers of Merlin the Enchanter?"

For a moment Mistral draws her head against his shoulder, accepting her offer of sympathy and leading into the final bars of the music. "I will try what magic can do," he laughs. "Thank you, Mary Anne."

He then releases her for the next dance, wondering how soon the change set will be over, for he is eager to dance with Cindie once more. ’Dance,’ indeed. Eager to speak with her, be with her . . . yes, I will try what magic can do . . . and if magic doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.

The floor mills with the exchange of tickets, and Mistral makes his selection, humming "That Ol’ Black Magic" under his breath as he seeks his next partner . . .

MA--well, everyone says they don't mind long posts . . .
I just couldn't stop! *grin* Cindie, in that final dance, you two are going to have a LOT to say to each other . . ., - Monday, November 06, 2000 at 07:39:52 (PST)

On the dance floor:

Sandy breathed a silent sigh of relief when her dance with Valmont ended. "Thank you Sandy," he murmured, kissing her hand briefly and gazing down into her eyes intently. "You're welcome," she replied, her lips curving upward slightly as he bowed gracefully. He said something that she didn't quite catch and then he moved away in search of his next partner, cloak swirling about him elegantly. Whew. I made it through all that relatively unscathed this time - didn't even have to resort to stamping on his foot and claiming that I was being clumsy.

"Hello, Sandy. I think your number matches mine. Is it freezing in here or what?" a soft voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to see that it was Jamie in full early 20th century archaeologist regalia.

"Hi Jamie, or is it Dr. Howard Carter, I presume?" Sandy said with a smile as they started dancing. "This was a last minute idea," Jamie admitted with a wide grin as they glided across the floor with ease.

"The orchestra Cindie hired for tonight is excellent," Sandy said. "Yes, they are very good, especially the cellists, but then again, I'm a bit partial about that," Jamie replied with a chuckle, Sandy joining in.

His eyes turned in the direction of the Texas governor and Barbara Bush, surrounded by a bevy of Secret Service agents. All traces of amusement left his face and his aquiline nose twitched in sheer irritation. "That was the last thing I expected to see tonight," he growled under his breath.

Sandy looked over in the direction Jamie indicated and said, shuddering slightly, "Same here. You're not a fan of government, huh?" Why on earth do I smell latex? Weird... she thought to herself. Jamie's eyes sparkled as he intoned, "I hate the bastards...(homage)"

Sandy
- Sunday, November 05, 2000 at 18:59:39 (PST)

FOF--On the Dance Floor

Therese looked up into the eyes of Mistral as they danced, his hands firmly upon her waist and wrist, the beat of the tango coursing through the room, and through her. He considered her from his greather height, expression unreadible as he guided her expertly through the suggestive motions, catching a breath as he spun her away from him only to pull her back into his embrace, their bodies meeting with a distinct tension.

Therese raised her lips, fangs exposed, and hissed.

It was only through great self control, and his eminent prowress as a dancer, that no steps were missed. A lazy smile flickered briefly across his features, and lowering his lips to her ear he murmured, "A warning, my lovely feline?"

Closing her eyes for a brief moment, Therese recalled, quite distinctly, their exchange in her trailer several months ago during the practice for their scenes together. He had wanted her to feel helpless then, and had pinned her beneath him on the floor, allowing her no movement, and effectively blocking any means of defense or escape. She had tried to throw him off guard by kissing him, hoping that he would become distracted so that she could slide from beneath him, but instead, her plan had gone seriously awry. Are you toying with me? he'd demanded. . .and then had kissed her, passionately and fiercely, to the point that she could not breathe, think, or move. He'd never been in the least bit untoward from that point foreward--they'd spent time together, acted in their scenes, and enjoyed one another's company.

Still, it was difficult not to remember the very force of his presense when he held her thus.

"A warning that even a wizard such as yourself might heed," she said softly, the matalic claws of her left hand tatooing a rythmic pattern on his upper arm.

The words were barely removed from her lips when he dipped her backwards, supporting her completely in his arms, but leaning her far beyond her center of balance, making her cling to him for support. That he would not allow her to fall, she had no doubt, but every instinct told her to grab on and hold tight. And so she did.

She had no idea how she made it through the remainder of the song, how she managed to respond to his lead, and preform the intricate steps required of her. The music and his nearness befuddled her senses, and when she was certain she could take no more, the final strains died away, leaving her standing securely within his grasp, her breathing laboured.

"A great pleasure, as always, Therese," he said demurely, taking the back of her paw in his hand and placing a chaste kiss upon the glove he stepped backwards, a truly wicked smile warming his features.

Therese had barely recovered from that experience, when a deep, sensuous voice rumbled over her right shoulder. "Zo, there you are," the speaker intoned. "This next dance? It is mine."

Therese
Whoa, Nellie--talk about 'out of the frying pan, and into the fire!' Can't wait to see what you have in store for Dev, Cindie. , - Sunday, November 05, 2000 at 16:14:41 (PST)

The costume ball:

As she generally does at FOF parties, Mary Anne is having a whale of a good time. For the next dance is the tango, and she has the great good fortune of seeing her ticket matched with none other than Hans Gruber--much to the envy of the surrounding women—and cannot help laughing out loud as Hans claims her and sweeps her dramatically about in a deep dip almost to the floor before the dancing even begins.

"Now, stop that, Hans!" giggles Mary Anne, as he holds her, and holds her . . . and holds her, tilted backward in his arms. "I can’t breathe!"

"Yes, I have—" Exaggerating the accent for her amusement; it comes out as haf. "I have been told that I have that effect . . ."

"Your vanity is exceeded only by your vanity," reproaches Mary Anne, though the reproach is accompanied by a wide smile and much private heart-fluttering, for Hans has plenty to be vain about and knows it, looking as much at ease in his Egyptian royal robes as in his Phillips suits or his Cerruti tuxedo. But there is in his attitude such a wry, lighthearted note of self-mockery that Mary Anne would be willing to overlook worse than some well-justified vanity, for Hans is clearly enjoying himself as much as she is.

"Now admit it, Hans. You bribed the orchestra, didn’t you? Just listen to that—it can’t be an accident." For the tango tune is "Kiss of Fire," one of Mary Anne’s favourites—even after that incident at the Downtime Bar, and the sly self-referential echo of it during the Brandon wedding episodes. She and Hans had danced the tango on that occasion as well, and to this very melody.

"For once—" Hans twirls her smoothly away from him, and draws her back in—"I had nothing to do with it." That grin, the one Mary Anne always thinks of as "the shark," though there is warmth in his eyes to soften it. "It is simply the hand of fate, nicht wahr?"

"There are no coincidences in this life," drawls Mary Anne, prompting Hans to laugh in his turn. (homage)

"If that is true," meditates Hans as he guides her through an intricately intertwined sequence that brings the hot blood to Mary Anne’s face, "then someone is going to be in a great deal of trouble, I should think." He nods his head, and Mary Anne follows his gaze out onto the dance floor, then chuckles quietly to herself at the sight of Dev and Cindie, locked in their own rendition of the tango.

"So, why do you think there will be trouble, Hans?"

The sliiiiiiiide of Hans’ fingers down her spine, around her hip . . . "Anyone who didn’t know better would think that their costumes were intended to match." Hans’ lifted eyebrow conveys volumes, and Mary Anne sneaks another glance at Dev and Cindie. Yes, the "evil Mary Anne" outfit coordinates well with Dev’s ensemble in skintight black, especially as Cindie—inspired, perhaps, by the costume—lets her hand fall from Dev’s shoulder and trail, down, down, to caress the coiled whip at his waist . . .

Mary Anne gulps. Even the imperturbable Hans breathes a little more deeply than usual, as his eyes narrow and quickly search the dance floor; then, he relaxes and leans closer to whisper to Mary Anne. "Perhaps there will be no trouble—look . . ." And Mary Anne looks in the direction indicated, to see Therese in the arms of Mistral, who seems to have her undivided attention.

"That’s good," sighs Mary Anne, as Hans closes his arms tightly about her for the final sequence. "I don’t think Therese is the jealous type, but in any fight between ‘evil Mary Anne’ and Therese the Tigress . . . well, my money’s on the Tigress!"

"Just zo," agrees Hans, then smiles as he nods to the couple passing by them . . . and that couple just happens to be Brandon with none other than Renie, who waggles her fingers at Mary Anne in a little wave as they sweep by.

Now it is Mary Anne’s turn to raise an eyebrow. "The hand of fate, again? Tell me Hans—just how many hands does Fate have?"

A deep, delicious laugh from Hans, as he bears her away in the tango finale. "There are many coincidences in this life," and they finish with Mary Anne laughing at the Gruber version of a deep-South drawl, then hugging and thanking him for the dance, as the tickets are drawn and matched yet again . . .

And Mary Anne’s next partner is none other than Mistral.

MA--beware how you give me ideas, Cindie. *wicked grin* And you, too, R dearest.
Hi, Claire. And a belated hi to Leigh--good to see Grace and Hart again! 8-), - Sunday, November 05, 2000 at 11:02:52 (PST)

"Always late. We're always late Claire." His fingers eased the zip to the very last notch, before turning her round at the shoulders.

"You sound like The White Rabbit, but I have to say you look ... Well, stunning in that outfit. Very Hemmingway rather than Lewis Caroll." She gave Sinclair an appreciative slow glaze, travelling from heavy short the brocade jacket to the skintight trousers.

"It's called A traje de luces - A suit of lights." He gave the cape a short flourish. "Was there nothing more .." he paused trying to be delicate. "..... Suitable left at the costumieres? A flamenco dress perhaps, we could have co-ordinated."

"Look Sinclair, I've been away, you know that - Mary Anne's Invitation arrived at the eleventh hour. Almost had to burgle the place to get this."

"I wouldn't have bothered."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing .. nothing my dear." Sinclair hastily turned to mirror to straighten the black silk montera. "It does have a bit more errr ..... animal appeal now you actually have it on. Can you breathe under there?"

"Well this will be a first." he muttered "A matador turning up with a ..."

"Don't say it. You have enough Bull for the whole party." She threatened, throwing back the costume head, and reaching behind.

"Kelloggs Packet." He intoned as a flying ginger striped tail smacked him across the midriff.

He leant forward to catch her as she leapt up.

"Tigger to my friends" she whispered.

Claire
.. rent - a - crowd arriving!, - Sunday, November 05, 2000 at 08:13:07 (PST)

“Ed, I bet we’ve missed it all!” moaned Claudia, pouring herself out of the car, and tottering on her stilettos, which made her taller than Ed. He held the car door, and took her hand, steadying her on her feet.

“I’d get rid of those shoes if you plan any dancing tonight. Come along, let’s just get inside.”

Claudia readjusted her cleavage, and took his arm as security. Knowing her usual poise and finesse, she would probably take a trip down the main staircase and wipe out half the crowd.

They got inside, and were poised at the top of the stairs, just as the Egyptian scene unfolded. Claudia smirked at Ed. “Perhaps you should be up there… as the mummy in that tomb!” she giggled.

Ed had come dressed as Van Gogh – complete with bandage round half his head, and covering one red-soaked ear. “I would have done, but I ran out of bandages.”
Claudia
sorry - have had no time to play this weekend :(, - Saturday, November 04, 2000 at 16:27:05 (PST)

On the dance floor:

Sandy and Alexander tried to regain their composure with mixed success as the orchestra wrapped up their variations of "The Sheik of Araby". "Oh, that was too funny!" Sandy gasped, leaning against Alexander as he snorted with good-natured laughter. They calmed down as they drew lots for the 'change your partner' set of dances, listening intently as the rules were explained to them.

"I had a great time dancing with you. Would you like to continue after this series of sets are over?" Alexander leaned down and murmured in Sandy's ear as he studied his ticket, rewarding her with a gorgeous smile. "I'd love to, Alex," Sandy whispered back, returning the smile. "See you later then."

Alexander nodded and went off in search of his partner for the first dance. She saw him walk over to a few of the ladies before he found his number matched Mary Anne's. Mary Anne said something to him that made his face twist up briefly like he had sucked a lemon before a reluctant smile crossed his handsome features as they began dancing.

Sandy chuckled softly at his reaction and looked down at her own ticket to see what her number was and started walking in the opposite direction to seek her first partner out when a leather-gloved hand settled on her shoulder. "Mademoiselle, I believe my ticket matches yours," a French-accented deep baritone purred in her ear.

Uh oh, Sandy thought to herself as she turned around and stared up into the devilishly handsome face of Valmont, dressed as one of the Three Musketeers. The large brim of the hat partially shadowed his face, but his amber eyes glowed as he looked her up and down. She had the distinct impression that she was being stalked by a lion - one that was ready to spring at its' prey. Okay, I can deal with this...I hope! The average song only lasts about 3 minutes and 30 seconds... "Hi!" she said brightly, hoping that the smile she plastered on her face didn't look fake.

If it did, Valmont chose to ignore it. "You look beautiful," Valmont complimented her, eyes raking over her again as he lifted her hand up to his lips and kissed it. "Thank you. You look...wonderful," Sandy replied sincerely, taking in his costume, admiring the way his cloak swirled about him. Valmont bowed forward slightly in acceptance of her compliment as he led her to the dance floor.

"It's been a while, Sandy," Valmont said after they found a spot to dance. "Yes, I haven't seen you since the summer party," she murmured in reply, concentrating for a couple of moments as she adjusted to Valmont's fluid dancing style. "I've been on a combination of holiday and taking care of some... affairs," he explained, smiling down at her.

Affairs. I'll bet... "That's good. Is Lis around here somewhere?" she asked, her blue-gray eyes sparkling and her face the picture of innocence. Valmont's smile faltered for a split second. Hmmm. This one has the sting of a scorpion if pushed, he thought to himself, intrigued. "I haven't seen her yet, but I'm positive that she'll be coming," he answered huskily as they whirled about the dance floor.

Sandy nodded. "Where did you go on holiday?" she asked him. "Tahiti, then back home to Paris. Have you ever visited my home country?" Valmont murmured, his voice a gentle caress. "No, I never have, but I'd like to one day," Sandy admitted.

"You must visit, if only to see Paris at night when everything is lit up," Valmont murmured, his eyes gazing down at her underneath half-closed lids.

"Sounds romantic," she replied absently before realizing what she said. ACK! Oh, now I've done it, she thought in dismay, administering herself a severe mental dope-slap as his eyes glittered and he smiled predatorily. "It is indeed," he purred, drawing her in after twirling her around.

Sandy
ROTFLOL, MA! "Sheik of Araby...." That tomb would come in handy too., - Saturday, November 04, 2000 at 13:09:16 (PST)

From behind the curtain--I had a wonderful time meeting Cindie in person, today, though I'm sure I'm not *nearly* as much fun as King Arthur. Back to the revels . . .
Thanks again Cindie, for the great time!
*winks* R, - Saturday, November 04, 2000 at 11:12:46 (PST)

Oh, Mary Anne, Thank you. Sigh...., THUD.
Cindie
I'll come around in time for the next dance though., - Saturday, November 04, 2000 at 11:07:58 (PST)

The dance floor:

It’s an article of faith on the FOF set that Christopher Brandon is a gentleman, but even such a gentleman as he can hardly resist casting an admiring—and appraising—eye at Cindie in that costume. Aware of his scrutiny as he leads her across the floor, Cindie blushes a little but returns his gaze with an intoxicating sense of bravery; having weathered her confrontation with Mistral and all of its potential for disaster, she feels practically invincible and allows the feeling to sweep her along. Or, she wonders, is it this costume? You put it on, and maybe you put on nerve and daring with it? And what else? Next to impossible to be timid, in this . . .

Perhaps Brandon senses something of her turmoil, for he smiles down at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners in his habitual sign of amusement. "Am I taking my life in my hands?"

"No," laughs Cindie, "just taking me in your arms."

"The one does not exclude the other. If you are anything like HER . . ."

Cindie shivers a little, remembering the archived footage she had viewed and re-viewed. "I’m not, I promise. At least, I hope I’m not."

Brandon’s eyes, though still twinkling with humour, grow more kindly and gentle. "I thought not. Still, Mistral might be feeling rather protective of you—and I wouldn’t want him to turn me into a toad . . ."

Cindie laughs out loud at the idea of the dignified Brandon, so regal in his kingly accoutrements, being reduced to amphibian status.

" . . . and so I shall not be demanding droit de seigneur of you, for my own safety’s sake."

He is teasing, but Cindie detects a seriousness behind his lighthearted words. "I thought at first that maybe I’d made a terrible mistake, coming here in . . . this." She lowers her eyes.

Brandon does not pretend to misunderstand. "It was very—daring. I think you gave Mistral a bit of a shock."

"I was trying—I mean, I wanted him to know . . ."

Brandon is silent, content to guide her through the dance as she searches for the right words. It is only when she hears Mistral’s distinctive laugh, carrying clearly through the murmur of voices on the dance floor, that Cindie realizes she had been listening for him, straining her senses to detect his presence in the crowd about her and Brandon.

As strange as it seems
The sound of his laughter will sing in your dreams . . .

Cindie sighs. "I wanted him to know that I wasn’t afraid of him, but I didn’t want to hurt him or . . . disturb him." She frowns a little. "Or maybe I did want to disturb him! I don’t know . . ."

"He does seem quite self-sufficient, most of the time." Brandon looks down at her. "Until now. Those of us who have known him for so long—well, frankly, it has been quite a surprise." His voice, though calm and practically devoid of inflection, somehow prompts Cindie to look up again, in time to see the brief flicker of Brandon's smile. "Though not an unpleasant surprise, I assure you. Mistral’s a very private man, something of an enigma, but he has this way of making himself dear to us all. We’d be glad to see him happy."

How kind he is. No wonder Mary Anne is so attached to him! "I, um, seem to have found a way of making myself dear to—" Cindie catches herself; she had been about to say ‘Patrick,’ but does not want to reveal what has become their secret. "—dear to Mistral, though I have to admit I don’t know how. All the women there must have been on the set at one time or another . . ."

Who can explain it?
Who can tell you why?
Fools give you reasons;
Wise men never try . . .

"You’re what he needs," replies Brandon, with utter simplicity. "For whatever reason. I don’t pretend to understand love, no more than anyone else. But it can be pleasant, can’t it? Trying to solve the riddle?" He smiles down at her, though once again, the smile has a touch of that seriousness about it. "Only . . . be kind to him. He is still finding his way, but I think he could learn to love you very much."

"I—" breathes Cindie. ‘Be kind to him . . .’ As if anything I could do, could ever have so much power over . . . She does not finish the thought, which troubles her a little and yet excites her curiosity so powerfully that she feels the clench of it in her stomach and cannot resist casting a look around the dance floor.

Fly to his side
And make him your own . . .

No, she cannot locate Mistral at the moment . . . but meanwhile, the dance with Brandon has been an enjoyable interlude, and she gives herself over to it in the few moments remaining, and Brandon keeps his sympathetic silence as he steers her elegantly across the floor.

Once you have found him, never let him go--
Once you have found him,
Never . . . let . . . him . . . go . . .

The last notes from the orchestra, delicate as the first stars at twilight, end their dance and Brandon kisses her hand, murmuring his thanks as they must seek their next partners . . .

MA
So . . . "Zo" . . . wonder if any of the Grubers are free for the next . . . ;-D, - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 21:27:44 (PST)

The costume ball:

The appearance of the Egyptian trio energizes the proceedings like a crackle of lightning, and the dancing is in full swing when the footman—announcer once again hails the company from his station at the stairs.

"Ladies and gentlemen . . ."

The music halts, and there is a small murmur of disappointment from that corner of the floor where some of the bystanders had been watching Sandy and Alexander and cheering them on; in tribute to Dane’s dance efforts (and in homage to his costume as well), the orchestra had been playing variations on "The Sheik of Araby," and the couple had discovered just how difficult it is to dance when you’re about to fall down laughing.

I’m the Sheik of Araby . . .
Your love belongs to me.
At night when you’re asleep
Into your tent I’ll creep . . .

But the music stops, and the crowd hushes itself at the announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, the next set of dances will be ‘change’ dances. When the music changes to a different song, you change partners . . . "

There follows a brief explanation of the rules as attendants move among the crowd, helping the dancers draw lots to determine how they will be partnered for the first dance of the set. Squeals of excitement can be heard among some of the women, who are obviously wondering if they might possibly--oh, please, please, please!!--be partnered with that scrumptious Hans Gruber. "And that Anton's certainly nothing to sneeze at--" "I'll say!" "You can forget it, girlfriends, as if Hans'd look at rags and bones like us, when he has Nefertitty there with him--" "That's Nefertiti, and you better not let Hans hear you say something like that--!"

So it goes, until the announcer regains everyone's attention. Finally. "And now, ladies and gentlemen . . . seek your partners, and once you have found them . . ." The announcer smiles, allowing his voice to fade away as the orchestra sketches the opening bars of "Some Enchanted Evening."

There is a bit of milling about as people seek their partners, and Cindie consults the ticket in her black-gloved hand, wondering how long it will take to find the matching number—and then, her search is at an end, as a hand with matching ticket appears in her field of vision and a deep, soft voice asserts, "I believe this dance is mine, Miss Cindie?"

Cindie looks up into the face of King Arthur, AKA Christopher Brandon, and is delighted to consent . . .

MA--brava, dearest. Yes, the beautiful one has come, indeed. 8-)
And Cindie, I believed you had asked for a dance with Brandon . . ., - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 21:06:10 (PST)

Italics fixed.
Don't be frightened.
D.o.C.

DOC--Italics for the word deshret only, not the *rest* of the bloody post. Must be an evil spirit. Bwahahahahaaaa!!!
Back where I belong
in my true home. R, - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 20:51:40 (PST)

The sound of hanging glass, tinkling. The smell of perfumes--rich, exotic, Pungent, then subtle.

Another place. Another time. Thebes.

The Valley of the Kings.

The rock tomb cover slides away to reveal a tunnel-like area behind the rock face. Standing upright, is a life-size relief, carved in travertine. Three Egyptian figures, in two dimensions. Two men, and the third figure, a woman.

Then, a voice, seemingly from the past, begins to intone strange words taken from a New Kingdom papyrus. . .

How beautiful is
your shining forth
on the horizon

You are in the renewal
of life. You have entered
the primeval waters

You have been reborn
as one who is young
for the first time

Just as one life has been
stripped off, another
one has been put ON.

At the last word, the carved stone relief separates in a zig-zag line, and standing, framed by the segments, is . . .

Amenhotep III, great ruler of Epypt in the period of the New Kingdom. It takes a good few minutes for many of the crowd to recognize in the face of the old ruler our own Herr Anton Gruber, wearing the requisite blue crown of that era. The pinnacle of wealth and splendor.

He steps aside.

As eyes adjust to the lowered light, a second figure emerges from between the pieces of split rock. He is immediately recognized, the gasps toggling between the presence he commands as a King and the swoons he commands as Hans Gruber. Hans steps out of two dimensions and into three, as a God, to be feared, and then, as his features come nearer we see him as Amenhotep IV, known as Akhenaten. His eyes blaze with the fire of the Ibis.

What few men lay claim to such ancestral a time when the Nile flowed as the blue jewel of the the red land, the deshret, the desert. This man, a pillar of power. A face to still every doubt. The upper lip narrow as the walkway to the afterlife, guarded by Anubis. His lower lip, full as the coffers of his earthly kingdom.

And finally, the woman. She remains for some brief moments where she is, leading the audience of attendees to wonder whether she is mortal or some Goddess of Egyptian alabaster. Surely no woman made from flesh and bone can rival the majesty of this sculpture. Then, she does move. And from thelight thrown on her regal headpiece, it is clear she is not Hatshepsut. Nor Cleopatra, by the curve of her brow, her thin lines, and the treatment of her hair.

As the Egyptian beauty takes the hand of Akhenaten, her husband, the recognition hits Mary Anne squarely between her baby blues. "She's . . . Queen Nefertiti!"

Nefertiti, which means, "The beautiful one has come". She casts her almond eyes at her husband, her full and sensuous mouth in a mysterious smile worthy of the Sphynx.

From the wings of the stage steps Howard Carter, archeologist and explorer--also better known to us as Jamie. Appropriately outfitted down to the boots, he walks to centerstage, and applause breaks out quite naturally.

That same smooth voice addresses us, but in a more familiar tone.

"Is Ed here? We'd like to thank him for his wonderful stone sculpture."

Heads turn, looking for the artist, as clapping continues and the house lights come back up . . .

I think Ed's a wanted man, Claudia! Are you done fiddling around? ;-)
The words are a sun-hymn found on a New Kingdom religious papyrus (1391-1353 BC)--R (who is enjoying everyone's posts. Nice to see you all.) , - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 20:49:04 (PST)

Scene: The Fancy Dress Halloween Ball. The Great Hall, Manor House.

Well, almost the Manor House. For it is filling to its rafters with all manner of guest and species. Many of them barely recognizable for their excellent evocations of fancy and imagination.

Egdon Heath would surely never see such sights.

The dancing slows as the crowd acknowledges the political presence in their midst. Some partygoers evincing the opinion that they had not remembered George W. Bush ever looking that good. Since when could he wear a suit like that? As for Barbara, she was equally a surprise. Calm, collected, every bit of her experience in front of crowds coming to fore.

Merlin, the Master of Enchantment, and "evil Mary Anne" in the less daunting (but no less desirable) form of Cindie garner a bit less attention--though whispers about "that moment" can still be heard in the far corners. Limbs flying, Sandy and Alexander Dane execute a neat salsa with the accent on Hot. Trying to attract her attention, a man brushes against Sandy. Unprepared and rather preoccupied, she dismisses it as an accidental jostle, and leaves a cleverly disguised Frenchman in her wake, burning over the snub.

On the stage of the Great Hall, an eerie light begins to beam. The rest of the stage, still in darkness. The light continues for several minutes, growing in intensity. The house lights dim.

People, cats of all sizes, angel and devil, begin to take note.

The light from the stage brightens, by degrees, until it is a strong beam.

As if a torchlight were burning into the recesses of a forgotten place. A forgotten time.

The Secret Service officers protectively circle around the Governor and his smiling companion. Danger can come from anywhere.

Brandon, pleased to be at Mary Anne's side, playfully teases. "Fearful? My Lady Guenevere?"

"Just watch where you put that sword," Mary Anne answers dryly, searching the stage with those blue eyes that Brandon can never tire of. "

An eyebrow, as if anyone could see it. "I shall endeavor to put it exactly where it--"

King Arthur's last words are lost in murmurs of "What now?" as the musicians cease entirely, for the moment.

The beam--most definitely suggestive of a flashlight--abruptly ends. Something is on stage. Back lit, with soft amber lights from above.

Something in keeping with Halloween.

It is a tomb.

Yet, no Dracula of the night will rise from any coffin within.

Although it *was* a tempting idea . . .
R, - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 18:59:21 (PST)

Sandy, I trust we will soon find out what Alexander really meant? Cindie is feeling very lucky right now.
Cindie
- Friday, November 03, 2000 at 17:03:59 (PST)

The Flights of Fancy Dress Ball:

The music slowed and they danced in companionable silence for awhile. Cindie wondered at how quickly the tension had abated and she felt utterly at peace with this man.

“Patrick?” her tone a question.

“Hmmm,” his languid reply.

“Why does everybody call you by your last name?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone just calls you Mistral. Never by your first name.”

“Didn’t you know,” he searched her eyes, “No I guess you wouldn’t. I’ve never allowed anyone to call me Patrick before. That is just for you.”

This seemed like a good time to rest her head on his chest. So she did.

Cindie
Lucas Hart for president!?, - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 17:01:53 (PST)

did i put that on there i was just thinkin about it and accidentley pressed submit.sorry for typos. so please dont respond to this please i cant face the embarresment!!
brooke <maidmarian14@cs.com>
MY BAD!!!!!!!!, - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 16:54:58 (PST)

ok this is my first time putting something on here and i would just like to say being from floida usa george bush would have had my vote but sadly im only 12 years old.Keep up the good work on the stories.Maryanne you shold make the colonel and maryanne have a baby and name it brooke(Just a suggestion) that would be cool.have a good weekend!!
Brooke B <maidmarian14@cs.com>
- Friday, November 03, 2000 at 16:46:15 (PST)

Out on the dance floor, slight flashback post-Cindie/Mistral interlude:

"Well, that's something you don't see every day," Alexander remarked softly as the music started up again. "Agreed," Sandy replied, thinking to herself, Now there's a lucky woman. "Ready for your first salsa lesson?" Alexander asked with a grin. "Sure. Why not? It seems like anything's going tonight," Sandy chuckled.

The dance floor became more crowded as the music picked up in its' intensity, forcing the two to move closer to each other. "Whoops! Sorry," Sandy apologized as she almost stepped on Alex's foot after being jostled slightly by someone she didn't recognize. "No problem," he replied, whirling her around and then pulling her close again. "You're doing just fine."

"Where did you learn to salsa? You're very good," Sandy asked, her cheeks glowing slightly from their dancing. "Thanks! I took lessons a couple of years ago for a part in a play, but it didn't work out," Alexander explained, dipping her low so that she almost touched the floor before pulling her back up. "That's too bad," Sandy told him with a smile, realizing for the first time as she looked up at him that his hazel eyes were flecked with green. Alexander sighed in resignation. "Sometimes, the things you want most in life just aren't meant to be," he told her softly. Somehow, I get the feeling that his not getting a part in a play isn't what he's talking about, Sandy thought to herself, but she nodded in agreement.

The two applauded as the band finished the tune and started playing something slower. Alexander's eyebrow shot up in a silent question. "Absolutely. I'm having a great time. You're a good teacher," Sandy told him with a smile. Just then, the footman announced the next two arrivals and they looked up in shock.

"Oh NO," Alexander groaned. "I'm glad I sent in my absentee ballot early," Sandy quipped, blinking in surprise and shuddering slightly.

Sandy
Just having some fun out here on the dance floor...., - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 12:45:36 (PST)

where did that go... testing 1 2 3
gfdgfdgclods
- Friday, November 03, 2000 at 12:18:00 (PST)

“Its all your fault we’re late!” grumbled Claudia, gasping at the pressure of Ed’s foot in her back, and as he pulled tightly on the strings of the corset.

“Hardly my fault - I’m ready. Its you we have to pour into this ridiculous costume!”

“You’re just lucky that wasn’t the Director’s feet we landed at earlier, or we wouldn’t be going to this party at all! And at least I’m using a little imagination! Your costume took you 5 minutes to put on. All you had to do was change your shirt!”

“Its called ingenuity, my darling. Now, hold still!” He gave a last final heave, then slapped her bottom. “You’ll do, now get that dress on.”

Claudia struggled into a long black sheath. So tight she hadn’t trusted her own figure without a little assistance. So tight that when she got it on, she could only take a few baby steps, the bottom of the dress was narrow around her ankles as well. “I really think you should have gone as Gomez,” said Claudia.

“Nonsense, we don’t have to be a matching set. I’m more comfortable with this choice.”

“No doubt – the mad artist.”

“Come on, let’s go, or they’ll have had all the fun before we get there.”
Claudia
We're on our way! Can't miss a party. Everyone's looking good!, - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 12:12:08 (PST)

A black limo bearing little fluttering flags of the sovereign state of Texas came gently to a stop outside the Great Hall set. Behind the limo, men in dark suits spilled out of a black Suburban. One scampered to open a limo door. A man in a dark blue suit stepped out then leaned back in to give his arm to an elderly lady with snow white hair. You couldn't see it unless you were very close, but the hand he stretched out to her shook ever so slightly.

"Get a grip, Hart. We're in too deep to stop now. He's fine. All we need is a few days." Grace stepped out of the limo and faced him squarely. "Don't you realize what's at stake? We're talking about nothing less than the future of the country."

"What we're talking about is a felony, Grace."

A shrug of her shoulders. "A matter of interpretation. And only if we're caught. Isn't that your mantra?"

"If we *do* get away with this. . . " he began.

"*When* we get away with this, it won't be just a Halloween prank. If you make it through the next few days, it will be the greatest acting you've ever done, and the greatest political contribution you could ever make, all at once. Try and top that." It was the argument that had roped him into this mad scheme, and it was as irresistible to him as catnip. He linked her arm through his and gently escorted her toward the Hall. More men in black, actors she had hired to play Secret Service agents, surrounded them as they began to walk.

Grace followed Hart into the crowd, a fixed smile on her face. She was already thinking furiously about the next steps, first a brief stop at this FOF party to test Hart's impersonation of the candidate, then boarding the campaign plane later that night, slipping unnoticed into the hectic and tightly choreographed schedule plotted for the final days of the campaign. So much preparation. So many people in and out of the loop. So much at stake. But Hart could pull this off. She knew he could. But. . . one mistake, one tiny mistake, could change history. Even so, twenty years ago, a second rate actor had become President. Why not a brilliant actor?

At the top of the stairs of the Great Hall, Hart hesitated while a Secret Service agent whispered to the footman, whose eyes grew even rounder as he listened. Hart surveyed the scene. So many old friends, and new friends. The first test. Would they know him, or could he convince them he was who he appeared to be? Exotic costumes. Electric tension. His eye was drawn to Mistral. Something going on there.... The booming voice of the footman, who had regained his composure, interrupted Hart's reverie.

The footman announced, "Governor George W. Bush of Texas and Mrs. Barbara Bush!" as heads turned toward the unexpected guests.

Leigh, de-lurking
No political overtones intended -- just an oddball idea, FOF meets "Dave", - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 08:18:31 (PST)

Why thank you MA, we try to please...that Swedish dry humor strikes again!

Chris
- Friday, November 03, 2000 at 06:47:31 (PST)

" . . . looks like they just stopped skirting"--LOL! I think we have a good candidate for FOF Line of the Week! *grin*

MA
And this about Mister I, earlier: "His lips on hers. Draining the life from her." Hmmm, I'm surprised no one has shown up as Count Dracula! (Rickman as Dracula, YIKES.), - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 05:10:57 (PST)

As the Angel and Devil watched Sandy and Alex walk away, Sonia turned to Chris "How could you joke with Alexander Dane like that? He's like famous!" Chris smiled at her companion and responded slowly "You know I can't help ribbing my friends a bit, and as he's working so closely with Sandy, I guess I kind of include him in that circle." She laughed as she noticed her accent had gone back to pure British, with just that little twang of Swedish that threw people. Her American may be flawless, but she doubted she would ever get the complicated British accent down pat.

"C'mon, d'ya wanna drink?" she drawled, playing with the accent, making it thicker. Sonia laughed and nodded, and they glided over to the bar. Just as they got there, they heard the clatter of Merlin's staff hitting the floor, and watched the interaction between Patrick and Cindie with fascination. "Isn't that..." Sonia began, and Chris finished the sentence quietly "..the Interrogator, yes. His real name is Patrick Mistral, and from what I've seen, he seems to be nice. Cindie and he have been...skirting around each other for a bit. Wow, looks like they just stopped skirting!" Chris blushed and the two of them turned to the barman and got their drinks. They turned to move over to a table, and nodded at Patrick, coming over to get drinks.

As they sat down, she glanced over to the entrance and saw Hamlet arriving with a woman. Hamlet was dressed in a Roman toga, and the woman in an Egyptian-styled figure-hugging dress. The woman was beautiful, with long black hair and a figure to die for, aptly shown off by the dress and headset. Chris shivered, and wondered how a piece of material could show so much without actually showing anything at all.

Halfway down the stairs, Hamlet stopped and looked out over the ever-increasing sea of people. He frowned, and turned to his lady. With no further warning, he picked her up, and she gave off a little scream of surprise. As he carefully carried her down the stairs, she was obviously telling him to put her down, although the sound did not carry to where they were sitting. Then she saw the attention they'd received, with people staring at them, and smiled.

When they finally reached the bottom of the stairs, the people who'd been watching murmured appreciatively, for it had been quite a magnificent feat. Although she was a lithe figure, it must have been hard work to carry the woman down all those stairs.

After getting the drinks, Hamlet spotted Chris, smiled and came over. The woman was clinging to him as if afraid he'd leave her somewhere, and staring around at the others while holding his arm possessively.

"Glad you could make it," Chris said, standing as they came up to the table. "I'd like you to meet Sonia-Sonia, this is Hamlet. He's playing the lead part in my storyline." "As enchanted as the day is long, my dear," Hamlet proclaimed. Chris smiled. He did tend to dramatise things rather. "I would be overjoyed if you would be so kind as to welcome my beautiful lady wife, Rebecca," he continued. Chris sorted through the flowery language and answered "So pleased to meet you Rebecca, I'm Chris. What a lovely outfit! It suits you to a T." Rebecca smiled a little at the compliment, and inclined her head regally. "It's my pleasure, Chris, and yes, it is good, isn't it?" She smiled again as she smoothed the already flawless fabric.

The four of them settled down around the table and talked amiably. Rebecca narrowed her eyes on a couple of occasions when Hamlet and Chris spoke to each other, but slowly relaxed a little as she decided that this woman was not a threat to her.
Chris
We are siamese, if you DON'T please, - Friday, November 03, 2000 at 01:56:10 (PST)

Whoa, Cindie! That's what I would call a party-stopper. :-D
Sandy - "We are Siamese, if you please...."
Glad I took my allergy pill with all these cats in the area, sheesh!, - Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 17:35:07 (PST)

The Fancy Dress Ball:

His hand let go of the staff. Its clatter as it hit the floor reverberated through the room. The musicians stopped playing in mid note. People froze. All talking ceased. The silence in the vast hall, only a second before filled with revelry, was now absolute. There was no clatter of trays, no clinking of glasses. Cindie stood there in front of Patrick Mistral, trying to gauge his reaction to her choice of costume. She had wanted to show him that she was not afraid of him. Show him that she was strong enough that she would not be consumed by his personality.

She had spent a great deal of time delving into the archived footage of FOF. She felt it important to do her job well. While she had not viewed all the past shows she had seen the segments revolving around the “Evil Mary Anne”. Heavy stuff, yes, but exceedingly well written and acted. Mary Anne, with her angelic countenance, had gone completely against type and played, essentially, the Interrogator. The Interrogator, in an about face that left its viewers breathless, was the virtuous one. Willing to sacrifice HIS humanity so that she would not be left to bear any burden of HIS evil. HE had suffered much, both physically and emotionally, at the hands of the transformed Mary Anne.

What better way to demonstrate that her feelings for him were not rooted in fear.

Now, as she watched his face, she was less sure of herself. She was determined, however, to give no sign of her misgivings. She waited. Regarded him as apprehension, concern, anger, rage and, finally, …what…, played themselves out in his eyes. Suddenly he seemed to reach a decision. Now she would know his mind on this.

Later, she would recall one hand letting go of the staff it held. She watched it leave his hand. It seemed to teeter there in indecision and then fall in slow motion. The noise as it hit the ground seemed to be the only sound in existence. Her gaze returned to his eyes. They were as steel. They were impenetrable in their purpose. What had she done?

Then, his hands. Oh, those hands. Those fingers reaching around her neck. She nearly fainted with the tension. He was instantly only inches from her. No, not even inches. A cat’s whisker could not have threaded the distance between their two bodies. He had apparated there and now reached for her. She felt his hands go around and support her head, drawing her even closer to him. Now, his eyes, swimming before her. His lips on hers. Draining the life from her. He kissed her and she felt herself give herself over to him completely. One of his hands was around her waist now. He held her body up to his. Her hands encircled his head. Her fingers entwined themselves in his hair. He continued to kiss her past all consciousness.

Some of the party goers gaped open mouthed at the tableau before them. Others turned politely away and resumed interrupted conversations. The band commenced its playing.

At last he released her. She began to sway slightly and he steadied her. She looked into his eyes again. His expression had softened, his eyes revealing himself to her as they had once before. He walked her over to a small grouping of chairs and she sat. He sat across from her. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

She nodded mutely and he left and returned shortly with two glasses of wine. He sat down across from her. She sipped the chardonnay. She was not a wine drinker but was grateful for something normal to do. Patrick had leaned back in his chair and was eyeing her over the rim of his glass. “You never answered my question,” she said, catching his eyes studying her. “Oh yes I did.” was his reply. Cindie smiled ruefully. “You promised me the surprise of my life and I dare say you delivered,” he continued. “I’m trying to decide if you wished to torment me or prove something to me.”

Cindie chuckled. “I’m not entirely sure myself. But I appear to have gotten your attention.”

His eyebrows arched as he gazed at her. “My dear, you have succeeded in getting everyone’s attention.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t mean to. Really. I just wanted to, to, show you….,” she sighed.

“Don’t explain. We will have time to talk. Let’s enjoy the party now.” He stood up. She found herself once again taking his hand. They joined the growing crowd on the dance floor.

Cindie
Time to party. Cat suits of one sort or another seem to be the thing tonight! Perhaps we should all do a rendition of the Simese Cat Song later., - Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 17:04:40 (PST)

"A devil indeed," Alexander drawled with an arched eyebrow as he rolled his eyes in resignation at Chris's comment and shook Sonia's hand. "If you'll excuse us," Alexander said politely, placing a hand on Sandy's shoulder. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sonia," he added. "It was nice to meet you too. See you later!" Sandy contributed over her shoulder as she was led away. The two new arrivals waved back and blended into the crowd.

"Sandy, just a question," Alexander said with a frown. "What's up?" Sandy looked up curiously. "Just what was that project the two of you worked on anyways?"

Sandy's face grew pale and her eyes grew wide. "You really want to know?" "Not if you decide to pass out here!" Alex replied with alarm. "It was that bad, huh?"

Sandy's face slowly regained color and she licked her suddenly dry lips. "Ummm...if you've ever watched any of Mistral's torture scenes, they're a cakewalk compared to what that project team had to put up with," she told him. "Most of the people left after it was over because it was either them or their sanity."

Alexander frowned and shook his head in puzzlement and then smiled. "By the way, thanks for the no-sand scene. All of us appreciated that," he said, hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. "Uh uh, no talking shop tonight or that's your final reprieve!" Sandy replied with a wicked chuckle and wagging her finger sternly. "Okay, no shop talk. I don't want to risk it," Alexander promised, raising his hands up in surrender.

"I didn't realize that they were announcing people, did you?" Sandy asked. "No, I had no idea," Alexander replied. His eyes lit up as the band changed tunes. "Would you like to dance?"

"There's nobody out there yet," Sandy pointed out. "Come on, it'll be fun. Besides, somebody needs to get this party rolling," Alexander replied loftily as he led her to the floor.

"Good Lord, you're as tense as a piano wire!" he exclaimed softly as he took her small hand in his and slid an arm around her bare back, drawing her close. "I'm not a very good dancer, so don't kill me if I step on your toes," Sandy admitted with a rueful grin. "Is that why you disappeared suddenly at the pool party when the dancing began?" Sandy nodded. "Well, relax. Tell me about yourself. We've worked together for some time and I don't know too much about you, aside from you being a Massachusetts born-and-bred ex-computer geek and caffeine freak who gets a kick out of torturing actors," he teased with a wink.

Sandy's laughter rang out. "You forgot chocoholic and I don't know much about you either Alex, aside from..." she reminded him as they started moving to the rhythm of the music.

"DON'T START...." he began saying, effortlessly twirling her around, smiling inwardly as she began to relax in his arms as they moved about the floor. "I won't," she promised with a grin.

"There's not too much to tell. I have an older brother and a younger sister. Both parents are alive and well. I'm trying to learn German so I can speak with the relatives that are coming to California for the family reunion next year but it's not going too well, and of course you've met Ollie and I'm single. What about you?" Step, glide, spin, return to beginning position...

"I'm an only child..." he began, his voice gentle and soothing as the moves they performed became more complex in nature. The music changed to a salsa beat...

Sandy - Hello to you, delurker! Glad you can join the party...
Time to get down and boogie! The costumes and entrances have been just great...., - Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 16:35:44 (PST)

"Are you anywhere *close* to being ready?" A voice that mixed sarcasm and smoky petulance in equal measure. A voice ready to walk out the door without her.

"Mmmmmphhhhrffufft" was the only reply, from the depths of the dressing room too cluttered to enter.

Tawny eyes rolled toward the ceiling. I cannot endure this another minute, he thought to himself.

Summoning up courage for a stab at sweet reasonableness. "Look, the limo has been waiting for a half hour. I'm counting to ten, then leaving."

"Rwowwfffmzzzrrrowfit."

"Five. . . six . . . seven . . . " He was not rushing but not kidding, either.

"For heaven's sake, you know I can't leave until he's finished." The woman's voice was muffled and impatient behind a battered old Chinese screen.

"Finished?" An eyebrow slightly lifted.

"Well, yes, er. . . finished." Her voice was distracted. "I think one more may do it."

"I wouldn't dream of doubting your -*ahem* - experience." Acid boredom.

The squeaky sound of wide plastic tape, the kind you'd use to close up a packing box, being pulled from its dispenser. Then the crinkly sound of its being fastened firmly in place.

"There." The woman stepped from behind the screen. Even if you knew her well, you would not have recognized her. She stood still, hands on hips, that is, on a generous body pad under a bright blue Chanel suit. A bouffant white wig covered her short reddish hair, lines and wrinkles had been expertly added to her face. Confident she had perfected her own look, she scrutinized the man at the door.

"Say it," she commanded.

"I don't have to perform for you." An uncharacteristic whine.

"That's not the line, but you've got the attitude. The accent is dead on and you look perfect. Let's go." She gathered up a black handbag with gold clasps and a wrist loop and started for the door.

He put out his hand to stop her. His face softened before he looked deeply into her eyes. "Are you sure? We can still back out of this thing before it's too late. Before anyone finds. . . him." His eyes traveled to the screen.

"Get a grip. We're in too deep to start now. He's fine. He'll be well looked after until next Tuesday night. All we need is a few days. But first, the FOF party."

"A test." His voice was resigned.

"Exactly."

"Very well." He slid his arms through his dark blue suit jacket and adjusted his red tie in the mirror. As he patted his wavy brown wig, he thought absently how nicely the grey streaks had come out.

"Come along, darling." He slid her arm gently into his as he led her into the corridor.

"That's momma to you, boy, and don't you go forgetting it again." The odd blend of West Texas and New England was not convincing; she was glad hers was a largely nonspeaking role.
de-lurking...
Everyone looks smashing!, - Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 13:16:37 (PST)

"Women and cats will do as they please and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea."

Robert Heinlein
- Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 11:23:52 (PST)

As the two enter the done-up set, they glance at each other and grin nervously. Chris quickly takes her companion's hand and asks "Are you ready to go in?" As she receives a nod of affirmation, she smiles and squeezes the hand in hers.

They both look around them in awe at the beautiful work done on the set. They see a full-length mirror and stop to straighten out any accessories that have gone astray during the car ride, and then enter the main room.

Chris quickly glances around the room from the top of the stairs, and spots most of the cast members, although she's a bit taken aback by the intensity of some of the costumes. She just hopes they've done enough, as she leads her companion down the stairs.

A few people spot them coming down the stairs, and look at them in wonder. She smiles to herself. She is dressed in a bright red cat-suit, hugging her body like a second skin. She has little horns on her head, which look just like they've grown straight through the red-colored hair-another little trick from the SFX department. Her eyes glow bright red, matching her nails, and the tail which comes out of her backside is forked at the end and seems to have a life of its' own. Her makeup is artfully applied to give the distinct impression of evil, and as she smiles, her blood-red lips part to show a small set of fangs.

Next to her on the stairs, and grasping her hand tightly, is an angel. Her companion is in a similarly skin-tight cat-suit, but in a shimmering, glistening white. The eyes are also pure white, matching the nails and hair. There is a small halo flowing over the newcomer's head, apparently self-suspended.

As the two float down the last steps on their matching pair of stilletto heels, Chris spies Sandy and Alex. Smiling at her friend, she floats over and greets the two, admiring their costumes as she does so. "Sandy, Alex, what gorgeous outfits!" she exclaims, as she comes near the duo. She gives Sandy a careful hug, and then turns to her companion and says "OK, you two, I don't think you've met Sonia, although you've heard me mention her enough Sandy!" Chris smiles and turns to the angel "Sonia honey, this is Sandy, my friend from THAT project," Chris and Sandy shudder convulsively. "And this," she continues, pointing to the handsome man next to Sandy, "is Alexander Dane. Although at the rate Sandy is throwing sand on him, he'll soon be Alexander Dune!"

They all laugh a little, although Alex looks a little put out. "Relax Alex, I'll try to make that the only pun of the evening," Chris says and smiles winningly. "Although, you never know with the devil as your friend, do you!"
Chris
- Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 09:48:18 (PST)

The Costume Ball--slight flashback

Arm in paw, Dev and Therese approached the entranceway to the party. Stepping up to the door attendant, Eamon spoke to him for a brief moment, then returned to Therese's side while the other man prepared himself. At the handsignal, they stepped forward into the entranceway, their presence lit by a spotlight. "Ladies and gentleman--children of all ages! May I direct your attention to the center ring?" The speaker waited for a dramatic pause as the other party goers stopped their conversations and looked toward the door. "And now, as part of the Greatest Show on Earth--Gunther Gebel-Williams, and his wild jungle cat!"

Stepping forward, Dev uncoiled the bullwhip from his right side, and with a single, sweeping motion, cracked it expertly above his head, the retort sounding much like a pistol shot. At the sound Therese backed to the end of her golden chain, and held one gloved hand aloft, the metalic claws gleaming in the light. Opening her mouth to reveal slender fangs--certainly not as awe inspiring as a true big cat, but obvious and impressive when shown by Therese--she pawed the air a second time. Recoiling the bullwhip, Dev made an impressive show of bringing Therese to his side by reeling in the golden chain attatched to her collar, and placing her raised paw upon his arm, escorted her down the stairway and into the gathered crowd.

Therese
sorry about the flashback--that's what having to work for a living does to you--makes you late with your posts, - Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 07:27:36 (PST)

Chris fretted in front of the mirror, trying to get her unruly hair to lie down. Of all the silly times to have the hairdresser get overzealous with the scissors! She sprayed another glob of mousse into her hand, looking at the ball of white as if willing it to be stronger than the hair, and succeed where the previous one hadn't.

Finally ready, she called downstairs "Are you ready yet sweetheart?" Smiling at the somewhat timorous "Yes, but what DO I look like?", she gathered her things and made her way downstairs.

The couple made their way to the hired limousine outside, smiling at the surprised reaction of the driver, bursting into giggles as they settled in the spacious back seat. The tender look that passed between them increased from the normal by the costumes' effects. Oh yes, they were going to make a bit of an entrance allright. Chris smiled to herself. No doubt the others had similar designs. They settled back for the drive to the other side of town.
Chris
Sorry we're late guys, work is driving me to distraction!, - Thursday, November 02, 2000 at 02:08:09 (PST)

The costume ball:

Mary Anne glances over toward Mistral just in time to see Cindie's final approach, and is startled into a little shriek, followed by an exclamation of "Holy flaming cow!" under her breath.

At this most un-majestic outburst, Brandon looks in that direction as well.

The immediate response for Christopher Brandon, the Colonel, would be to reach for his sword at the sight of that apparition in sleek black . . . and the response of Christopher Brandon, the actor, is little different: in a moment, he has stepped even closer to Mary Anne and his fingers are curled about the hilt of Excalibur. Long habit, it seems, has become reflex and instinct. However, he does not draw the gleaming weapon (and little good the mock-up would do, if he did unsheath it), but stands watching until Cindie unmasks, at which point he sighs in relief and relaxes his stance, and he and Mary Anne exchange shaky smiles.

"Now, that--" Brandon muses as he adjusts his swordbelt, "--was something to remember." His grin sharpens, just a trifle. "I can't think when I've seen Mistral so thrown off his balance by anything. Did you know she was going to do that?"

Mary Anne is still watching Cindie, as other partygoers crowd about her to congratulate her on her costume. "I . . . well, she did drop a hint or two," explains Mary Anne. "She asked me a lot of questions about the 'Evil Mary Anne' episodes--but still, even if she had told me straight out what she was going to do--" She shakes her head. "--I never thought she'd look like that. I mean, seeing her--looking at that--" She is at a loss to explain. "Creepy, to see that walking across the room toward us. Toward poor Mistral. Just plain spooky."

"Well, now you know what it was like for the rest of us, watching you in those episodes." Sardonically. "Didn't you ever watch the dailies?"

"Daily," she quips. "But seeing the playback on video--and seeing HER coming toward you, flesh and blood--it just isn't the same! Not for me, anyway. I'm so used to it being me in that costume . . ."

If Brandon has any reply to this, Mary Anne misses it, for her attention is caught by a telltale gesture from Mistral, the slow clenching of his free hand into a fist. And the look on his face . . .

Uh-oh, thinks Mary Anne. Looks like it isn't the same for Mistral, either--it would be easier for him if it had been 'Evil Mary Anne,' if I were the one to play her. Cindie took a big chance . . .

It is not the first time Mary Anne has seen that look from Mistral. However, they had always been in front of the camera when she had seen it before, and she is struck with a sudden chill that makes her want to wrap herself in Brandon's fur-trimmed cloak--preferably, with Brandon still in it.

I wonder if I should warn Cindie?

For that look on the face of Merlin/Mistral is nothing if not purposeful . . .

MA--still having heart palpitations . . .
And upping the ante . . ., - Wednesday, November 01, 2000 at 21:16:27 (PST)

OOOOOoohhhhh . . . Cindie! *Groan* *THUD*

Can hardly wait to see what Mistral will do--with all his heart . . .
MA (both of her!!), - Wednesday, November 01, 2000 at 20:39:56 (PST)

The Fancy Dress Ball:

Patrick Mistral had enjoyed the party so far. He had taken a bit of ribbing from some of his cast-mates who had accused him of calling Christopher Brandon up to coordinate their outfits. He had endured this abuse with more than usual good humour. He was now, however, becoming distracted. Where the deuce was she?

It cannot be denied that Mistral as Merlin was awe inspiring. This was not the aged Merlin with a long white beard and gnarled hands. No, this was Merlin at the height of his powers. A figure of mystery, one foot in the pagan world and one in the Christian. His long cloak, a shade of blue so dark it looked almost black, was covered in celestial symbols. On close scrutiny one could see the occasional shooting star traveling along its contours. Some of the stars shimmered, others had planets visibly rotating. His pendant seemed to glow with an inner energy and seemed also to change colours with his expressions. He had a long staff in one hand and a circlet around his forehead. He looked every inch the Master of Enchantment. At the moment, however, an impatient Master of Enchantment.

He stood still and surveyed the room with a glance. There was Dev, Therese at his side. He smirked at their costume choice, wondering who was taming whom. Brandon and Mary Anne arm and arm, his Arthur to her Guenevere. And Guenevere never looked lovelier. He briefly toyed with the thought that it was a pity he had chosen Merlin over Lancelot. A smile played about his lips for a brief moment, ”No,” he thought to himself, “It is Nimue that is the object of my …search.”

At this particular moment a figure in black caught his eye. At first he could not believe what he saw. He went to take off his glasses to check the lenses but remembered he had his contacts in --- he blinked. Yes, she was real, emerging from the shadows at the far end of the minstrel’s gallery. The figure, obviously female, was clad in a black shimmering cat suit. She was walking, prowling, towards the top of the staircase. Long gloved fingers caressed the rail along the gallery. As she reached the staircase she paused, clearly visible, poised to begin her descent. The suit was skin tight and looked like soft leather. It hugged every contour and curve of her body. The gloves were almost to the shoulder and allowed just a hint of flesh to show – an effect more tantalizing than if the arm had been exposed. The knee high boots ended in three inch stiletto heals. She began to descend the staircase, her face hidden by a helmet, its visor down.

He looked over to see Mary Anne chatting with one of the crew. He looked back as the figure continued to descend step by step. She reached the bottom of the stairs and proceeded to move deliberately in his direction. As she walked she placed one boot directly in front of the other like a model on a catwalk. She looked graceful. Graceful and dangerous. His gaze remained transfixed upon her as she continued her inexorable progress toward him.

His mind flashed back to those scenes, he the victim. The “good” Interrogator. He had been strapped to a table and at HER mercy. But the figure approaching couldn’t be HER. SHE didn’t exist, really. And there was Mary Anne, arm and arm with Christopher Brandon only yards away from where he stood. But there was no doubt,*no doubt*, that the approaching figure was attired in that very costume. No mistaking the clinging suit, the visored helmet, those boots. It had been described as more naked than nakedness itself. Very true. His hand rubbed absently at his chest as though the wounds that had been inflicted there were real, but of course they weren’t. Despite this knowledge he could not recall the *attentions* of the evil Mary Anne with his usual equilibrium. Those scenes had been some of the most graphic ever filmed on the FOF. They had been difficult to film, not only because of the physical aspect but also because of their visceral emotional content. And now, there SHE was, coming straight at him.

HER pace remained steady, deliberate and unhurried. It felt as though SHE was looking right through him, but with the visor down it was impossible to tell. The even click…, click…, click…, of those stiletto heals on the flagged stones of the floor reverberated in his brain. He clutched the staff in his hand tightly and watched her approach. He suddenly realized his forehead was damp with sweat. “This is ridiculous,” he thought to himself. “It’s not like it’s really HER.” He continued to watch HER progress, searching for some clue as to what was happening. Anger began to build, if this was someone’s idea of a joke at his expense it was in very poor taste. He was not amused.

Finally, after an eternity SHE stood in front of him. Hands on HER hips looking at him. At least he thought SHE was looking at him. That damned visor. SHE looked him up and down, taking her time about it. At last SHE reached up, and, with a gloved hand took off the helmet and shook out her auburn hair. “Hello, Patrick,” said Cindie, “aren’t you glad to see me?”

He looked at her, stunned. Was this the same lovely woman who had been filling his thoughts of late? Her features were the same, but that look in her eyes…. She had told him during their walk in the South Rose Garden that her costume would give him the surprise of his life. It had. She had also said it would be something he would remember. No doubt, it would.

This was the woman to whom he had begun to open up his heart. This was the woman who, in such a short time, had begun to give him hope that he need not feel alone. Now she stood before him as his would-be tormentor. He flexed the fingers of his free hand, making a fist and then releasing it. Perhaps it was time to give her something to remember.

Suddenly his thoughts flashed to his conversation with Eamon deValera in the lunchroom not long ago. “Whatever you decide to do – do it. With all your heart.” He looked at the woman before him. Yes He decided on his course of action. He would do it. With all his heart.

Cindie
Here's a cat suit of a different sort, thanks to Mary Anne and the wardrobe department., - Wednesday, November 01, 2000 at 19:03:18 (PST)

"No, you're not. Absolutely no. Forget it." A dark shadow prowled along the wall, disappearing in the glass of the sliding door to the balcony, then leaped up again on the kitchen door.

"Why not? Black leather is sooo sexy." Another shadow, with rounder curves, unfurled on the cushiony chair by the fireplace. One long leg stretched out to an almost impossible measure before recoiling back to the chair.

"No." The lower half of the first shadow jerked spasmodically. A potted plant shivered with the vibration of struck copper.

A soft giggle. "Yes!" Followed by the rasping sound of velvet cushions rubbing against each other.

The larger standing shadow seemed to expand and grow darker, if that was possible. "If any man even looks in your direction you I'm going to..."

The smaller shadow rose to an impressive height, long legs perched on high stiletto heels. "You always do."

The lights dimmed, the door opened, the two shadows moved over the threshold, the lock softly snicked tight and the apartment was left to the post-battle silence.

Magda
- Wednesday, November 01, 2000 at 15:57:49 (PST)

After his final consultation with the special effects department Mistral was ready to make his entrance to the fancy dress ball. Their work on his costume was exceptional and the effects were ready for his entrence. Of course no self respecting wizard would use the front door when there were other options available.

He had arranged to be announced at the proper moment.

Everything was in place.

Drum roll, "Ladies and Gentlemen, his most revered wizard and advisor to the King, .....Merlin!"

There was a clap of thunder and a burst of sparks and smoke, and there he was.

Merlin himself, standing at the top of the grand staircase.

Cindie
MA -- from CL, at least that's how I remember his cloak. Imitating the Highwayman? hmmm. I trust the good King will be keeping Excalibur in its scabbard while he's at the party?, - Wednesday, November 01, 2000 at 06:32:50 (PST)

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