Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

May 1st - May 15th, 1999

Feeling somewhat empty, Andrea is ready to fill up on good food and the love of her friends.

The Interrogator led Claudia to what seemed to be a large aircraft hanger, filled with vehicles of all types, including a helicopter and a small executive jet. He took her towards a long black car with tinted windows. From underneath the car two legs protruded. A mechanic working on it. Next to the car was a motorbike the wheels just protruding from under the dust cover.

“I believe its still in excellent working order,” said the Interrogator, removing the cover to reveal a large shiny black motorcycle with the word Ninja emblazoned on the tank.

*Thunk* “Oww, sh*t.” The mechanic on hearing his master’s voice had tried to sit up suddenly and whacked his head on the underside of the car. He slid out on the flat trolley he was lying on, and sat up, wiping his hands on an oily rag. “That’s right sir, kept her tuned up myself and taken her out for a spin every now and then so she doesn’t seize up. The keys are in her.”

The Interrogator fixed the mechanic with an icy stare for his unasked for statement. “Thank you, you may go.” The mechanic, not wanting to be on the wrong side of the boss, made a speedy retreat, leaving Claudia alone with Mr I. HE fixed her with that stare. “You know what you have to do?”

“Yes,” said Claudia, hiding her nervousness with a rueful smile. “Not exactly the career move I had hoped for – The Interrogator’s Wh*re. Not going to look good on the CV.” She leaned back on the door of the car. “Still, if I do fail, I can always not come back.”

The Interrogator moved swiftly to her, HIS right hand grasping her neck and pinned her to the side of the car. “Listen to me carefully. You will do what I tell you, when I tell you, and with whom I tell you. Is that clear?” Claudia nodded as she brought her hands up to loosen HIS grip. “And you have no option but to return when your task is completed. You don’t want to make me angry do you? Would you rather be rewarded or punished on your return?” HIS hand slipped down from her throat to her chest. Her hands rubbed at her neck.

“I think I’d prefer the reward.” She lent towards HIM and kissed his unyielding lips, trying to appease HIS sudden mood swing. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Do you think I like to hurt you?” HIS hands moved down, stroking her body. “But sometimes it is necessary. I take no pleasure in your punishment, but I will carry it out if it is required.”

“I understand,” she said, reaching up and stroking HIS cheek. “I’ll make sure it isn’t required. Now, how about a goodbye kiss?”

HE stayed her hand, covering it with HIS, bringing it down to join the other and be clasped between HIS. “Do you love me?” HE asked. She had already answered this question, on several occasions, but HE had to be sure she would still be truthful to HIM.

“There is not a lot about you I could love,” said Claudia. “No, I don’t love you. But lust, there is another thing all together. I want you with a passion – will that do?”

“It will suffice, for now.” HE pulled away from her, without kissing her. HE indicated her bag, which was lent against the back wheel of the bike. “I had your things packed. You’d better go now. Don’t forget to send me Therese. There will be someone waiting at the appointed place at the same time for the next three days. If you don’t deliver her by then, you will be contacted, and I will not be pleased. The other matter is to have your urgent attention – is that clear?”

“Yes sir.” Claudia pulled the bag onto her back, sat on the bike. she grabbed the helmet that was hanging on the handlebar and pulled it onto her head. She turned the key. It roared into life beautifully. She kicked away the stand and balanced it with her toes on either side. “You won’t be disappointed.”

http://www.pemberley.com/bin/fic/fic.cgi

However involved she is in her speculations about Valmont, Mary Anne is nevertheless careful to pay attention to the rest of her company and favour the Vicomte with only an occasional glance, for the hateful man has a sensitivity to when a woman is looking in his direction-- may as well be equipped with radar!, she thinks.

Though Mary Anne is not at all inclined to be tolerant with Valmont after his callous behaviour to Renie, she cannot resist wondering how this gifted and intelligent man has become what he is. Surely he must have been innocent, once? Or not such a man as this. Has he forgotten what it means to make a woman happy, and to be happy himself? (homage)

The guests are being seated at the long table, and as Brandon leads Mary Anne to her chair, her thoughts are distracted from Valmont when she notes that Therese and Dev are not yet present. Ah, well, probably nothing serious. She smiles to herself even as she unfolds her napkin. Perhaps they're making up their quarrel--again. Or have even started a new one!

Dev.

Mary Anne pauses briefly in smoothing the folds of her napkin. Though Mister de Valera is not present, she can call his face to mind readily enough for the purposes of continuing her earlier appraisal. Dev is a puzzlment; she has seldom given his looks a thought before, and if she did it was only to note his sombre reserve, a mien more serious than even Brandon's, for the Colonel has always about him the composure of patience that is entirely lacking in the more restless de Valera. Not that Dev is incapable of waiting, of keeping himself still until the proper time for action. Yet this man's stillness, unlike that of Brandon, has always suggested the tension of a trap about to be sprung or a bomb ready to explode.

And his looks? She would not previously have thought him handsome. Indeed, next to Brandon's bearing of military authority, the worldly glamour of a Hans or Anton Gruber, or even the unmistakably predatory air of Valmont, she would have thought Eamon de Valera as plain as a post. Yet something has changed . . . the face he shows to the world, previously so dour and severe, now more animated and energetic . . .

The soup is served, and Mary Anne looks down into her lap to conceal her grin as a thought occurs to her.

They say that love make a woman more beautiful. Does it work for men as well?

Slow down. Calm down. First things first. As in, where are you going? Grace tried to think logically, but nothing happened. She made a random series of turns and noticed she was in Beverly Hills. She saw the sign for Bedford Drive and headed for Global Marketing and the offices Hart kept for the government sting as though that had been her destination all along. She parked and turned off the engine, then leaned back in the seat to take stock of the situation.

One ertwhile gentleman friend. With one undisclosed but apparently estranged wife! Who loves St. John knits (Grace loathed them) and hates art and her husband. What a mess people make of their lives, she thought, me included. I should have stayed at work. Work. Simple and safe, right? Her laptop and the Hansbank reports she had stuffed into the case sat on the seat next to her. She could sift through that lot here in Hart's private office at Global Marketing. It might be a good distraction while she waited for Hart's call. She got out of the car and walked upstairs to the office, letting herself in with the key Hart had given her.

Hart's private office was immaculate. Almost too clean, as though someone had recently tidied up the papers he usually had on his desk. The room seemed bigger, then she noticed one of the tall black filing cabinets was gone, a square indentation on the rug the only sign it had been there. She shrugged and sat down at Hart' beautiful antique desk, glad to have the room to spread out the stock reports. She plugged in her laptop and got to work as the modem chirped its signal that she was logged onto the Internet.

Mr. I deftly removed the cork from its home of the past several years and poured the deep coloured drink into the glasses Therese had provided. "I hope you like a nice Merlot?" he asked, handing a glass toward Therese.

"I'll let you know in just a moment," she grinned, adding apologetically, "I'm afraid my taste in wines is not very well developed." She took a small sip from the glass, then turned to regard him in surprise. "That's wonderful!"

"Good, I'm glad you like it. Now get your script," he looked about the small trailer, the furnishings were somewhat sparce, "and we can relax and go over some lines." He extended his arm, indicating the tiny area, "Somewhere around here."

"Okay, I admit the accomodations are a bit spartan, but I've not been here long. I can't believe I even have a trailer--I would've thought I'd be expected to pitch a tent! Besides, if I move a lot of stuff in here, I keep thinking I'll jinx myself and someone will tell me to ship out."

"I don't believe that's a legitimate concern at the moment. . ." he tapped the script in his hand. "I'd say this storyline provides you with some definite job security."

"Well that would seem to depend upon whether or not I can maintain my ability to speak when you 'go Interrogator' on me, now doesn't it?"

His only response was a terribly wicked grin.

Shaking her head, Therese led him over to a low sitting arm chair, and pulled up the matching ottoman for herself. Mr. I removed his jacket, laid it over the back of his seat, loosened his tie, rolled up his shirt cuffs, and sat down. Reaching into the script packet he had brought with him, he handed Therese several sheets. "Some of the first scenes of dialogue," he explained, handing them over to her.

Glancing at the sheets, Therese blanched. "Umm. . . you don't believe in holding a grudge, do you?"

Mary Anne enters the dining room with Brandon and, flashing a quick sidewise glance at her husband, cherishes a thrill within herself at being in the company of such a man. She knows quite well that Brandon does not consider himself handsome: in his own view, he is a man of passable looks and there the matter ends, if he even gives it that much thought, and for her this is proof enough of the saying that beauty is in the beholder's eye, especially when the beholder is a lover.

Mary Anne's regard for her husband, however, does not keep her from appreciating the other examples of appealing male now present in the dining room, most of whom even the most objective observer would rank "striking" at least and "drop-dead gorgeous" at most. A pity that the head-turning Hans Gruber is absent from the company but his place is well-filled by his father, and Mary Anne notes with respect that the senior Herr Gruber, even after a difficult morning of riding, moves gracefully about conversing with the guests and betrays only the slightest stiffness in his walk. No feeble old man, here. If Hans follows his father, Renie can look forward to a long, happy marriage. Keep well, dearest, you and your baby, too.

Part of the appeal of such men as the Grubers, reflects Mary Anne, is that while they have received more than their share of looks, they behave as if unaware of it. No, that is perhaps not quite correct. She pauses briefly in thought, struggling with the conundrum, and concludes that such men are aware of their looks but are not vain of them; they do not allow conceit to override their reason, and keep a sense of humour about their own appeal.

Mary Anne's eyes flick briefly toward Valmont, who is present with Lis and behaving himself quite well--for the moment. Here, by contrast, is a man who is both aware of his looks and undeniably vain about them, though the fault in him passes beyond mere vanity. As a flaw, vanity can be venial and mortal, and Mary Anne does not deny the extent of this failing in her own heart; Valmont's amour-propre, however, passes beyond all normal bounds.

There is vanity and there is pride: the one, at times, a strangely innocent fault, for it still pays some regard to the opinions of others. The other, however, asks the opinion of no man--or woman. It is secure in its own views. It occurs to Mary Anne, chillingly, that if someone insulted her appearance, she might not believe them but her feelings would be wounded, and it might give her a few anxious moments in front of her mirror. But if someone questioned whether Valmont was indeed handsome, he would dismiss that person's views with a shrug and a silky smile. He would regard such a comment as beneath his notice--indeed, he had shown as much when he confronted Therese in the kitchens. "Worthy" of his attention, indeed . . .

Unsure of her physical abilities after sustaining numerous injuries and spending so much time in bed, Andrea grips the handrail and looks down at her feet with each step. Her face is lined with worry and concentration. She is unused to her body requiring such mental effort to carry out her commands.

Dot is beside her offering support -- more emotional than physical. Her hand rests on Andrea's back. She can easily grab her should she falter. Dot tries to appear confident of Andrea's ability to accomplish this task on her own.

Andrea becomes aware of other eyes upon her. She raises her own eyes from her feet to look down the stairs. Hamlet and Mesmer, impeccably dressed for dinner, are both intently watching her.

Comforted by the presence of her friends, Andrea begins to relax. The worry lines vanish from her face as her features soften. Her curved back straightens. Her hunched shoulders travel back and down to form their normal slope from her neck, which elongates as her head lifts.

Andrea releases her vise-like grip on the railing but maintains light contact with a gliding hand.

On the landing, Hamlet steps to the banister and rests his hand on the rail.

Tapping on the door when he returned, Therese opened it slowly, then, seeing the spectacle before her, threw wide the door, her laughter bursting forth. "Eamon! Oh Eamon," she giggled, clutching at the doorframe to hold herself upright. "I think we need a concsious priest!"

Dev looked down at her sourly. "I'm glad you find this all so amusing. . ." he paused, a confused look crossing his features. "Er, what shall I do with him now?"

"Hadn't gotten quite that far, had you?" Therese teased. "I don't know, throw him on the bed--it's getting close to dinner time, why don't you bathe and change, and I'll see to reviving our, um, spiritual guide."

Dev sighed, and deposited Rasputin on the comforter. Don't get any ideas, you," he grumbled at the sleeping man. Stepping away from the bed, he approached the bathtub, now filled with steaming water, shed his clothes, and stepped in, leaving the inebriated priest to Therese's ministrations.

In the time it took for Dev to bathe and dress, Therese tried every reviving trick she'd ever heard of, and invented a few of her own, all to no avail. "You don't suppose there's something really wrong with him, do you?" she asked.

Dev regarded the sleeping man critically. "Wrong, with him? The bugger has the constitution of a horse. The only thing wrong with him is he's drunk enough wine, and God knows what else along with it, to fell half of the Irish Republican Army." He made a dramatic pause. "And need I tell you just how much of the drink that would take?"

Therese chuckled, and took Eamon's hand. "Let's worry about him after dinner, I have little doubt that he'll still be here when we return. We can bring him up a plate of food. . ."

"Does he even eat? I've never seen him do so."

"One can only assume. . ." she contemplated prone figure, who had been collected, carried, tossed, poked, prodded, tapped, and yelled at, yet still slept on. ". . .I think."

Leading Therese out of the room, Dev shut the door firmly behind them as they went down to dinner.

*meanwhile*

Raz yawned sleepily, stretched, and looked around curiously. He wasn't too certain of exactly where he was at the moment, but this was far from an unusual occurrance for him. Taking in his surroundings, he looked to the dressing table along the side wall: a hairbrush, some earrings, and a bottle of perfume were tossed on the surface haphazardly. Ah, ees goot, to wake in the room of a woman.

He didn't remember which woman, or know where she was at the moment, but that was not an unusual development either. A small smile of satisfaction upon his features, Raz turned, yawned, rubbed at his eyes, imagined briefly how much pleasure he had afforded this unknown female, and resumed his gentle snoring.

He approached the sleeping priest quietly, and kneeling down beside the Russian, tapped him gently on the sleeve. Raz snorted a bit, brushed away Dev's hand, and snored on.

Dev took hold of the sleeping man's shoulder a bit more firmly this time, and gave him a gentle shake. "Father," he said quietly.

"Father Grigori," his tone was of normal volume now, and he shook the man a second time, a bit more forcefully. Dev may as well have been having a conference with the tree that supported the priest--the response would have been similar.

Dev patted Raz's cheek, his last couple taps less than gentle. Raz shifted his position, altered the pattern of his snores, and slept on.

Patience was not one of Eamon de Valera's virtues on a good day, and after the stress of learning of Claudia's disappearance, seeing the reaction of Colonel Brandon with the glove, and fearing for the safety of both Therese and Mary Anne, he had had enough.

With a wistful look toward the fountain several steps from the sleeping Raz, which, though it certainly would serve the purpose he intended, might also cause the Russian to refuse his request. Dev wasn't certain if priests were required to perform such such services, or if they were allowed to decline--and this particular priest was questionable under the best of circumstances, so he was taking no chances.

Bending over, Dev grasped the upper body of the sleeping man, tossed him over his left shoulder, and rose to his feet. Raz slept on, snoring gently now into Dev's left ear.

Heading out of the observatory, Dev certainly hoped that Therese had that bath ready for him when he got there.

Even better that Claudia was a trusted friend of all those HE wished to harm, wished to take revenge upon. This was easy, all too easy. HIS eyes narrowed. Yes, too easy. Could HE really trust Claudia, just because she had given in totally to HIM? HE still doubted her stated reasons to be here, though there was enough truth in them to hid the lie. Clever girl, you know you can’t lie to me, so you don’t try, and that is where you hope to trip me.

Claudia appeared then, from a hidden door, presumably the executive bathroom. “I’m ready,” she said as she approached the desk.

“Good. Remember, you’ve been at a health farm for a few days relaxing. I’ve made sure they will remember you, if the Alliance Rose or anyone bother to check up.” He reached into the desk drawer and bought out a bundle of money, which he placed in her outstretched hand. “Expenses,” he said. “And get your hair done, so they believe what you tell them.”

“I’ll miss you,” she said, and realised with a pang that she meant it.

“Then you’d better complete your tasks quickly and efficiently. There may be a little bonus waiting for you if you make a thorough enough job.” If you break Mary Anne’s heart.

“One question,” asked Claudia still a keeping her distance on the other side of the desk, as if she didn’t trust herself near HIM.

“Yes?” HE raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t suppose you still have my motorbike? It was really a long walk to get here.”

Ed wandered further down the corridor and found himself in the library. A tray of drinks sat on a small pedestal table next to a leather couch. He helped himself and took a large swig.

“Ah, Ed my boy, fully rested I hope?” Ed looked around trying to find the source of the voice, to no avail. “Up here, my boy.”

Ed obediently looked up, and saw the Doctor at the top of a tall ladder on the bookshelf, open book in hand. “Doctor – what did you do to me? How long have I been asleep? Get down here right now before I tip you off your perch.”

The Doctor grinned, and started to climb down. “I see you are perfectly well. You’ve not been asleep long enough, though I’d say.” He held up the dusty volume. “Amazing what you can find if you look. An old book on witchcraft. I thought as the Tardis wasn’t being a lot of help, perhaps a spell or two would help find Claudia.”

Ed felt that knife twisting again in his heart. “There is no news then? Are you really reduced to clutching at such straws?”

“Magic is just another form of technology. Just because we don’t understand something, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.” The Doctor reached the bottom of the steps and faced, or rather, looked up at Ed. “Though, yes, this is a bit of a long shot.”

“Tell me what’s happened today. I need to know.” Ed’s face contorted with the pain in his heart. “Why did she have to dash off like that? She said she’d remembered things and had to go be that person she was for a while. What does that mean? What did she remember?”

“I’ve already explained to you what happened last year, when I rescued her from the Interrogator’s offices. I wiped her memory of all that had happened there, before I set her back where she should have been, in time to meet you for the first time at dinner. But I have no idea what happened to her, or how long she had been there. The Tardis sick bay does not record the memories it suppresses.”

“You didn’t answer my first question – what happened today?”

“I’ll let the good Colonel explain what they have been doing. We still have no idea where she is, though I suspect either the Interrogator or the Master could be involved. The fact I found her with the Interrogator then suggests to me her memories took her back there. But the thing the Master was trying to prevent from happening, still hasn’t happened. He still has time to change history on Gallifrey.”

This new idea didn’t help Ed at all, it just gave him more to worry about. “Beth,” said Ed. “We haven’t conceived a daughter and so Claudia is still vulnerable from him. I thought the Master had been put on trial?”

“He was, and so was the Interrogator, but he escaped. The Master had his access to time machines removed, but this doesn’t mean he can’t travel by more conventional routes.”

A gong sounded announcing all the guests should begin to gather for dinner.

The Interrogator approached Therese with deliberate, measured steps until HE stood close enough to her person that she needed to tip her head backward to regard HIM. She could see that this action was deliberate, as it accentuated the height differential between them. An old technique, one designed to give the larger person an even greater sense of strength and power over the smaller one. And an effective one.

"Sit." The Interrogator indicated the stool from which Therese had just stood, HIS tone was not loud, but there was no question that this was a command, not a request.

Therese's head snapped back at HIS order, and she regarded him warily as she took a single step backward. "Look, okay, point taken," she began, "I see what you---*gleck*!"

She was cut off in mid-sentence as The Interrogator closed the remaining distance between their bodies with an effortless sliiiiide, and before she could react, HIS right leg had swept her feet from underneath her body. She did not fall, however; HIS arms caught her shoulders, bodily lifting her into the air, and placing her firmly upon the stool HE had indicated.

"I am not accustomed to having to repeat myself." HIS tone had turned menacing now, the warning clear.

"I--I--uhh. . ." Therese's voice faded into a strangled mutter before she fell silent. The Interrogator stood over her, HIS eyes glittering behind the slender lenses, arms crossed in front of HIM as HE contemplated her. The old cliche' ran through her mind, 'you could cut the tension with a knife,' and she believed that just this once, perhaps she actually could.

Then, as quickly as The Interrogator had arrived, HE departed. Taking a half step backward, Mr. I relaxed his shoulders, clasped his arms behind his back, and allowed a small smile to play across his features. "We're going to have to work on your delivery if there is to be any dialogue in our scenes," he teased.

Therese exhaled loudly, frowning at him, and wrinkling her nose. "How do you DO that?" she exclaimed.

He held his hands before him in a show of mock innocence. "Do what?"

Hopping off of the barstool, Therese stepped around to the kitchen area, and opening a drawer, withdrew a corkscrew. "I hope you uncork a bottle with a fraction of the dexterity with which you act," she said, handing him the tool from the other side of the counter. "Though I must admit--you're certainly making my job easier!"

It comes as no surprise to him when she answers, "So do I."

Brandon seats himself before the mirror and draws Mary Anne down beside him. "I had not told you this before . . . but I think Claudia has long had in mind some scheme of seeking out The Interrogator. There was an evening at the Manor House--"

Brandon recounts how he had followed Claudia when she went out on horseback toward The Interrogator's cottage. Of course she had not admitted that this was her intention--had claimed that she simply needed a ride to clear her mind. But the Colonel had seen her direction well enough. And his supicions have now become certainties.

"But when I returned to the House--"

There had definitely been other matters to command his attention: Valmont's insulting advances to Mary Anne, and the duel that had followed. He had set aside the matter of Claudia and had never returned to it. Until now.

Mary Anne gazes at her own troubled reflection in the mirror, remaining silent as Brandon concludes his story. "So I believe that something must have prompted her to . . . seek HIM out. Thought I cannot imagine what that might be."

"I can." Quietly. "It's hard to explain, sir, but I'm still sorting through HIS memories from the transfer. There are things I can remember clearly, and things I know are there but can't quite get at, if you know what I mean. And things that just surprise me from nowhere."

Brandon catches her shudder and wraps his arms tightly about her. "If it troubles you, tell me. I will try to help you."

"I will, if there's any need." Before Brandon can debate with her about definitions of need, Mary Anne presses on. "Somewhere in all of this--it's out of my reach, but I know it exists--there is something between HIM and Claudia. Some encounter . . . but I can't recall it clearly. It doesn't quite seem real somehow. Almost like something one of them had dreamed, perhaps. But I think that she has gone after HIM." The way I once did, thinking I could take HIM on singlehandedly . . . Her face burns at the memory of the attempt and all that had followed. "I don't know what prompted her to do it now . . ."

"The Interrogator was present during our wedding. We know that." Briefly, Brandon reviews the results of the morning's hunt, and why he had insisted on a search of Delaford. "Perhaps there was some confrontation between them. We cannot rule out the possibility of an abduction, though the more I think on it, the more unlikely it appears."

Mary Anne feels a burst of fear at her heart, as if a small star had exploded. "Christopher, do you think she's betrayed us? Gone over to The Interrogator?"

Brandon draws Mary Anne's head down onto his shoulder, clasping her closely to him. Dear God, if it should be that . . . no, I shall not believe it.

The Colonel makes an effort to steady his voice. "I could hardly think it possible, Mary Anne. Claudia is a good woman, who loves her children and has won the heart of an excellent man. I could not think that of her. I believe--" Brandon takes a long breath, feeling how his reassurances have calmed Mary Anne. Well, somewhat. "--that she has set out in search of The Interrogator with some idea of bringing about HIS destruction. But I also think she has set herself too grave a task . . ."

Pun NOT intended, thinks Mary Anne with a shiver.

" . . . and that even if she believes her seeking HIM out was voluntary, it may not have been so free of . . . duress . . . as she thinks. My dearest--we both know what HE can do."

Yes. Mary Anne, in particular, knows in full and sickening detail what HE can do.

"But let us have courage, and hope. Claudia is a brave and intelligent woman. And perhaps she has not gone to HIM after all. The Alliance still has search parties about the grounds and in the village, and they may find her yet. Perhaps she had an errand and was injured, and could not make her way back to us."

Mary Anne is touched by Brandon's effort to relieve her anxiety--this small hope he holds out to her, not because he believes it but because it might cheer and encourage her. A little.

Brandon stands, and Mary Anne allows him to draw her to her feet.

"Shall we go down to dinner, Mary Anne?"

She must, as Brandon has put it, have courage. And hope. Mary Anne tries to turn her mind from what may be happening to Claudia. Does HE have her at this very moment? Is she crying out in--

Mary Anne wrenches her thoughts away. "Yes, sir. They'll be expecting us.As for Claudia, I know one thing: when Ed catches up with her, I wouldn't be in her shoes."

Brandon gives her a look. "Indeed not," he replies. "You know that I cannot condone such actions as those of Mister de Valera--but in such a case as this, I can certainly understand the motive. When Claudia returns, we may have to lock her away from Ed until he calms himself."

WHEN Claudia returns . . . Christopher, you are trying so valiantly. I cannot do less. "That," she contents herself with replying, "could take quite a while."

"Many days, if I were in his place." Brandon cocks an eyebrow at her.

Mary Anne summons a shaky grin. "I'll remember that. Shall we go?"

Mary Anne slips her arm through Brandon's and allows him to lead her from the room. The flash of silvered embroidery at her wrist catches her eye and widens her smile, as she remembers the quilt at the Manor House. The Night Sky pattern.

And how lovely of Christopher to think of that poem! Most of Byron is so much more cynical than that . . .

But Mary Anne sets all cynical musings aside. Let there be hope. Claudia will return to them. She will. Any other possibility is simply not to be considered.

Meanwhile, their guests are waiting. Assuming her best smile as the gracious Mistress of Delaford, Mary Anne sweeps down the stairs at Brandon's side . . .

"Well, Christopher, will I do?"

As if you did not know very well what you look like, Mary Anne . . . Brandon remains transfixed, but finally recovers himself enough to smile and speak. "She walks in beauty," he begins, "like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes . . . "

Mary Anne flushes with pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you, sir; how lovely!" She spreads her arms and turns slightly to display herself to him, and a silver thread flashes once, brightly. Like the twinkle of mischief in her eyes as she turns toward him once more. "But Byron?" she teases. "I must say I'm rather scandalized. And besides, the woman in that poem is supposed to be dark-haired. Remember? . . . the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face . . . "

Brandon leaves the doorway and moves toward her, laughing softly. "I must insist, my dearest, upon the correctness of my choice. For you obviously know the poem well enough to remember the rest, do you not?"

Brandon strikes a pose with his hand over his heart, and his VOICE, though low and gentle, fills the chamber.

"And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent."

Mary Anne pats her hands together in applause, which Brandon acknowledges with a bow and a smile, before he crosses to her where she stands before her mirror. As she leans forward to adjust the chain about her neck, Brandon puts his arms around her from behind and rests his chin upon her shoulder so that they gaze into the mirror's reflection together, side by side.

"You are so good to me, Christopher."

"I love you."

Mary Anne's eyes close briefly as Brandon presses a kiss against the curve of her throat. "And I love you, sir. I can still hardly believe it--that I'm here with you. After all that has happened to us . . ."

Her smile disappears.

"What is it, my dearest?"

"I was . . . just thinking of Claudia. What we'll have to tell Ed if he comes down for dinner. He adores her, you know. Even though The Doctor made sure he'd rest, he'll still be half- distracted, worrying about her."

Brandon, a truthful man, has a difficult time remaining optimistic in this case, but settles for a neutral reply. "Perhaps when the Commander returns from her call on Mister Willoughby, we will have some useful information."

At that, Mary Anne turns from the mirror and faces Brandon squarely. "After what you found--or did not find--on the search today . . . do you think there's any hope?"

Brandon hesitates. If he lies, she will know. That is all there is to it. "I would not go so far as to say there is no hope. But she had a good head start, and the trail is cold--"

"A good head start? Then . . . you think she left voluntarily?"

A long silence.

"Yes, Mary Anne. I do."

"You say I'm skilled for this task," she took a deep breath then kissed HIM. HE responded by pulling her into HIS lap. The illusion of business only ended. "I am for you, but I don't know if I could seduce someone I'm not attracted to. If I try and fail, will this mean you think I'm not loyal to you? The fact that I don't want to be with anyone else should be proof enough."

"If I were talking of personal feelings, then yes, that would be some proof. But this is work. I need to know you can accomplish any task I set you, without letting personal feelings enter the scenario. I know you won't fail."

The task was an impossible one. Claudia could see that. But it would take her back to Delaford, she'd have a lot of explaining to do, but she'd be among friends. Friends she would be betraying, who she had betrayed beyond forgiveness last night.

"OK, I'll try. Though how you expect me to steal a man who has an eager new bride in his bed…"

"An inexperienced new bride. And you will have my help." HE reached into HIS jacket pocket and brought out a small vial containing a white powder. "A little of this in his drink, when you are alone together, and he will help you seal his own doom."

Claudia took the vial and put it safely in the pocket of her leather jacket. She remembered what this stuff could do. When it had been injected into her she had become a wild woman, insatiable… She shivered at the memory.

"Cold my dear? Perhaps I can warm you up." HE shifted her in his lap and she could feel his meaning.

Her arms about HIS neck, she played her fingers through HIS hair. "I'm quite warm, thank you."

HE started to slip off her jacket, then remembered something, and pulled another photo out of the envelope. "I almost forgot. While you are at Delaford, I have this little matter I'd like your help in attending to."

Claudia took the photo. "Therese," she said. " I met her at the wedding."

"A political activist, who we need brought in for questioning. I have built quite a large dossier on this young lady. She has been keeping some rather undesirable company recently, and it is time we had a little chat." HE loosened his tie. "All I need you to do is arrange for her to be in a certain place at a certain time, and I will have her collected and brought back here."

Claudia was relieved at this somewhat easier task. This she could do, but to bring another innocent person into the hands of the Interrogator? How could she live with that? There would be plenty more things she would do to alienate her from her friends, she just had to learn to ignore her conscience. She hoped it would be all worth it in the end. She hoped she was really up to the one task she had set herself. Bring down the Interrogator and his organisation - single-handed. Suddenly HIS third task didn't seem so difficult after all.

Colonel Brandon steps to the doorway of Mary Anne's room. "Mary Anne . . ." And then, a brief pause as he catches sight of her.

Prior to the wedding, Brandon had brought in seamstresses and clothiers from London to prepare Mary Anne's gown. However, in an outpouring of generosity direct from a besotted lover's heart, Brandon had not stopped with that one particular gown for the occasion of marriage; oh, no. Mary Anne, in mingled gratitude and amusement, had teased him that he must have emptied the storerooms of every fabric merchant in London, and that every dressmaker in the isle must have sewn her fingers sore to fill his orders. Brandon, recognizing in Mary Anne's exaggeration her delight in his gifts to her, had responded with a smile only . . .

Tonight, she is wearing one of his gifts. When she had worn the familiar blue-green gown the previous night, he had known at some level that she was clinging to a memento of former times. Or rather, it was clinging to her . . . In the midst of new duties and responsibilities--and pleasures--that gown was a way to slow time, to return it to former events.

Perhaps this gown, though new, serves the same purpose. The fabric is lovely enough in itself, deep twilight blue shading off in the sleeves and hem to rich purple and finally almost to black--but the black is relieved at the neckline and sleeves and hem with silver gilt embroidery on satin ribbon trim: embroidery in an alternating pattern of moon and stars.

The Night Sky.

Solo Flights Writing Project

" . . . Here is your third task." HIS voice is full of rich untasted pleasure. It is hard for Claudia to guess which the Interrogator enjoys more--physical fulfillment, or the exercise of power over those he aims to control.

Perhaps both.

She releases her words slowly, stifling her usual lightning quick responses. Letting him play about her neck. HE's listening, watching me. Must take my time. "It's not a person," she begins.

Fingers, along her neck. Squeezing. Releasing.

"No."

She begins again. "It's--"

"--a destination," HE finishes. Squeezing. Releasing.

Control.

The camera moves in on the 8 X 10, and there in detail, is something we have seen. Oh yes, seen and seen again, a place of happiness, of sheer delight. Four sides, made of wood. You will know the rest.

"I take it . . . this isn't a photograph of *your* bed?"

No laughter. No response. "It was taken at Delaford." Then, with a creeping breath of feeling, as HIS fingers caress her firmly: "A before picture."

Before Mary Anne can question Brandon further about "conditions," the clock attracts their attention, announcing itself with a low noise oddly reminiscent of discreet throat-clearing before marking the hour with its muted chimes.

With a sigh, Mary Anne tries to sit up straighter in Brandon's arms. "As much as I would love to discuss your . . . conditions, Christopher--"

Brandon draws her robe off of one shoulder.

"--and I know you are most generous to your captives--we have to be presentably clothed and downstairs for dinner in about an hour."

Brandon pauses briefly in his nibbling at her shoulder. "Dinner be hanged."

"It was hanged, actually. Some of it. We're having pheasant."

Brandon continues his nibbles and light kisses all the way to her collarbone, by which time Mary Anne is beginning to share his frame of mind about dinner . . . but finally, Brandon lifts his head and smiles at her with the air of a man making the ultimate sacrifice. "Dinner it is, then. But you will hear one of my conditions, before we leave here. And on this one, I assure you I am adamant."

"Whatever could that be, sir?"

The Colonel cups her chin in his hand. There is no chance for her to look away from his eyes--from the serious purpose in those eyes, though he is still smiling at her. "I have warned you before, Mary Anne, about speaking ill of yourself in my presence. Had you forgotten?"

"No." Very softly.

"This practice of comparing yourself with me, as if I were some paragon of virtue . . . my darling, we must not do this to each other. You said you wanted respect from me, and not merely indulgence. I give you my word, you have that respect. I have seen you conduct yourself, in half a dozen situations, far more nobly than I, and I have had the very same thoughts: that you were far too good for me. It is enough to make the most hardened soul believe in grace--in love that is freely given to the undeserving."

"Oh, but sir, you do--"

Brandon shakes his head. "We could argue this matter all through the night, and it would serve no purpose. Here is my condition: accept my love. And do not be so severe upon yourself."

Mary Anne thinks this over for a moment. Brandon makes it sound so easy . . .

But it isn't. Not easy at all. Most people like to feel that they have earned love, done something to deserve it, and I am certainly no exception. And my faults! They are ever before me, sir, and I know them too well--accept your love, you say, and do not be so severe upon myself. Such a task. At once easy and impossible . . . but for you, I'll try.

This time Mary Anne does manage to sit up straight, for Brandon releases his hold and she moves out of his arms to kneel on one of the cushions.

"Well, Mary Anne?"

"I'll try, sir, but I don't suppose I'll be very good at it." The lift of Brandon's eyebrow causes her to hastily add, "Not all at once, I mean. And while we are about it--" She cannot hope to match the intensity of Brandon's penetrating gaze, but she gives it her best effort. "Will you meet the condition yourself, sir? You are as stern with yourself as any man I have ever met. Will you accept love as well?"

Ah-ha, that got him! Again, that arc of his eyebrow, as if he did not appreciate this sudden turn in the conversation and what it now requires of him, but there is no escape and so Brandon acquiesces, more or less gracefully. "Yes. I . . . accept."

"It's a bargain!" laughs Mary Anne, reaching out to him as though to seal the agreement with a handshake, but Brandon is having none of that; he has his own ideas on how to make their agreement official, and a mere clasp of hands would not be enough.

Some moments later, Brandon releases Mary Anne from his embrace, then stands and helps her to her feet--and she does need that help. There is an exchange, then, of complicit smiles as they prepare to dress for dinner, all the while musing upon the pleasures of anticipation . . .

Hart stepped in front of Grace before Joy could reach her. "That's enough, Joy. You can state your business, or pack up your broomstick and leave. It is immaterial to me."

"Ever the loving husband and charming host." Then to Grace, Joy said, "I do hope he treats you slightly better, whatever-your-name-is. At least until he gets whatever he wants from you. He always wants something. And he *always* gets what he wants." Joy was one of those people who smoked as a form of punctuation. "Don't you, darling?" she exhaled.

"You can leave now, Joy. If you have an issue, discuss it with the lawyers. They love you dearly for the billable hours you bring them. And I pay them happily to keep you out of my life."

"Your forget, darling," she used the endearment like an epithet, "that this house is as much mine as yours. I love California for its climate, its beauty. . . and its community property." She ground out her cigarette on the back of a priceless Tang dynasty horse as Grace winced inwardly. She had seen enough. "Lukas," she said, lightly touching his arm, "I have work to do. I'll leave you two to catch up." Joy might have trouble up her well-tailored sleeve, but it had nothing to do with her, Grace was confident.

"Grace, there is no need for you to go. Joy is on her way," Hart replied, glaring at his wife.

"Grace? Her name is Grace?" Joy laughed, a mirthless laugh, her head bent back. "Then we need only Faith and Hope to make up the four virtues." She brushed an imaginary tear of laughter from her eyes. "Oh, but you've already had them. Singapore and . . . Barbados, was it? I can't keep track of them all. Really, darling, you are just too too predictable."

Grace leaned up to kiss Hart goodbye and affectionately caressed his cheek while keeping one eye on Joy, whose only reaction was a smirk. "You can call me on the cell phone, Lukas," Grace whispered to him, trying to put her love and her trust into her eyes. Then she walked out of the room and toward the front door. Hart did not follow her.

"Big mistake, *Grace*. I'd stay around. You could learn a lot," Joy called after her.

Grace banged the door heavily on her way out.

" . . . Sit down and calm down. We have a lot to get through this morning."

This morning! She wasn't done getting over last night. And knew she wouldn't, ever. But HE was business as usual . . . except for that touch on her cheek.

Yes. The third task. In her heart of hearts (homage), Claudia was far from forgetting why she was here, away from Ed, the twins, and away from the rest of the those she loved in the realm. It had been so difficult, this decision of hers, to leave--and return here. Though, she would be the first to admit, if any man could make her forget, it was HIM. Last night, HE had made her forget about everyone and everything. The way HE had undressed her . . . slowly . . . while HE had . . .

She found HIM studying her, an amused look on HIS face, the contents of the file on HIS desk like an paper armory for a one-man war. You are mine, Claudia. However much you care for them, you and I are together now. She remembered how HE had held her hands, bound them in his own, how it had felt like he had put her under lock and key. HIS secret treasure.

She wanted to kiss him and slap him at the same time. That amused look on his face. Yes, she could do either, and with equal fervor.

"You may know most of it already, but you should refresh yourself. I think this is a task you may enjoy. And you're certainly up to it. You have real talent in this area."

HE crooked HIS finger, undulating it in small theatrical bows towards himself, as HE drew Claudia close to him. From a black envelope marked "Photographs," he withdrew a large 8 X 10 matte print.

Claudia shivered, as she looked at the print, and felt the Interrogator's fingers walk about the circumference of her neck, then grasp it firmly. He had used this five- fingered embrace about her neck last night, when . . .

"Your wife? But I thought that we'd already decided to marry in June, in Dublin, with all of our friends, and. . ." Therese paused, and studied the countenance of the man before her, a favourite phrase from Dryden coming to mind. For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved, needs only to be seen. Few men were gifted with speech with the eloquence of Eamon de Valera, yet in this instance, words were unnecessary. She'd never met a man who could express so much without having uttered a sound. "Of course I will marry you."

"We can marry again in June, if you wish." He smiled at her, kissing her softly, his face breaking into a wide grin. "And in July, as well as October, and let's not forget December--we wouldn't have to provide any flowers should we decide to marry in December--and of course--"

"Eamon, you are a compelete widgeon!" Therese told him, her laugther bursting forth. "A widgeon?" he demanded, "is that any way to speak to your very soon to be husband? I can see that I've got my work cut out for me if I'm to turn you into an obedient little Irish wife."

"You, sir, will simply have to settle for 'little'," she informed him, giggling anew at his mock glower.

"Oh, I see, and insolent as well," he stated, pushing her back on the bed, and pinning her down with his body he buried his face in the crook of her neck, causing her to squeal and squirm as he tickled this sensitive spot. Raising his head slightly, he glared down at Therese, "Just what is a widgeon, anyway?"

"A widgeon, you great oaf, is a man who proposes to a woman he's already betrothed to, demands she marry him immediately, and then throws her on the bed, forgetting that he smells very much like a horse as he has spent most of the day in the saddle."

Dev sat up beside Therese on the bed. "Well if that isn't the pot calling the kettle. One would think that you would be the sole woman on this planet for which this would make me even more appealing." He rose from the bed, taking Therese's hands and drawing her to her feet to stand in front of him. Lowering his head her kissed her, hugging her close to his body and holding her tight. "I love you, you little scamp, and I'm going to keep you safe. Now why don't you see about getting me a bath while I go and find a priest?"

Brandon returns Mary Anne's smile. Of one thing he is certain: if she falls to quoting literature, then he must be back in her good graces. If, indeed, he was ever truly out of them.

In the minds of some men, this would be an exceptionally cynical observation. Not so with Brandon, who knows that Mary Anne has spent a good portion of her life immersing herself in the literature of dozens of countries and hundreds of years. When she is deeply moved, it is her natural response. Here is a woman who cannot look at a tree stripped of its leaves without automatically thinking: Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. That she should take his pessismitic observation on a pairing of day and night, and equate it with the very story of creation . . .

But after all, why not? They are at the beginning of their life together. A union with such prospects of happiness: now is the world made new again, for him--and, he fervently hopes, for her.

Brandon reaches out to take Mary Anne's hand and bring it to his lips, before murmuring, "I am sorry, my dearest. Forgive me."

Her fingers gently trace the outline of his lips. "I'm the one who acted like a child--" A brief nod toward her room. "--in there. I mean, really, pouring that water over your head. I'm sorry, sir."

"Well, at least I was in a tub at the time. There could have been worse places. If you had attempted it at the dinner table, for example--"

Companionable laughter between them, as Mary Anne imagines such a proceeding, and giggles, "I can just see explaining that to your staff!"

"Our staff, you mean." And then, "They are extremely well- trained in their duties. They would most likely behave as if nothing were out of the ordinary."

This is good for some more laughter, particularly from Mary Anne as she tries to imagine the reaction of the formidable Miss MacLeod to such a spectacle.

Gradually, their laughter dies away and they study each other--not warily, but carefully, seeking whatever traces are left of their earlier disagreement and thinking their own thoughts. It had seemed to come out of nowhere--but they both know that is not true.

I shouldn't have teased him like that, reflects Mary Anne. I know how it makes me feel if someone keeps after me, when I just want to be left to myself. Especially if I'm tired and worried. And he has had a ghastly day.

Brandon watches the play of the rosy firelight across his wife's skin and hair. She is all softness in his arms, all warmth and enticing fragrances, traces of her scented soap mingling with her violet perfume, which was not all washed away when he had dragged her into the water. How could I have behaved like such a surly brute?

He knows perfectly well, how. The events of this day . . .

"What's the matter, Christopher? That frown would frighten the devil himself."

Brandon tries to set aside the memory of the horror that had gripped him when he discovered the glove in the summerhouse. HE is about. Somewhere. And HIS next obvious target is Mary Anne. But this time, you shall not have her. No matter what I must do to prevent it, you shall not . . .

"Christopher?" Some alarm, now.

Do not frighten her with such speculations. Brandon shakes his head a little. "It is nothing, my dearest. It is just that I--" Inspiration strikes as he gently strokes Mary Anne's hair, still damp from her plunge into the tub. "--I regret my ill temper. That is all."

Mary Anne captures Brandon's hand in hers, touching her lips to his fingers, then grinning at him. "Christopher, we mustn't start a whole new quarrel over who is most to blame for this one!"

"An excellent point." Brandon raises a politely enquiring eyebrow. "So, am I to assume that the quarrel has ended?"

"Officially. Definitely." Mary Anne considers for a moment, then offers Brandon a mischievous smile. "Considering your military background, sir, we could say that a truce has been declared."

Brandon's look of inquiry gives way to an expression as comically wicked as any Mary Anne has ever seen upon his face, as he draws her closer to him, shifting the cushions about and lifting her onto his lap so that she sits partly cradled in his arms, looking up into his face just above her own. The arched eyebrow remains, however, working its usual spell of making her weak in the knees--a good thing she is not even trying to stand--as Brandon's voice drops to an insinuating murmur. "A . . . truce? Oh, no, I fear that simply will not do. I shall hold out for . . . a surrender."

A good fire. The room is very warm.

Difficult to return a joke--if joke it is--with that seductive whisper in her ears. "That could be difficult, sir. If we were both at fault in this disagreement, then just who should surrender to whom?"

Brandon considers. "It would be only fair, I suppose, to take it in turns."

"That makes sense. And as you seem to have me at a disadvantage--"

Brandon laughs softly. "Indeed. Deliciously so."

Mary Anne rolls her eyes as if in resignation. "I must set a good example and accept my lot with dignity."

The corners of Brandon's eyes crinkle with amusement, and it is all he can do not to laugh as Mary Anne looks up at him--teasing again, yes, but a certain amount of that is quite pleasurable, especially when he holds her securely in his arms and can stop her when he wishes. If he wishes.

"So," inquires Mary Anne. The twinkle of those blue eyes. "What are your terms, sir? Or were you expecting an unconditional surrender?"

"Not at all," returns Brandon softly. "There are most definitely . . . conditions."

The two women glared at each other as they heard the heavy front door open and close, then the sound of footsteps on their way to the living room. Lukas Hart stopped behind Grace, taking in the scene. Before Grace could say a word, Hart extended a dry, chilly greeting to the stranger. "Joy. This is a *surprise*. How is Buenos Aires society surviving without you?"

The sour-faced smoking woman was named Joy. How absurdly inappropriate, thought Grace, watching the interplay between Joy and Hart, trying to guess how these two people -- who obviously hated each other -- knew one another.

"I came back last week, only to hear you had been released from prison. How nice of you to tell me." Joy's expression was anything but nice.

"I could not imagine you were interested." Hart's voice sounded bored, with an edge of contempt.

"But darling," the woman's voice purred, as she shot a look of pure venom at Hart, "inconvenient as they may be, wives are always *so* interested." Her look shifted as she held out toward Grace a small white hand with red laquered nails like claws. "Joy. But you can call me Mrs. Lukas Hart III."

Not to worry. It would seem that one of our chief backers for FOF--one Herr Anton Gruber of Gruber Glassworks--has already settled the bill for insurance on the Lady Rose, as well as whatever special conditions and maintenance will be required to keep it in perfect musical order. As you have some experience in this area, the Properties Master will consult with you about said conditions and maintenance and will follow your advice--no expense to be spared.

It would seem that Herr Gruber is a music lover, in addition to his other reasons for wishing our FOF ventures to proceed on schedule.

Sir, you are far to kind. The loan of the "Lady Rose" is more than acceptable. The Strad is just a few steps up from plywood!

My only concern lies with the insurance of such a valuable and priceless instrument. I am very grateful (and excited!) about such an arrival. Please don't mistake my meaning, but are you quite sure we can afford to do this? I am aware it is not my place to worry about the financial burdens, but still......

"Or else what , you ask?" An amused glint flashed from HIS eyes, obvious even from behind the thin lenses of HIS spectacles. "My dear, I don't believe you are quite ready to know that."

Therese turned to regard the man standing before her. HIS was a game of cat and mouse, of that she was certain, and she was equally assured that HE baited her. She could feel herself slowly being reeled in. . .

"Try me," she said, enunciating each word slowly and precisely.

Mr. I held out HIS hand to her, and asissted her from the stool. Standing next to HIM in this manner Therese was acutely aware of the difference in their physical size, her head barely reaching HIS shoulder. "You've told me you find my character intense, frightening, and that you are hesitant to enact our upcoming scenes. Whyever would you now wish to find me in character without the safety of The Director to govern our, or rather, my actions?" "Inherent curiosity coupled with a liberal dose of carelessness would be my best guess," Therese explained blithely, and then immediately fell silent at the change that was readily apparant within HIM. Therese was new to the acting profession, and had stumbled into it in the least likely manner. She studied her craft diligently, read up on techniqes and styles, and attended classes when her schedule permitted. Still, the transformation that took place within HIM was clearly obvious even to her untrained eye. She was in the presence of a master at HIS craft.

HIS presense was immediately changed in the most physical sense. HE stood taller, and more correct, HIS features made harsh and angular, by what Therese was not certain, but there was a decided menacing current to the man before her that had not been present mere moments previously.

Before her, now, stood The Interrogater.

"I don't like this, Therese, I don't like it at all." Dev stalked up and down the length of the room, his long legs covering the ground in several strides before he whirled around and retraced his steps. "Brandon is not an impulsive man, and when I saw the look upon his face when he discovered that glove. . ." He paused in front of Therese, grasping her firmly by each arm. "It is not safe here, you must return to Ireland." He raised his hand to forestall her protest, "Therese, do this one thing, for me. Please." His arm slipped around her shoulders, and he lead her to the bed, lowering her to it and sitting beside her. "When I lost Sinead, I didn't think I could go on, so I threw myself into my country and her cause. For a time I was able to delude myself, to make myself believe that it was enough, and I could survive in such a manner. And I could survive. Exist. But I was not living. I didn't begin to do that again until a certain political rally several months ago when a tiny little slip of a woman captured my mind, then my body, and finally my heart."

Therese was speechless; leaving Eamon behind was unthinkable, yet she could not fathom refusing him this simple request. And it had been a request. He had not demanded she leave, nor had he ordered her departure, but he had bared his heart to her, and told her of his fears. She scooted onto his lap, his arms holding her firmly to his chest, the strong, steady, sound of his heartbeat in her ear. "Please, don't send me away," she murmered softly into his shirtfront. "I do not wish to be separated from you."

"It will not be for long. As soon as Mary Anne is once again safe, I will return to you. You have my word."

Therese gazed up into the face that had become so dear to her, a single finger tracing his features. She followed the arch of his brow, the outline of his jaw, and gently touched his lips, first with her hand, then with her mouth. She looked up into his eyes, darkened with his mood, and they appeared to her to be fathomless. "There is no one for me in Dublin without you, and I have no family left in the States. My place is by your side."

"You will not go to Dublin, I am sending you home to County Col. My people are your family now, you will be welcomed there and loved. My cousins and I are as close as brothers, perhaps closer, and they will see that you are safe." He paused, considering her very carefully before proceeding. Taking her hand in his own larger one, he brought her fingers to his lips, and kissed them gently. "They would indeed be your family. . . if I could send you as my wife."

I have consulted with Properties, and they believe they can arrange for the loan of the "Lady Rose" cello, last used in the film The Living Daylights.

It is, I understand, a Stradavarius. I trust this will be acceptable?

Claudia stuck out her tongue at HIS back. Then moved round the desk to the chair facing HIM. She folded her arms and legs and scowled at his wrinkled forehead.

Minutes passed, and she amused herself by pulling faces at HIM, and in exasperation poking up two fingers on each hand and moving her hands up and down in a gesture of defiance.

HE looked up just then, and she dropped her hands quickly, and sat on them, and looked around humming as if nothing had happened. HE put down the file, took of HIS glasses and rested them on top of the papers. HE looked at her as if HE was a Headmaster, and she was troublesome child.

“What are you doing?”

“Hmmm? Oh, I was just doing some finger exercises. You know how I hate to sit still.”

She stood up and leant forward, both hands on HIS desk, and her nose inches from HIS. “Why – what are you doing?”

HE smiled then and stroked her cheek. But pulled HIS hand quickly back when HE realised what He’d done. “What’s wrong, got out of the wrong side of bed this morning?” HE asked.

HE could just about see the steam coming out of her ears.

“Well, I tried but there was a wall in the way!” She rubbed at her bruise elbow. “Which wasn’t my fault, as I woke up somewhere completely different to where I went to sleep.”

Sir, I am glad you enjoyed my contribution(s), and I cannot express my gratitude well enough. I am at your service if need be.

Meanwhile, I need to ask you if you can find a decent cello? The one the prop people are supply is made out of cheap plywood and it does not even look real from far away. Do you have any suggestions?

Re: Kari--We seem to be on the same wavelength! Though I have a couple twists and turns yet to go;)

She tested the handle on the door to her room, and surprisingly it swung easily open. As she marched purposefully down the long banal corridors, her boots clacked on the floor and the sound echoed, announcing her approach to all ahead of her. She gained a few questioning or worried glances from others passing her, but no one attempted to stop or question her. They moved as close to the opposite wall as possible, and hurried on by her. The look in her eyes was enough to keep the bravest man sensibly out of reach.

She arrived at the Interrogator’s office, scene of all that happened the night before, and she pulled open the door and strode in, without knocking or announcing herself. HE was there, sitting at his desk, reading a file. He didn’t look up as she entered the room, even though the sound of the door banging open should have made him jump, and her boots *click click click* as she moved towards the desk should have made HIM look. But with one hand HE fingered the edge of his glasses, and the other turned a page in is file.

Walking in the front door, the smell of cigarette smoke instantly irritated Grace. Hart hated the smell, and so did she. She followed the trail of smoke to the high-ceiling living room. Hart would have a fit if he caught someone smoking so close to the art hung there. It couldn't be anyone who knew him well.

Turning the corner into the living room, she spied a stranger, a petite woman with dark hair pulled severely off her face. Dressed in a black suit -- the new St. John line, Grace automatically, and irrelevantly, thought -- and wearing cruel Manolo Blahnik stilletos, oblivious to Grace, the woman put her face close to the Warhol multiple of Hart and blew a stream of smoke at the canvas. Grace's eyes widened in shock, then she heard herself ask in a strained voice, "Wouldn't it be better to just set it on fire?"

The woman turned slowly around and gave Grace an insolent look. "So. Are you the curator here? Or just the latest whore?"

Charlie sits alone downstairs, entranced in her writing, unaware that Jamie has wandered off. Suddenly, however, she is startled by a frightening sound which curdles her blood. An eerie, almost wolf-like howl emanates from the second floor and echoes its way down the stairs which sit at the end of the long hallway.

"NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooo!" it wails.

Thanks guys for the warm "welcome back". I am going to try and "dance across the FOF stage" more often!

MA: Come now! You are close to the Director....any inside info on what I might be recieving as a reward? A book reading? Some duets? An hour in his....um, well...er...never mind;)

Jamie gives another moan; one of frustration and anguish. To his shock, he has discovered a crack in Sophie near the tail-piece. His good mood has all but vanished.

He places Sophie on his lap to examine the crack better. It does not show that much, but appearances can be decieving. There is only one thing to do, and that is to apply a simple test.

A good way to tell if the crack is detrimental is to apply pressure. If the wood remains in place, the crack is nothing to even think twice about. If the wood moves....well, lets just leave it at that.

Jamie presses his index finger lightly on a side of the crack. The wood sinks slightly. He closes his eyes and throws his head back.

"NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooo", is what comes out, almost a wolf-like howl. He removes Sophie from his lap and sets her on the bed. He looks at her for a moment before speaking.

"Sophie, dearest...you can't do this to me. I will not have it. Pull yourself together and move on. I will NOT have you breaking down like this!"

Jamie knows that she is not going to listen. She cannot just magically fix herself. And he is no repairman. Oh, he could do the plumbing or paint the garage; but this is different. Having her fixed means going to the professionals. Ack! What was he going to do? Where was he going to go?

Meanwhile, I'm almost envious of that cello! Acccckkkk!!!

"You think that I am too good for you, Mary Anne?"

She is going to cry, in spite of every attempt to hold back. Oh, damn and double damn all of this soul-searching! Nothing good ever comes of it. Nothing! And the worst of it is that Brandon will not leave this alone, never in a million years.

In answer to Brandon's question, Mary Anne manages a watery- eyed nod.

"This absolutely will not do--"

No voice could be more gentle, but in her prickly frame of mind, Mary Anne imagines a lecturing note in Brandon's tone, and turns toward him with a scowl--and with tears about to spill from her eyes. "I know that it will not do, but there it is! I--" By taking a very deep breath, she can go on more calmly. "I've never met anyone who was more patient with me. More tolerant." Just as you are now, in fact. "But I'd like to think . . ."

"Yes?"

"That there's some . . . respect in it as well. That it's not all indulgence, and tolerance--I hope there's something here--" She pats her heart once more. "--that's worth loving, that's all."

Brandon gazes down at Mary Anne for long moments--at her face, turned slightly away from him to gaze at the fire. The better to conceal her eyes, but she might just as well have saved herself the trouble, for what Brandon cannot see in her face, he can read in every wary line of her body, that slight tension in her arms as she holds herself in readiness for his next words, whatever they might be. But it is some time before the Colonel can speak, as his heart is so full with memories that pass in quick succession: Mary Anne at the Delaford picnic, flinging herself at the armed and dangerous Willoughby, thinking nothing of the peril to herself, but only of protecting Brandon; Egdon, by Renie's supposed gravesite--Mary Anne letting fall the Salamanca, sparing the life of The Interrogator, even before she learned that Renie was still alive; the Manor House, in Renie's room--Mary Anne, ignoring her hunger and thirst and the pain of her shackle wounds until she could be certain that Renie was out of danger; that dreadful room in the cellars of Safehouse #3, where Mary Anne had pleaded with The Interrogator to spare them, yet retained the presence of mind to steal HIS keys.

All of these memories and more besides.

He must speak. "So, you think yourself fortunate to have won me, do you? Have you thought of how it seems to me?"

That catches her attention. Mary Anne turns her puzzled face to his. "Sir?"

"When I rescued you from The Interrogator, that first time . . . you have said before that you loved me almost from that first moment. I knew that you were grateful, but I held my feelings in check; I saw what I thought were the signs of love, but . . . I could have been mistaken. I thought, perhaps, that I was wrong. I wanted love, you understand, and not simply gratitude. But I could not allow myself to hope--"

Mary Anne's eyes are fixed upon his face, and Brandon realizes, with some surprise, that he is almost indignant. Not at Mary Anne, so much, but with life itself, with the circumstances of fate and misunderstandings and cross purposes that have led him to keep this to himself for so long.

"--that you could love me. You, who shone at every gathering; who loved laughter and wit and delight--"

"I," echoes Mary Anne, beginning to smile a little, "who knew a good man when I saw one. My mother didn't raise any fools!"

"My compliments to your mother, on her excellent work," comes the Colonel's dry riposte. "But then I would look at myself--and I knew how I seemed to others as well, so filled with sorrow. Grave and solemn. To expect that you would love me--one might just as well expect a match between day and night."

"And God called the light Day," Mary Anne recites quietly, "and the darkness he called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day."

Looking down into Mary Anne's face, Brandon can feel his heart expand with joy and relief, for she is looking up at him and smiling in earnest. "Not so odd a match after all, Christopher. Only the oldest one in creation . . ."

Jamie's black, hard-shelled case is against the wall. He had put it out of the way, not so much to forget about it, but to give his fingers a rest. A long rest, one that was much needed.

He brings over a chair to the case, and undoes the silver hooks. He opens it, and Sophie greeted him with an almost surprised attitude.

"Can't believe I am here looking at you once again, can you? It won't be long, dearest until you and I will be playing together again. I promise I won't neglect you anymore."

Readers, I ask you, can an instrument really speak? Perhaps some of you are skeptical and think Jamie silly for talking to a block of wood. But this instrument has a life of it's own...and she will speak when she is ready. And Sophie is MORE than ready!

He takes Sophie out very carefully by the neck. Her scroll is one of the most beautiful things about her. On top of the fingerboard sits a lion's head, complete with a wooden mane and all. Jamie runs his fingers all over her body, remembering the first time he had touched her. He eyes her carefully and slowly examines every inch of her. To some, it might be a re-introduction with Sophie. But Jamie has another agenda...he is making sure she is still in the utmost condition. And that means no cracks, hairline or otherwise.

His fingers travel slowly to her belly. Everything seems in order there. He travels lower, and feels something that is not quite right. He peers closer, and there is a quick intake of breath.

"Oh, no!", is the only exclaimation that is uttered in the quiet room.

Her skin still tingled from HIS touch. Last night had been amazing. HE had finally got her to let go of her nervousness and guilt with a slow, sensuous massage. HIS fingers both calming and exciting her at the same time. She had found it difficult to believe HE was the same man that had been so brutal to her before.

A smile played on her lips like sunlight sneaking in through curtains. HE hadn’t lied about HIS skills. She would enjoy playing the evening over and over in her mind, in her dreams. If she could live only on HIS touch she would stay with HIM forever.

But if you get too involved in a dream that is when reality has a nasty habit of catching up with you. Claudia reached over to put and arm around HIM, and *thwack* hit her elbow and forearm on the wall. Wall? She sat up and rubbed her saw elbow and reluctantly opened her eyes. She was back in her small room, in the single bed. She couldn’t believe it. She swung her legs over the edge, and sat surveying her space. There was a tray with breakfast things on the dressing table. Again.

The haze of dream and after-love left her as suddenly as if she had been exorcised. Suddenly she was thinking clearly and she was angry – at HIM and at herself. She took the few steps over to the breakfast tray and picked up the note that was tucked into the toast rack. She flipped it open and read the short command.

It said, “Get dressed, you’ve got work to do.”

While Charlie is working on her novel, Jamie pads upstairs. He has not seen Sophine in quite some time. Sophie is Jamie's cello. He has given names to all his instruments he has ever owned. Sophie is Italian, made in Cremona by Amati in the 17th Century. She is Jamie's pride and joy. She has a golden glow to her, probably due to the kind of varnish they used. And he loves the way she feels...she has the most exquisite response to his touch.

His thoughts wondered to Charlie. How was she going to take it that he was seeing another woman? He smiled, recalling one of his teachers telling him he would have to learn how to balance his romantic life with his playing.

"Jamie, lad, listen here. The cello can be a very jealous mistress. Make sure whoever it is understands."

His thoughts return to Charlie, and his smile grows. She would probably throw that computer of hers at him when he told her that he belonged to Sophie!

I added a link to the Gold Rush story above.

I'm a bit behind with the archiving, I know. But I'm working on it, so bare with me, please.

And just so you don't think D.o.C. has taken another leave of absence, (*grin*) she will be doing most of her duties during the archiving for awhile. But just for a little while.

At the end of that last post: "How have I managed to say so much." Not "manage."

"Ask."

Mary Anne's last word hangs in the air as she stares into the fire. Though she cannot guess the exact form it will take, she knows well enough what Brandon is about to say.

A short silence. Brandon's arms about her. A hesitant breath from him, as though he debates whether to pursue the matter after all.

And then: "Do you not trust me, Mary Anne?"

It must be the heat from the fire that stings her eyes. "Of course I do!"

"No, no; you misunderstand." Brandon turns her in his arms to face him. "When I speak of trust . . . you know, I hope, that I strive to keep my word. To behave honourably. All of this." Mary Anne nods, and after a short pause to gather his thoughts, Brandon presses on. "But . . . well, perhaps you recall something you said to me back at the Safehouse, after . . ." His voice trails off. Yes. After The Interrogator's aborted trial. After the release of her worst self. Her recovery at Safehouse #3. Mary Anne glances away, but there is no concealing of her expression now. "You said, Mary Anne, that you were learning to trust my love for you."

"And so I was--so I am."

"Yet you seem, somehow, to feel that I shall cease to love you, if you make a mistake. That you must continually earn that love."

"Christopher--" falters Mary Anne miserably, turning about as if to pull free of his arms. But it is a halfhearted effort, and even if it were not, she stands no chance of succeeding. The clasp of his arms about her, though gentle, is quite firm; he has no intention of releasing her at the moment, and Mary Anne gives up the attempt, settling against him once more.

She knows he speaks the truth. This is a dark place in her heart, one she hides away and can hardly explain, even to herself. How, then, to explain it to another?

"Tell me, my dearest. Have I done something to make you feel--"

"No, sir; it isn't you." If only I can keep from crying again! Mary Anne raises one hand and taps it gently against her chest, over her heart. "I suppose it's because I don't see myself the way you do--I can't. I know what it's like--" Another tap, against her heart. "--to live with what's in here, and don't forget that I've had a closer look at the worst of it than most people ever have. I know what I'm really like."

Brandon's hand captures hers. "No, you do not! Not if you think that what happened with the machine was truly yourself. All of that was not you, Mary Anne; you must know that! Some of it was HIM. HIS thoughts and feelings--"

"But not all of it!" snaps Mary Anne, her voice rising.

Brandon ignores her tone. "No, perhaps not all of it. But can you not see your own goodness as well?"

Her eyebrow goes up. "Are you always aware of your goodness, Christopher? What happens in your heart, when you hear me say that you are the best man I've ever known?"

"Mary Anne--" protests Brandon.

"There; you see? It's like cats to baths, getting you to recognize your own virtues." Mary Anne shakes her head, and Brandon can see the beginnings of a smile. "Remember when we talked at the Safehouse, and you were afraid that you had been too severe with me at times? And it was completely the other way around. Too severe?" She laughs. "Any other man would never have been so patient. No wonder I feel that I don't deserve you." A brief silence. "I . . . I think it makes me afraid of losing you. That you're too good for me, and that I don't deserve such love."

There it is, Christopher. I hope you're happy now. How, how, have I managed to say so much without crying myself sick? But maybe it was good to say it, and not let it hide in the dark any longer . . . most things need light to flourish, but some things grow in the dark . . .

Colin probed for a minute or two, his journalist's instinct trying to figure out the reason she was declining the work. But Grace was deft at diverting his questions. Giving her a look of real regret, Colin rose to leave, pocketing her list of names and passing his card in return.

After Colin left, Grace leaned back in her chair, rueful. But would she choose work for the mighty Hansbank over Lukas? Never. So forget about it and get back to work for a change. But she was intrigued. Out of curiosity, she spent a half hour on the Internet, downloading current trading information about the Hansbank. Its publicly reported financial statements added up to spectacularly successful and well-run company. Even with the roller coaster ups and downs of the U.S. stock markets over the last year or so, the Hansbank was a strong, steady performer. But over the last several weeks, the steady upward progress of the bank had turned erratic. The charts showed wild price fluctuations in the smaller overseas markets. She dug a little deeper and found that sales of large blocks of Hansbank stock on overseas markets like Brussels and Hong Kong had driven down the price of the stock six or seven times over the last several weeks. This pattern was completely out of whack with the Hansbank's typically steady performance. That's about the same amount of time since Barnacle. . . the accident. . . she mused, then forcibly pushed those memories from her mind and focused on the Hansbank and the trading reports in front of her.

Grace smelled a rat. In her experience, these large sales looked like manipulation. Someone was trying to drive down the price of Hansbank stock. Someone who owned a lot of it and wanted to monkey with the market. The manipulator would make millions by selling Hansbank stock short, but this was dangerous for everyone else. As Hart had unfortunately demonstrated with his own scheme, when the Hansbank sneezed, world markets caught a cold. A crash of the Hansbank could have a serious ripple effect on other stocks, perhaps as damaging as the Black Monday panic of 1987 that had triggered a recesion in the U.S. She fumbled for Colin Molyneux's business card and reached for the phone. Wait, wait, she cautioned herself. They know more than you do. The Hansbank has got to be on top of this. And this is not what they asked you about. The Hansbank does not need some Westwood meddler -- who just told them she was conflicted out of working for them -- to point this out. She settled for printing a stack of stock reports, which she shoved into her bulging briefcase. She was running late; Hart was expected back from one of his unexplained trips in less than an hour. She was looking forward to surprising him by being home before he was, for a change. She could look at this Hansbank material later, if at all.

While Andrea applies makeup to her bruised cheeks, Dot brushes her hair using long, slow strokes.

Andrea shuts her eyes to intensify the pleasant sensation of the gentle touch. She sits quietly as tears escape her closed lids and roll down her heavily made up cheeks.

Looking at Andrea's reflection in the mirror, Dot observes the tears and recognizes them as some kind of emotional release. Placing her empty hand lightly on Andrea's shoulder, she leans down to speak softly at her ear. "Do you want me to stop?"

Andrea opens her eyes and gazes in the mirror. She sees that Dot's face is beside her own. Each woman makes eye contact with the other's reflection.