Until that moment she had been able to pretend that the minister was present to raise the family's spirits and that the doctor was taking her father's pulse as he held his wrist. Even when the two men stood in front of her, professional sympathy brimming in their eyes, she expected to be told that the situation was grave or serious or even critical. But their words had flowed over her in a meaningless stream until she caught sight of the guard averting his head.

The minister walked around her to her brothers who huddled together in grief, their sobs hushed and frightened. She turned around slowly. The nurse was carefully covering her patient's body with a sheet, unfolding it from the foot of the bed until it covered the face and reached the headboard. The doctor stood beside her, waiting to answer her questions but tapping his foot and running his stethoscope through his fingers again and again. The room was full of people and empty at the same time.

How could one man have become so indispensable to her well being in a few short months that a room without him in it was desolate and barren? She was not sure of the answer but there was no denying the reality.

Sam walked to the window and stared at the town below. People walked about their business, gilded by the setting sun, with no notion of what was happening in a room above their heads. It seemed incredible. The scene blurred suddenly as tears overflowed her eyes.

The nurse was beside her, coaxing her back into the room with quiet, bracing smiles. Liam was upright beside his brothers, now the man of the family in truth. Niall and Conn sobbed oblivious on the sofa. The minister was standing by the bed, head bowed and hands clasped in prayer. The doctor was gone.

A movement in the doorway caught her eye. Her heart leapt in hope before she recognized the lawyer who'd attended her wedding – was it only that morning? Melvin Collins stepped into the room then halted, his eyes drawn to the bed. He retreated half a step into the hall, then scanned the room until he saw her. His attitude was one of respectful urgency.

Sam followed him. They stood in front of a martial painting hanging at the top of the stairs with a clear view of anyone coming upon them from below or along the corridor.

"Mrs. Marston, I'm awfully sorry to be bringing you bad news at a time like this -" he began.

She suppressed a hysterical giggle.

"- but I'm afraid that Elliott is in some trouble." He paused, struggling for more words.

"Is he hurt? Or -" She couldn't say the word one more time today.

"No!" He reached out his hands and patted the air in front of him. "Not at all. But the interview at the chief constable's office didn't go very well and he's been arrested."

Sam closed her eyes. "What happened – No." She looked up and met the lawyer's worried stare forthrightly. "What happened isn't important. What do we do now?"

Collins took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. "Thank God. I was afraid of how you might take it." Then he smiled. "I need your signature on some bank papers. We're going to have to bribe his way out."

"Where are they?" She was proud of her coolness. It felt good to be doing something that would bring about results.

"Right here. Just sign at the bottom." He reached into his coat and pulled out three pages of thick parchment stock. As he watched her, he explained. "It takes a lot of money to buy a man out of jail and I didn't want to touch your bank balance. Too easy to verify. The sale of these bonds will cover everything nicely. I'll give the surplus to Elliott."

"We'll do it together. Where's the jail?" She was already walking down the hall to their room where her clothes had been transferred during the afternoon.

"Where's the - ? You can't go there!" The lawyer's jaw dropped open. He bounded after her. "Elliott would kill me if I let you go there."

"You're not letting me." Sam unlocked the door. The polished walnut of the large wardrobe shone warmly under the rays of the setting sun. She reached for her coat. "You can't stop me."

"Oh my God." Collins paced the rug behind her. Then he froze. "What's that for?"

"It's for shooting things." Sam lifted the gun out of the drawer and sighted down the barrel. Then she checked the chambers. Fully loaded. She slid it into her purse and checked the weight. With a nod she turned to her escort. "All right, I'm ready."

"Well I'm glad one of us is." Collins stepped in front of her as she swept to the door. "Look, Mrs. Marston -"

"Since it looks like we'll be working together on this, you might as well call me Sam." She waited for him to continue.

"Thank you. Look, Sam, jails are not the sort of place for women like you. Let me go back and take care of things." He eyed the set look of her jaw for a moment. "And with the greatest of respect, you shouldn't leave your family at a time like this." He stepped back quickly.

Sam inhaled deeply, held her breath for a moment then let it out. "Mr. Collins." She took a step forward. He immediately retreated again. "No one knows better than I do what my family needs. And right now, more than ever, they need my husband. And I am going to get him." She lifted her purse and dangled it in front of his eyes. "And I don't particularly care who I have to shoot to do it. Now stop wasting time and let's go."

She strode into the hall. Collins followed and watched glumly as she locked the door. "You're a bold woman, Sam. I don't know whether to congratulate Elliott or offer my condolences."

"Why thank you, Mr. Collins. That's quite a compliment. Remind me to say something nice about you sometime."

She recoiled at HIS touch, but HE held her firmly, the only barrier between the bare flesh of her arm and neck being the blanket which HE had provided. HE knelt beside her, pulling her into his arms, and cradling her gently to his chest. She stiffened at the contact, rebelling at the intimacy HE forced upon her, terrified at being held within his grasp. Therese was beyond caring about appearance, had no more strength to be brave or defiant, she was simply frightened and hurt. Of its own accord, her body began to tremble.

HE soothed her with HIS voice, the fingers of one hand stroking her bare arm softly, the other arm cradling her body to HIS chest. HE murmured to her quietly, HIS tone deep and soothing as HE spoke into her ear.

Therese closed her eyes against the onslaught of emotions evoked by HIS proximity. This simple action proved to be her undoing. Held as she was in this manner, HIS touch gentle and kind, HIS voice a liquid rumble, when she removed the visual impact of HIM with this simple action, her weary mind became confused, and altered her senses. Had this been HIS intent? was one of her last rational thoughts before she succumbed.

"This is the story of the Diamond Lady and the Highwayman of Blackridge."

Smiles all around the East Parlour.

"Blackridge," muses Giles. "That's not so far from Egdon."

"The Diamond Lady," murmurs Emilie, not as a question but simply because she likes the sound of it.

"Yes," Mary Anne continues. "She's known in this story as the Diamond Lady, not only because she was on her way to a ball and wearing a splendid diamond necklace, but also because she was very like a diamond herself, in some ways. "

"And," puts in Valmont, "her real name—" Thin smile over the absurd notion that such a story could be attended to as if it were true. "—was probably something quite unflattering."

"A woman with a sparkle to her." Resolutely ignoring Valmont. "Brilliant and sought-after . . . and a bit hard with it. Not hard- hearted, but very little made an impression on her. Strong, as a diamond is strong. Which is why she ignored the warnings of her friends and set out for this ball without male escort—only her coachman for company, and she wore her diamond necklace. It was a family heirloom, generations old. A perfect waterfall of diamonds around her neck . . . though they were not more lovely than the woman they adorned."

Mary Anne rarely has a chance to tell a story to such an appreciative audience, and she embellishes freely, enjoying how the Alliance personnel have quieted their talk of the upcoming manoeuvres with UNIT to listen with pleasure to a folktale and briefly forget their responsibilities. Even Hudson and Looey are smiling and attentive.

"As it fell out, she had to follow a lonely stretch of road, and one with a very bad reputation—-said to be a favourite haunt of brigands and rakehells of every description. And, of course . . ."

"Inevitably—-oof . . .!" Valmont is cut off in mid-mockery by a deft elbow planted right in his breadbasket.

Lis. "Shut up, Valmont, I want to hear this."

Mary Anne grins her thanks to Lis and goes on. "Of course, it was not long before she could tell, by the speed of the carriage and the crack of her coachman's whip, that they were being pursued. "

Tamsie shivers, but laughs a little, too. "And if I had the doing of it, I'd hide that necklace!"

"She thought of it," replies Mary Anne, "but then she was afraid that her gown would be torn from her in the search for valuables—"

Exaggerated exclamations of "ooooooo."

"—and so she left it as it was, until her coachman gave up, for the horses couldn't outrun the one in pursuit of them, and so he brought the carriage to a halt."

Unconsciously, Mary Anne is acting the parts with her body, sitting up straighter and summoning , with the lift of her chin, the proud refusal of the Diamond Lady to show any fear as the carriage door opens.

"He introduced himself . . ." Pause. " . . .as the Highwayman of Blackridge."

A chuckle from Venn.

"And of course, his eye fell at once upon her necklace. But then, a very strange thing happened. " Significant silence.

"Well," speaks up McCoy from her place in one of the window seats, "I guess I'll be the one to ask. What strange thing happened?"

Ripple of laughter through the room, as Mary Anne replies, "Thank you, Joanna! What strange thing happened, you ask?" Another pause, as her eyes sweep the gathering, teasing them with the buildup—and then, her voice drops to a dramatic near-whisper.

"He offered her . . . a choice."

Bank of New York? That's MY bank!

What if. . . what if. . . the Hansbank trades are not part of the sting, she wondered, playing devil's advocate. If so, were the massive trades an assault on the bank from the outside -- the Investors? -- or was it an insider with a deadly agenda and the means to pull it off? Banks could go rotten from the inside, too. Just today the mighty Bank of New York disclosed two senior executives are alleged to have used accounts at the bank to launder money for Russian mobsters. What a CEO doesn't know can hurt him, she thought ruefully, trying to imagine the desperate confusion -- and rage -- of the CEO of the Hansbank if these trades were not part of the sting. Hans Gruber. Interesting man. Equal to the challenge. . . if there was one. And there probably isn't. Would anyone as smart as Hans Gruber allow this to happen? Of course not. She smiled to herself, conclusion reached. Now it all adds up. The massive Hansbank trades must be part of the sting. In that case, she didn't blame Hart for keeping it to himself. She was happy for Hart's success, but a little sad for Colin, who was driving himself mercilessly trying to figure out a mystery that didn't exist.

But. . . two unexplainable, nagging doubts crept in, two pieces that stubbornly refused to fit into her neat puzzle. These trades were well hidden, better than the rest. If she hadn't already known how to read Abbott's paper trail, she would not have seen the connection. And the huge number of shares traded was impossible to understand. Plus, she chided herself, she was far from in the clear with the U.S. Attorney about her conversations with Colin. Grace tussled with those troublesome facts as she leaned back against one of the boxes of documents. Her cellular phone range, jolting her out of her concentration.

It was Hart. Back early and asking her to meet him at the airport. She jumped up and made copies of the most puzzling documents, then carefully resealed and stowed the boxes just as she had found them. Carefully locking the door behind her, she replaced the key where she had found it taped under the Hart's desk. Until she understood more, there was no way she was going to discuss this with Hart; more to the point, she did not relish confessing her snooping around Global Marketing. Just one more thing to keep from him, she told herself.

As she pulled out of the parking structure and swung into the crush of traffic heading south toward LAX, there was no reason she should have noticed the nondescript blue sedan parked on the other side of the street.

Sam laughed. "All right, I guess one more package won't make much difference."

The clerk began his descent, carefully balancing the box in one hand. By the time he reached the last rung, Conn was holding out his hands for the tin soldiers. He clutched the box to his chest and smiled at his sister.

Sam looked around the store. Shopping at Kavanagh's Emporium was a luxury the Flanagans had never been able to afford. She could not rid herself of the feeling that the elegant floor manager in his severe black coat would see past their newly-purchased attire and ask them to leave. But whenever she caught his eye he bowed and smiled, his manner an indication of the respect due to Mrs. Elliott Marston.

"Where's Elliott, Sam?" As if he'd read her mind, Niall looked up from examining his own purchases. "You said you left a note for him that we were coming here."

"I did. But you know, love, he's got very important business to take care of. I'm sure he'll be here soon." Sam bent over to admire the tin soldier Conn was holding up.

"But it's your wedding day." Niall frowned.

"Shut up, you little twerp! He'll be here when he can." Liam scowled in his most grown-up manner and folded his arms across his chest. "He told me before he left that he'd be back as soon as he could."

The most amazing event of a most amazing week was the total change in Liam's attitude to Elliott. From aggressive hostility to worshipful reverence, the transformation had been staggering. Sam wasn't sure she was comfortable with it but there was no denying that it made life easier.

And it was only to be expected that Liam would be grateful to the man who'd probably saved his life. Sam reached out and ruffled her brother's hair; he flushed and ducked away from her hand. He was still a boy even though he tried so hard to be the man of the family. She was glad he had ceded the position to Elliott who was better qualified to fill it.

"Well, if we've finished buying out the store, we should get back to the hotel." Sam watched in amusement as clerks swept in from all sides to pick up parcels and carry them to the waiting carriage. It would be very easy to get used to this treatment.

They were on the sidewalk outside the store watching Conn try to climb into the carriage without letting go of his tin soldiers when the hotel messenger boy found them. He ran up, breathless and panting, and collapsed against the carriage wheel.

"Oh Miss – I mean Mrs. Marston! Ye've got to come real quick!" He paused to suck in a lungful of air. "The nurse sent me. Yer pa – he's turned bad. Ye've got to come back now." His commission discharged, he sagged almost to the ground.

The boys froze and turned as one to stare at Sam. Conscious of their dependence and trying to stay calm herself, she took a deep breath. "Very well. Thank you very much for bringing the message." She turned back to her brothers. "You heard the message. Get in the carriage." They scrambled to obey. With a nod of thanks to the clerks and a word to the driver to take the exhausted messenger up beside him on the seat, she took her seat beside Conn.

"Now then," she began. "We know that Dad has been sick before and has always recovered. I want you to remember that."

Three pairs of large eyes stared back at her. Niall voiced the thoughts they all had. "But what if this time he doesn't?"

"Then we must pray that he is comfortable and not in pain." Sam swallowed hard. "Hey, the doctor will be with Dad by now. Let's not get scared until we know exactly what's happened. All right?"

"All right." Liam was staring out the window, blinking rapidly.

"Okay." Niall swept at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Mmmm." Conn had his thumb in his mouth again.

Sam closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, grateful for a delay of any length. She prayed that Elliott would be at the hotel when they got back. She didn't know how she'd hold up if he weren't there.

"I want a telegram sent to the Governor General. Immediately."

"Let's be rational about –"

"Then I want the Attorney General's office petitioned. I'm going to get that bastard disbarred."

"Elliott, I know you're upset. But –"

"Did you hear me? Disbarred!"

"Elliott, you're not listening to me. We've got to proceed carefully. Somebody very big is behind all of this."

Marston leaned against the hard brick wall, his arms folded and his eyes flashing fire. "I don't care who's behind it! They can't do this to me!"

"Well, I hate to point out the obvious but they have." Collins sighed and dropped his head on his chest. After a count of ten, he looked up again. "Look, you know better than this. You don't have the luxury right now of indulging in a tantrum. We're up against something really powerful and we've got to know more."

Marston took a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh. "You're right. I know that." He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a near whisper. "Do whatever you have to do. Spend whatever amount you have to. Just get me out of here." He paused for a moment. "And get word to Sam for me. She'll be worried."

Collins nodded. "I'll do that first thing." He rose to his feet quickly. "Just don't get into trouble when I'm gone." He picked up his briefcase and with a brisk nod turned away.

At the large door at the end of the hall he turned back. His client watched him from his cell, his knuckles white as he clutched the bars. Collins nodded again and waved. Marston nodded back and let go of the bars. The door clanged shut behind the lawyer.

As he walked down the wooden sidewalk, Collins interrupted his plans to wonder about the unknown man who would dare arrange for Elliott Marston to be arrested and jailed for murder. And he felt very sorry for that unknown man.

Because he was going to be in for a nasty surprise.

In later times, Mary Anne will always think that the early dinner prepared for this occasion would be a cheerless affair, if not for the presence of Diggory Venn. Why, after all, should the assembled company be cheerful? Apprehension and worry and exchanges of the latest rumours generally bring out the worst in people . . . but much to Mary Anne's surprise, Venn had taken charge as neatly and tactfully as he had in the parlour when he had insisted on building the fire. Seeing that Brandon and Sifuentes had not returned from their search for Dev, he had exerted his efforts to gather the anxious guests in the East Parlour, along with the various Alliance personnel who have stopped in for a quick bite, into one congenial group--and he has made quite a success of it; attending to guests at the Manor House has cultivated in him an amiable courtesy and an ease of temperament that makes everyone feel much better, though few of them could say exactly why. Venn is simply one of those people whose very presence announces that everything is going to be fine. Perhaps not right away--but in the end. Perhaps very soon. You'll see.

Silently, Mary Anne blesses Venn for his exertions, for they ease the strain on her considerably. She had just had time to neaten herself a little for dinner, but had decided not to "dress up" in her customary fashion. This turns out to have been a good choice, for few of her guests have the heart for a formal appearance at the moment, and it is becoming obvious that some of them did not expect to make such a long stay at Delaford. Difficult, to live out of a suitcase for extended periods.

All except Valmont, of course, who is as splendidly turned out as if he expected to make an appearance at Versailles, but that is typical of him on any occasion. However, Mary Anne cannot help smiling to herself over his presence, for Lis is at his side and looks as if she is prepared to settle him, good and proper, if he indulges so much as one sneer. She is terribly worried about what shall become of Claudia and is in no mood tonight for the foibles of the Vicomte.

Thanks to Venn, dinner passes in relative harmony, and Mary Anne takes the opportunity to spend time with Thomasin, and to get to know Giles and Emilie a bit better. As the evening progresses, their talk of the comings and goings in Egdon settles into a discussion of The Highwayman, for Mary Anne is eager to hear Tamsie's own account of the production as well, and she does hear a few things from that sweet woman-- some glowing commentary on Venn's interpretation of his role--that she suspects would make that worthy man blush reddle-crimson if he were not on the other side of the room, deep in discussion with Looey and Hudson about the UNIT movements and offering his help for whatever needs to be done in the precincts of Delaford.

Soon, the discussion turns to the subject of highwaymen in general, since the West Wood has such a foul reputation on that score--and from there, to historical accounts, rumours and legends . . . and stories.

And that is how Mary Anne, for the entertainment of Tamsie, Emilie, and Giles-- and soon for the entire gathering-- find herself recounting an old tale she has heard, yet another encounter between a highwayman and a brave, spirited lady . . .

"You can be frank now, Melvin. Tell me what the problem is." Marston jumped into the road to avoid a woman heavily burdened with parcels who insisted on walking down the middle of the sidewalk.

"Well, I'm not sure that I – Oomph!" Collins clutched his ribs. "Sorry, ma'am, I didn't see you swing that parcel. My fault entirely. – I'm not sure that I understand it myself. But the constable was quite insistent that you come in to answer more questions."

"Ches Watters was an insignificant thug." Marston frowned. "Did he have important friends who owed him favors?"

"I'd never heard of him. But I'm just a shy company lawyer," Collins ignored his client's snort of derision. "And I don't move in exalted circles where important friends gather."

The police office took up an entire city block, mostly to accommodate the jail cells in the back half of the building. Marston and Collins walked through the heavy barred doors and introduced themselves to the officer at the front desk. He ran a thick stubby finger down a penciled list in front of him and nodded. A junior officer came forward to escort them down the hall to the chief constable's office.

The room was not crowded: the chief constable sat behind his desk and a prosperous-looking man in a fashionable suit occupied an upholstered leather chair for visitors. Pushed against the wall under the windows was an old table that served as working desk and file cabinet for the senior officers of the force.

The office's owner looked up. "Hello, Mr. Marston. We're grateful that you could come." He looked around his guests at their escort. "Higgins, get Mr. Marston a chair. Many congratulations on your nuptials, sir."

The officer brought forward a hard wooden chair and bowed himself out of the room. Marston sat down. Collins perched on the windowsill behind him. "Thank you, sir. You can appreciate my wish to get this interview over with."

The chief constable coughed apologetically. "Well, Mr. Marston, as far as the force is concerned, you've answered all our questions just fine. But Mr. Buttershaw here, well, maybe I better let him tell it."

Marston stared. "Buttershaw?"

"Accept my sincere congratulations on this happy day, Mr. Marston." The prosperous-looking man nodded and held out his hand. "Robert Buttershaw, sir, of Wilson, Tait and Buttershaw. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

Marston shook hands with the lawyer who was known throughout the entire state for his political ambitions, his wealth and his high social standing. Buttershaw's smile didn't reach his eyes. "My client is very interested in knowing more about this unfortunate incident."

"What unfortunate incident?" Marston asked.

"The death of Ches Watters, sir." Buttershaw responded, his smile disappearing.

"Interesting description." Marston reached into his coat for a cigar and bit off the end. "I'm intrigued, Mr. Buttershaw. Who is your client?"

"I'm not at liberty to say." Buttershaw turned to the chief constable. "Very well, George, you can get out now."

"Well, Mr. Buttershaw, you see, it's my office and I really should - I mean it is still a police matter…" The chief constable's voice trailed off unhappily under the lawyer's stare. "Call me if you need me." He stood up, grabbed an armful of paper and skittered out the door.

Buttershaw leaned back in his chair. "Now we can talk."

Marston and Collins exchanged looks. "About what?" Marston asked.

"About the death of Ches Watters and your incredible story to the police." Buttershaw put his hands behind his head and chuckled. "Impressing the little woman, were you?"

Marston took a deep pull on his cigar. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your contention that Mr. Watters seized your fiancee's brother and attempted to abduct him is clearly fantastic, Mr. Marston. I have several witnesses who can attest to Mr. Watters's conduct yesterday." Buttershaw was smiling again. "I'm afraid their version differs significantly from yours."

"The stablehands who were present can verify," Collins stepped away from the windowsill. "That Mr. Marston was defending himself. Mr. Watters drew first."

"I'm afraid, sir, you are incorrect. The witnesses say Mr. Watters never had a chance to pull his gun out. They also say that he never laid a hand on the boy." Buttershaw reached down beside his chair and lifted a leather case to his lap. After a moment's search, he pulled out a sheaf of papers. "Yes, here we are. You can see for yourself." He offered the papers to Collins.

The younger lawyer sifted through them and handed them to his client. "Why do you have these papers, Mr. Buttershaw? Are they not police documents?"

Marston paused in his perusal and waited for the answer.

"Mr. Collins, I am well known here in the police offices as a – friend, shall we say? – of justice. I assure you I can be trusted with sensitive documents." Buttershaw seemed highly amused.

"Mr. Buttershaw. I am a newly married man. I have left my wedding luncheon to come here." Marston leaned forward. "I would like to get out of here before my first anniversary comes up. What do you want?"

"I do like working with businessmen, Mr. Marston. They know how to get to the point." Buttershaw hitched his chair ahead and mimicked Marston's stance. "Very well. I want you to retract your story. You drew first in the honestly mistaken belief that you were in danger. You will not be charged with murder. I guarantee it."

Marston stared. "Go to hell."

"Not during office hours. It wouldn't be billable." Buttershaw sighed. "Look, Marston, you're not the only one who has better things to do with his time today. Let's call George back in here, get your statement down on paper and we can both get on with our lives."

"I will not change my statement. Watters tried to abduct my wife's brother, he drew first and I reacted." Marston tossed his cigar butt away. His voice was chilled steel.

"Marston, I'm really sorry to hear you say that." Buttershaw's expression did not change. "And you will be, too; that I can promise you."

But Colin was right. The documents listed Abbott Merisel, and Global Marketing, as the brokers on a number of sales of huge lots of Hansbank stock. Jotting down quick figures, she estimated that tens of millions of Hansbank shares had been sold through Global Marketing. There must be something wrong with the number of shares on the transaction reports. Either that, or my math is worse than usual. According to the Hansbank's public reports, there weren't even this many shares outstanding and available to be traded, even if every share changed hands, which was of course impossible. The bank's largest shareholder and chairman, Hans Gruber, had reported to the Securities and Exchange Commission that he had sold no shares during this time. It didn't add up.

Grace expelled a heavy sigh and tried not to panic. OK, she told herself, it looks bad, it looks like Global Marketing is part of the scheme to dump Hansbank shares. If that's true, is Lukas back to his old tricks? A shattering possibility. But. . . don't jump to conclusions. This is a sting, remember. Nothing is as it appears to be. And you don't know everything about the sting anyway -- Lukas and MacGregor would be stupid to tell you all the details. Perhaps Lukas and Abbott are drawing the Investors into a trap with these large Hansbank sales. . . If so, they had succeeded. But at what price to the Hansbank? The sales were driving down the price of the bank's stock to near-record lows in the middle of a roaring bull market, and, as Colin had told her in confidence, shortly before the Hansbank intended to float another public offering of stock to raise much-needed capital for expansion.

But. . . wouldn't Hart have told her about such a coup? Maybe. And maybe not. It was, after all, the purpose of the sting to snare the Investors. To catch them at their Hansbank game would be sweet revenge for the government, for Hart, and for Hans Gruber, too. She froze for a moment. For all I know, Hans Gruber could be part of the sting! He has been known to take a personal interest in . . . revenge. This is probably why MacGregor didn't want me talking to the Hansbank about this. For that matter, Colin might be equally in the dark and on an unwitting wild goose chase to cover Mr. Gruber's involvement. Grace knew that the whole truth seldom filtered down to worker bees like Colin and herself, while the real players played a double game.

Even so, the huge number of shares traded troubled her. The sting notwithstanding, Colin and the Hansbank management must be on the verge of panic. Seesaw trades like these not only drove the stock price down and threatened to jeopardize the bank's public stock offering, but also eroded legitimate investors' confidence. And not just investors. . . the real currency of any bank is the confidence of its customers; even if the bank didn't crash because of these massive trades, the instability and speculation created by the trades were enough to give any client pause. Would Hans Gruber take such a risk just to help snare the Investors?

Elliott and Sam Marston, newly united under the laws of God and Western Australia, obeyed the injunction. Sam Flanagan watched with approval from his bed. Niall and Conn stood on either side of their father, the looks on their faces expressing their view of such public behavior. Liam watched stoically from his position as best man.

"Thank you, Reverend." Marston stepped back from his wife. "A very nice ceremony." He reached up to the mantelpiece for the bottle of specially ordered champagne. With a flourish, he pulled the cork. As if released from a spell, everyone relaxed and began talking.

Sam flushed with happiness and clutched her flowers tighter. The nurse leaned over the bed and checked Flanagan's pulse, ignoring his efforts to shake her off as he spoke to the minister. Melvin Collins, the lawyer, made conversation with an uncomfortable Liam whose collar seemed to be strangling him.

Marston poured for all the adults, gave Liam a small portion in his glass and ignored the angelic curiosity of his youngest brothers-in-law.

The nurse frowned as he handed a glass to her patient. "Very well, sir, as it's a special occasion. But mind! Only one." Marston nodded meekly and Flanagan winked at him.

The buzz of conversation grew louder. The hotel manager and two waiters slipped into the room and began setting the table for luncheon. The boys watched with wide eyes as the food was brought in.

Collins cornered Marston as he sipped his drink beside Sam. "We really have to go now, Elliott. It shouldn't take too long."

Marston nodded and reached for his wife's hand. She looked up at him with a ready smile. "Do you think you can handle your brothers for the space of one lunch? I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You think you're the only one who can keep them in line?" Sam's smile widened. "I'll have you know, sir, that I managed this herd for years before you came along."

Marston pulled her close for a quick hug and whispered into her ear. "I'll be back soon." She kissed him in response.

He pulled away while he still could. "All right, Melvin, let's go."

"--and it was as much's ever I could do, to wheedle Tamsie to take the part!" laughs Diggory. "In th'end, it was only on account of so many new faces in Egdon, that she played the Lady. You know--" His right eyelid flutters briefly in a wink. "-- those as hadn't been about last year, to see you and the Colonel!"

Mary Anne leans forward eagerly. "So she did take the part, then! How was she?" An affectionate grin. "Of course, I'm not asking an impartial observer, am I?"

"No that you're not! But after we talked her into it, see--me, and Miss Emilie--"

"Don't tell me, let me guess. You'd have had to persuade Emilie to do it, if Tamsie hadn't."

"You've hit it. And Giles to the part of Th' Highwayman, and I was NOT letting it pass by me, not after I had seen what a merry time you and the Colonel had with it!"

"But how did Tamsie do? Did she get over being nervous?"

"Did she, now! She was quaking and fluttering till after we got her up in that beautiful gown, and th'jewels--for all that they are just paste ones--with her painted fan and all the gear and tackle and trim (homage). Then . . ."

Mary Anne, wide- eyed. "Then?"

"It's as if it went to her head, or something! The toast of Egdon she'll be now, Mary Anne; I'll wager they'll be pledging her at th' Quiet Woman this very minute. She was so fine, so full of pride and spirit, a right firebrand she was. As if The Lady had taken her over." Gentle laughter. "I didn't recognize my shy Tamsie, I'll take oath I didn't."

Mary Anne says nothing at first, knowing how the strength of the shy and gentle and softly-spoken can appear at odd moments, to the general bedazzlement of bystanders. Then, a mischievous smile at Diggory. "I'll bet she wasn't the only one who was, ah, taken over by the role."

Venn flushes a little, but returns her smile good-naturedly. "No, I--had a fine time of it as well."

Mary Anne's eyes glint wickedly. "What about stage business? Did you have to tie her hands, or was the blindfold enough?"

Diggory returns mischief for mischief. "She's not the fighter you are, Missus Brandon." Then, laughing: "She had a ribbon wound through her curls, just as you had th' cord in yours, but I was thinking as how I couldn't get it loose wi'out pulling out every blessed pin. So there the cord was, and there it stayed! The Lady struggled fair and pretty, but was no match for--" Venn strikes a pose in his chair. "--the strength of The Highwayman!"

Mary Anne in rocking back and forth with laughter, and it is some little while before she regains enough composure to reminisce, "Do you know, Diggory, when the Colonel took the silk cord out of my hair to tie my hands, I was ready to swear it was you. He said, Excuse th'liberty, Miss--"

Venn chuckles at Mary Anne's attempt to render Brandon's baritone and the Egdon accent, simultaneously.

"--and it sounded just like you. I didn't have any idea until the end, when he held me and . . . kissed me."

Mary Anne flushes, even now, to remember that moment. Kindly, Venn supplies more details of the recent pageant to allow her to regain her composure. "You were right about the part taking me, as well. A rum thing. I felt brave--"

Well, Diggs, you certainly don't lack for courage, anyway . . .

"--and . . . and handsome."

Venn peers hastily at Mary Anne as if wondering whether she will laugh. Which she does not. She does smile, but there is no mockery in it. "Well, you are a fine figure of a man, Mister Venn. I thought you knew."

"Here, now; none of that 'Mister Venn' please!"

Hmmmmm. "Fine figure of a man" hardly says it at all. Venn is, perhaps, less striking than, say, Hans Gruber--though many men would suffer by that standard of comparison. And perhaps he does not have that bearing of authority that marks Colonel Brandon. But with those shoulders as wide as barn doors, and that breadth of chest . . .

They probably had to alter the costume to fit him!

This thought of changing the costume reminds Mary Anne that soon it will be time for dinner, though whether she will have time to "dress up" for it--or even the inclination to do so--is another matter.

"It's almost time, Diggory. Will you excuse me while I go and attend to a few things? I'll see you at dinner. In the East Parlour, nothing formal. And when you go to bring Tamsie down, tell her I'm looking forward to a talk with her as well . . ."

Still stroking the dog, Running Bear eased his long, coiled leg muscles. He remained wary but felt the need to spring away was past. Dog had rolled into complete relaxation but he could never allow himself to do so.

Claire had read a good many faces over the years. Though guarded, the coffee colored eyes that held hers were full of honesty and intelligence. She would take that slight twitch of his cheek for a smile.

His eyes met hers briefly in the mirror she held in her hand. "There's no point in saying. No absolution you can give this time." The silence lengthened between them. "How does Claire seem? Stronger?"

Dana accepted the apparent change of subject for the time being. "Yes, she's improving daily. Why?"

"We need to move on, the winter isn't going to wait for us."

"Who can possibly guide us now? We've got to go back to the fort."

"I'll see myself in."

Of course she had been informed when Colin had entered the front gate, so his ring at the main door was altogether expected. What she didn't expect was how happy she was to see him.

She let him hug her, and held onto him for an extra second or two. He saw that her bags were packed; she was ready to go. He was standing here, inside her door . . .

"You waited for me." She wore a still snug-fitting slip dress of rose colour underneath a chiffon "cage"-- a looser overdress of dark blue chiffon, patterned irregularly with tiny rose clusters. The effect: moving shades of purple and violet, perhaps mysterious but far from dark. Her neck was unadorned, and her earrings looked like a pair which belonged to another time--which, having come from the Egdon Celebration--were quite that. They hung low, pointing towards the thin straps on her shoulders, and below, her squared neckline, devoid of any distraction, but not without decided interest.

"I was on the phone, trying to get some answers." He mocked a pout, but she could see he felt a real slight. Colin was unpredictable this way--shrewd, often prickly and casually vindictive to many, then charmingly amenable and even vaguely sensitive. True, his softer side was exposed more often to women.

The man was not stupid.

She relented a bit. "I do need your help, actually. I've been trying to find out what the status of the hospital is--and of--the cottage at Egdon." They sat on the sofa, close to one another.

"So that's where you're going. Then to Delaford?"

"Well, if the cottage reconstruction isn't finished, I'll have to go straight to Egdon." What was that--"Colin," she asked, wrinkling her small nose, "have you really been fishing?"

Wiping his hands on his grey slacks, Colin managed a quarter laugh. "Business." He lowered his voice out of habit. "The cottage is finished. I wasn't supposed to tell you--though Hans never said I couldn't answer a direct question." He was used to splitting hairs.

"I'm putting you in the middle. I can't help that. So, is the maternity wing complete?"

"It should meet your *short-term* needs." Renie nodded. "You're going to leave him a note, or have me tell him you've gone?"

"I don't know--what do you think? If I tell him, his protective side goes into overdrive. And I go nowhere. But--Hans has been through a great deal because of me--and I don't want to stress him out any further. Especially now. "

"You mean with the baby."

"I mean, with the stock sales."

Colin would have rubbed his forehead, but Renie had taken both his hands in hers.

"No, Hans would never tell me much--for my protection. But I've put a lot together from online data. I'm no securities expert, but you might be surprised what's there. I don't want Hans to think I've been worrying . . ."

Colin rose and walked to the long shuttered windows, thrown open. He had a few seconds to decide what to tell Renie about the Investors.

She stopped him. "It's all right, you don't have to tell me anything. Then you have 'deniability'--"

He could have kissed her.

"--only tell me, is the Hansbank going under from inside somewhere? The last call was too close for comfort."

Not a muscle flinched. Not a twitch twitched. Grace under fire, Colin returned to the sofa, completely in control. "Nothing I can't handle." He grinned, and she had to smile. What an artist . . . as good as Ed, in his way. "Really, Hans is in good hands. Now--if you're going, I'd better call ahead and see to having the cottage in order for your arrival. And I'll have a Hansjet ready by the time you are. Who's going with you? Some sort of nurse?"

She shook her head, her long hair shimmering against the dark blue chiffon. "The hospital should do--and Tamsie will be nearby. Besides, Venn will look after me like ten mother hens. Tell Hans not to worry. "

Colin shot her a glare. "No fires this time?"

"No fires. Valmont is not in Egdon. Shall I promise to be good?" Her twinkling green-specked eyes.

"Pleeeeease don't." If Hans could deny her nothing, how could he be made of stricter stuff? He kissed her gently on her right cheek. She wore perfume, for her trip. He didn't know it was Christian Dior, but it was . . . working. "Anything else?"

"I'd like to borrow a laptop--and modem, and anything else I need for web and e-mail access while in Egdon."

"You're going to e-mail Hans that you've left!!"

Now she took a turn kissing Colin on *his* cheek. "It'll be romantic--like sending notes."

"Send me one--for my funeral. I mean, my lunch with Hans."

"Colin, you're a decent man, in spite of yourself. How are your daughters?"

"Barely speaking to me." He shrugged. "Better for them. I'm a lousy father."

Renie hugged him, hard. "You're a great friend. Look after Hans." He pulled halfway from her, and looked seriously into her eyes, locking his concern and genuine care into his own. "Watch out for HIM. I know you wouldn't try to go to HIM, but HE may find you. And if anything happens to you, Hans doesn't need to kill me. "

Colin wanted to kiss her--on the mouth--she felt his electricty. They both let it pass.

Ten minutes later, she had the computer contents of Colin's car, and he climbed in. She shut the door of the black Porsche, and motioned for him to open his window.

He spoke first. "Give Claudia my love or my scorn, as the case requires."

"Love, then," answered Renie. "misgiuded sometimes, but love all the same, if you know what I mean."

He glanced at his watch. Almost lunchtime. Now to Hans . . .

She could still hear Colin's voice, before he closed the automatic car window. "One of these days I'm going to drop all the balls.

She had answered without hesitation. "I seem to function perfectly well without any."

"It was self-defence. He drew first." Elliott Marston waved his cigar in the air, ash cascading to the carpet. "Everyone saw it." He sounded bored with the subject.

Night breezes lifted the curtains and cooled the hotel room. The candlelight flickered on the remains of a private dinner. Three people sat around the table: one nervous, the second calm, the third a lawyer and therefore impervious to human emotion.

The nervous one was Sam Flanagan. She pleated her napkin on her lap, pulled it smooth again, and then repeated the process. Occasionally she lifted her eyes to glance at the man sitting beside her.

Elliott Marston, the man she loved. Fiance. Wealthy rancher. Astute businessman.

She suddenly pulled the napkin taut.

Cold-blooded killer.

"Melvin, it can't be that difficult. There were plenty of witnesses." Marston tossed the cigar butt into the fireplace. "No one else did anything to stop him when he grabbed the boy."

She had to cling to that thought. Elliott had saved Liam. No one else had. Certainly she hadn't. Her brother might be dead now if it weren't for Elliott.

The man she was going to marry. The man she thought she knew.

The napkin ripped.

"Are you alright, my dear?" Marston reached over and picked up her hand.

"I'm fine." She was proud of the smile she gave him.

He accepted it, squeezing her fingers tenderly. Collins coughed to regain his attention.

"You'll have to come to the constable's office tomorrow morning." The lawyer began to scribble notes in his tablet. "Of course there's no possibility that you'll have to go to jail but it wouldn't hurt to be helpful to the authorities."

"Out of the question." Marston pulled Sam's hand to the tabletop. "We're getting married tomorrow morning. It will have to be after the luncheon."

Tomorrow morning. In twelve hours time she would be married. A lifelong commitment.

She stood up so quickly the two men had no time to rise. "I'm just going to check on Dad and the boys. It's been an exciting day for them." She was through the door before they could respond.

In the hallway she stopped and rested against the wall. The velvet wallpaper was smooth under her hand. This was ridiculous. Her own father was a former gunman. But somehow it was different. She knew her father regretted those early years, when life was a casual thing and death a constant presence.

A man sat in a chair by the door at the end of the hall, his chair tilted back and a look of boredom on his face. He jerked his head around at the sound of her approach.

"Evening, Miss Flanagan." He touched his hat respectfully. "He ate his dinner a couple of hours ago and Nurse said he was in a good mood."

"Thank you. I just want to look in before I go to bed." She smiled and reached for the door handle.

The room was swathed in gloom, the only illumination the embers in the hearth. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps. Even so, the man in the bed opened his eyes.

"Well, Dad, no use creeping up on you." She smiled tenderly, reaching out to stroke the covers.

"No use…at all." He examined her carefully. The silence stretched between them. "And no use…hiding things from me. What's…wrong?"

"Oh, just wedding jitters, I guess." She sat down on the side of the bed. "Don't all brides get them?"

"Not…sure. Always…on the other…side of the issue…myself." His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. "Your mother… wasn't."

"No?"

"No. She was…pretty calm. Said it was…a new start for… both of us." He was looking at her but seeing the past. His eyes clouded. "I wish…we'd had…more time. But I was stupid back then." He returned to the present and regarded her solemnly. "She always…believed in me. I loved her for it."

"Dad –" Her voice faltered. A memory of her mother came to her, sewing the arm on her doll, humming a song under her breath. What were his memories?

"This business today…has you scared. I can…see it." He licked his lips and puffed for breath. "Marston's…not like me. I killed…God forgive me…sometimes for…nothing better… than sport. Your man…killed for…something better." His head fell back and his eyes closed.

"Yes, dad. I know." She got up and smoothed down the sheet. "Go to sleep now. Tomorrow you have to give away the bride."

He didn't answer. His chest rose and fell with his even breath.

Sam walked to the fireplace and looked at the embers. New starts could be frightening things but she'd faced frightening things before. And she'd survived.

What I'd give right now for long hair, long enough to require hairpins, she thought to herself, confident she could jimmy the lock. Maybe the key's around anyway. It's not like Hart to be so sloppy, but it can't hurt to look. She sat down at Hart's big desk and tried each of the drawers. Locked. On impulse, she slid a hand under the desktop, blindly feeling her way along the unfinished wood. There, in a far corner. . . she knelt down to free a single key taped to the underside of the desk. Too bad I'll never go so far as to kid Lukas about this B-movie bit of business, she chuckled as she opened the door to the small office.

Paydirt. There on the floor were six boxes from the last set she and Hart had reviewed, stacked neatly. The marks on the outside of the boxes were gibberish to her. She broke the tape on the first box and settled comfortably on the floor to read the trade confirmations and correspondence, all of it seemingly from the desk of Abbott Merisel and concerning transactions on the Hong Kong and Brussels markets. Odd, she thought, she hadn't seen these boxes before. Hart must have reviewed them. But it was strange that he wouldn't have mentioned a gold mine of evidence like this, sheafs of documents that proved the Investors were using Abbott Merisel to buy and sell the stock of dozens of publicly traded companies.

"Yes." Colin's declarative voice, seeming to address the car dashboard, as the palm trees give way, and the freeway drive takes over.

"Hello Colin. I understand you've inked yourself into my husband's luncheon plans--are you making this anything like a habit?"

"Sorry--how are you feeling? Are you swimming much? I know I should come over and say hello."

"Yes, you should, and I'm in fine shape. Where are you? I can barely hear you."

"Been fishing." Colin reaches for a pistachio nut from the bag sitting between the front seats.

"Is that why so many journalists smell?" Colin smiles at Renie's voice--he really should see her. He cracks the pistachio nut open in his right hand, but holds onto its meat in his fingers. She wants something. Even her pause is pregnant. "Colin, the break-in at the clinic. The faked test results. It was Claudia." She pauses again. "Did you know?"

"Yes." A cherry red Cobra, about to cut him off, thinks better of it. As he watches it fall back into the middle lane, he sees a blue mid-size car he could swear was at the pier.

Cut to: The Gruber home, downstairs. Two suitcases, packed. One cell phone, in use.

"I think Claudia--and a woman named Therese, are in trouble. I know you and Hans are busy working on the financial curiosities--"

"Renie, this isn't the place--"

"--or time, I know. But I'm leaving and--"

"Hans may need you now, though he would never say so. More than your friends. Where are your priorities?"

Renie stares at the suitcases. She has tried, in her way, to walk the line between acceptance of life's limitations, and seizing its chances. To live and love fully, to anticipate the future and remember the past. To see clearly life's choices, and meet its challenges. In other words, to do what each and every human being does, each day, until a life has been built.

She searches the subtle pattern on the suitcases as if the answers are written there.

"I'm coming over," clips Colin, the nutmeat flying into his mouth, and his back teeth crunching it into a fine salty paste. Click. Immediately, Colin dials up Bruno. "Tell Hans it'll have to be a late lunch," he throws Porsche's stick shift into fifth gear, "please."

Click.

Slowly, in contrast to the velocity of his vehicle, Colin pages through his picture book of the opposite sex. Grace, in her baseball hat. Claudia, in her thigh high boots. And Renie, in . . .

Women, sighs Colin, and with such thoughts it is no wonder that the blue mid-size car is entirely forgotten.

"You can stop treating me like glass, you know. "

The brush stopped in mid-air, paused for a long intake of breath, then continued its hypnotic course. "Glass?"

"I'm better now, I know there's no child."

"Hmmmm" Large, deft hands separated the tresses at the back and began brushing the underside, working from the middle on each half.

The face in the mirror had eyes that darted to her then away quickly, a muscle in the jaw that worked as molars clenched repeatedly. Despite the outward semblance of calm something troubled PL O'Hara deeply.

The boys giggled sensing all was well and disappeared out the door and down a corridor chasing the Doctor's cat.

Claudia's knees began to sag with lack of oxygen, when finally the seal was broken and she slid down the wall and to the floor, hugging her knees. She opened her eyes slowly, and raised her head looking up into Ed's hopeful eyes. She could feel a knife of pain twisting in her stomach, and she wished she could just run away from the whole mess. As far away as possible. She couldn't bear to be so close to him, and still have to push him away.

"You've changed your mind? You're going to come away with us? It can be a new start, far away from HIM and anything that could trigger your memories. I know what you were trying to do. Pushing me away to make sure I wasn't here, so HE couldn't use me against you. I know you were hurting yourself as much as me." He knelt down in front of her and took her hands. "I know you still love me."

Claudia felt tears burning behind her eyes, but refused to let them spill over. "Of course I love you, that's why I want you to be safe. Why I have to let you go."

"And now we can all be safe, forever."

"Ed, I can't live on Gallifrey, I hate it there. Don't forget I've just spent 2 whole years there, and the last thing I want is to go back so soon. Please Ed, I'll join you soon. I promise you."

"I'm not letting you go… Doctor!" Ed shouted, and the Doctor's head appeared from under the console, eyebrow raised. "Take us to Gallifrey before she has time to change her mind."

Claudia flipped her body and ended up on her feet in one fluid movement. "Don't you dare touch a thing on that control panel, Doctor."

The Doctor stood and shrugged. "We can't go anywhere till I put this back, anyway", he said holding a small sprocket in his hand.

"Good, now Ed, please listen to me. You must go and keep the boys safe. It is impossible for me to leave now, to much is happening."

"I'm not leaving without you." He was adamant, and stood in front of her, arms crossed, and meeting her gaze. Neither of them were going to be the first to break the contact.

"Please, you know the saying, if you love someone let them go, if they come back… I'm going to come back Ed. But you have to let me go."

"No. You think you're invincible. You're human… well, half human, and I don't want you facing HIM by yourself. Ever. I'm not about to let what you've done in the past come between us now. You're coming with me. You're staying with me."

"You're ordering me?"

Ed could tell by the glint of anger in her eyes that he'd done the wrong thing. Tell Claudia to do something and she will do the opposite just to spite you. He sighed and broke eye contact. "No… I'm begging you."

And so he didn't see the blow coming, and her hand hit the side of his neck at a certain pressure point, and Ed crumpled, unconscious to the floor.

"Doctor, I'm going now. Please leave before he wakes up."

"Claudia, I really hope you know what you're doing."

Ches Watters looked around again. "Manager said I'd find young Flanagan in here. Where's he hiding?"

"I'm Liam Flanagan, sir." Liam pushed past her and assumed a business-like air. "Can I help you with something?"

"You surely can. Come here." For a stocky man, his reflexes were lightning quick. He had the boy pressed to his chest with an arm across his throat before Sam could move. "We're going to go back to my place now and have a little chat." He started to back up to the stable doors.

Everyone froze. The stablehands stared at the abduction in shock. Sam forced herself to stay calm but couldn't stop her hands from fisting at her sides. She tried to catch Marston's eye but he was looking at the doors. He seemed not to notice the activity in front of him.

Watters hadn't turned his back on them but it was perfunctory; he clearly did not expect opposition from anyone. He focussed his attention on his prisoner. "Your pa and me, we have a little disputation going on between us." He looked over his shoulder at the exit.

Liam clawed at the imprisoning arm. Watters cuffed him roughly on the ear. "Now you just hold still." Then he glared at the surrounding crowd. "Ain't you boys got anything better to do?" The men promptly scattered in every direction, vanishing into the stalls and up ladders.

Sam clenched her fists until the nails pierced her palms, cursing her shortsightedness. Why hadn't she brought her gun?

Actually, she knew the answer to that: because she had grown used to letting Elliott Marston handle everything, solving all her problems and smoothing every bump in the road. And the result was that when a member of her family was in real danger, she was powerless. Fool, she thought bitterly.

Liam was really struggling now, his choked whimpers of distress the only sound to be heard as Watters half dragged him across the dirt floor. Sam looked around for a weapon of some kind that she could use. Rakes and pitchforks hung on the far wall but there was nothing within reach except halters and bridles. Half sobbing, she turned back.

Why wasn't Elliott doing something?

Marston leaned against the first row of stalls, his arms crossed and his manner one of mild curiosity at the goings- on in front of him. Liam was putting up a credible fight from his disadvantaged position. His face was red and his breath came in gasps that were painful to hear. Watters was forced to apply more of his strength to keep his hold on the boy.

They were steps away from the double doors when a voice of authority broke into their struggles.

"That's far enough. Let him go."

Sam let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It was going to be alright; Elliott was taking charge. Finally.

Watters looked around. "You talking to me?" His piggy eyes widened in surprise.

Marston examined him with distaste. "I am." Pushing himself away from the stall, he strolled into the middle of the floor. The movement of his coat revealed the walnut- handled gun in his holster.

The other man hesitated. Then he took a firmer grip on Liam, causing the boy to cease his writhing. "Why should I?"

Marston lifted one hand and examined his nails. "So I can kill you."

Watters stared. Then he started laughing, short huffy laughs that moved his whole torso in fitful starts and caused Liam even more discomfort. "You - kill me? Are you serious?"

"Why don't you try it and find out?" Marston's voice sounded soft and dreamy as if he were thinking of something else.

Still chuckling, Watters looked over his shoulder to address an invisible crowd. "He thinks he can kill me. Did you hear that?" Then he whirled around and thrust Liam away from him, his hand pulling his gun out of his holster in one smooth movement.

It wasn't smooth enough. Marston's gun was out before Liam hit the ground. The shot roared through the stable before the boy had time to suck in his first lungful of air. Liam squealed as his captor's body landed on top of him.

Sam blinked. Her feet seemed nailed in place. Only the sight of her brother's frantic shoves as he tried to escape from his grisly encumbrance brought her back to life. She ran forward just as Marston pulled Liam to his feet and the last echoes of the shot faded.

Lukas.

She was glad he would be still be gone for a few more days. She missed him terribly, but his absence would give her a chance to prove Abbott had nothing to do with the Hansbank trading. Colin would have to listen to her if she could find the facts. She was sure of it. She could deflect Colin, preserve the sting, and Hart would never know. Not to mention she could evade federal prosecution at the same time.

But how? I have no idea -- but I know where to start. She stepped on the gas. She could be at the offices of Global Marketing in under an hour.

Mary Anne watches as Diggory Venn settles into his seat, and she is relieved to see that his face reflects neither anger nor guilt; he is simply considering her question and how best to answer it. Her eyes follow as he adjusts his chair, brushes away the traces of the fire- kindling, and tugs his jacket into a more comfortable fit before thoughtfully pressing his hands together and folding them against his knee--all the unhurried motions of a man who has nothing to fear and nothing to hide.

Strong hands, those. In the brightened room, full of lamplight, Mary Anne can clearly see their shape: the long fingers with their squared, neatly-kept nails, the broad palms. Accustomed to work--perhaps a pad of calluses here and there? She feels again the pressure of Venn's hand on her shoulder, in comfort and reassurance, and can also see that there remains no trace of his former profession. No, not so much as a hint of the telltale crimson that had marked him out as a reddleman--no lines at the knuckle where the substance had crept into the creases, nor borders of it beneath the fingernails.

Hands without stain.

And now Venn is speaking to her, having found the right words.

"No secret to it. No one knew who HE was--not in Egdon, not then--and it was hard times, right enough. I was getting along, you understand, but my Tamsie--" A brief smile. "It was she as put me onto the idea of having the Manor for our own. And so when th' Bad Man came, offering work, honest work--" A pause, as Venn realizes how this must sound. But then, undaunted, he continues. "Who was to know? And it was honest, right enough. Naught as anyone'd be shamed by doing. Tending to the cottage, the grounds . . . because, you see, I found work there too, when I saw my Tamsie was scared by him. As scared as could be. I knew, for all she didn't say so much--" The least fraction of a smile. "I had not been watching after her as long as that, not to know when she feared. She said . . . he was something not right, though bless her if she knew what it was."

"A very discerning woman."

"There's no denying of that, I should say. But it was all honest, naught to keep a man awake nights, until . . ."

"Renie?"

A long, heavy silence. Mary Anne is glad of the lamps, for the afternoon twilight at the windows has given way to full darkness.

Venn's voice resumes, much lower. Softer. A touch more of the Egdon accent.

"Yes. Dear Lord. Yes." Venn's fingers curl and beat lightly against his knee in his agitation. "I feared to do it--for Tamsie more than me. What might HE do wi'her? But I had to help Miss Renie; it could no' have been right to do aught else!"

"It's all right, Diggory, I understand. You did well. It's likely that because of you, she's alive today. No telling what might have happened otherwise."

"But you've laid your hand on it, Mary Anne. You have. What might HE do? Though I mun' say--" Venn clears his throat, apparently swallowing the Egdon accent, for when he speaks again, his voice is steady. Controlled. "I must say, he has never offered harm to us. I think . . . I think, in his heart, as he's glad of what I did. Helping to get her away from him and off to Mister Gruber . . . she was alive, when she could well have been dead, if I hadn't had the doing of it. Perhaps he'll let well alone. Perhaps not."

But you'll do your duty either way, Diggory Venn. And if there's any man on earth that even HE couldn't hold a grudge against, you would be that man . . .

"So, Mary Anne, it came in God's good time, to take us away from working with HIM--and well enough that it did, for Tamsie could not have done it so very much longer. Nor I. And that's all there was . . ."

Mary Anne's heart misgives her as Venn looks her directly in the eyes, for she can read his thinking. As if his heart tells him: Perhaps Mary Anne will still trust me after this. Perhaps not. But she can tell that whatever opinion she passes on his actions, it will not affect his convictions one whit, that he was and is an honest man who did rightly.

Oh, Diggs. An inward sigh. What right in the world have I, to judge anything you've done? If you only knew . . . For a moment she is tempted to tell him. A story for a story. In exchange for his tale of working for The Interrogator, hers of how she came to be The Interrogator, for a short time.

But no; it would burden him, and that would be a poor reward for a loyal friend.

"I understand, Diggory. Truly, I do."

His smile, then--relieved in spite of himself, for he would not have wanted to lose her trust and friendship. But he was never in danger of that.

It occurs to Mary Anne that, just as there are prodigies of art and music, such as Van Gogh and Mozart, so there must be ethical prodigies as well, men whose talent is for goodness--and in some, that talent amounts to genius. Such men have a natural gift for devoting themselves to what is righteous and just; they are in love with truth and will not forsake it. Nor will it depart from them.

Diggory Venn is such a man. And here, Mary Anne gives silent thanks--for Colonel Brandon is another, and she counts herself blessed to have known two such men in her lifetime. Fortunate the person who knows even one, for they are as rare as the unicorn.

And now, her earlier dark thoughts charmed away, Mary Anne smiles at Venn, and he smiles back. All is well between them . . .

"Diggory, it will be time for dinner soon, but let's have a bit of a gossip first, shall we? You have to tell me all about what's going on in Egdon, and especially--" A sly smile here, and Venn begins to chuckle even before he knows what she is going to say.

But Mary Anne does not keep him long in suspense. "--about this year's production of The Highwayman with you and Tamsie!"

Well, thought Colin, the hat was right. Grace walked by him in a baseball cap and dark glasses and motioned for him to follow her. She carried two fishing poles and a cardboard carton of bait. She took a position at the far end of the pier and silently baited a hook on one of the poles, which she passed to Colin. Then she baited her own hook and dropped it in the water.

"Fishing?" asked Colin, gamely going along with her charade.

"It seemed appropriate, since you're fishing for something from me," she replied, not taking her eyes off her line. "What is it? And there's no need to let everyone else on the pier know," she asked abruptly, still not looking at Colin.

"Just one question. Ever heard of a stockbroker named Abbott Merisel?"

Grace had steeled herself for a question about Hart. Colin's question about Abbott Merisel took her by surprise. She kept her face calm while she tried to figure out what Colin wanted to know about the broker employed by Global Marketing as the sting's primary contact with the Investors. She had never met him, couldn't pick him out of a crowd, but Hart had told her in detail how Abbott, an old acquaintance of his, had worked for months to win the confidence of the Investors and was now executing dozens of phony stock transactions for the Investors through Global Marketing. The paper trail Abbott's trades left were valuable evidence in the sting operation. And she had reviewed that paper trail in detail. How much could she afford to tell Colin about Abbott without compromising the sting? Not much. "Maybe," was all she would say, "depends on why you want to know."

Colin felt her fear. And had no doubt she knew a great deal about Abbott Merisel. He asked, gently, "do you know if he's working for one of the Investors? He's the only stockbroker I can't trace." He paused. Grace was silent. Colin continued, sensing her dilemma, "I'll take whatever you can give me."

"If you can trace the rest, why do you need him?" Her reply was terse.

Colin's line went taut. He reeled in a small fish, smaller than the legal limit, too small to keep. Grace gently removed the hook from its mouth and leaned far over the wooden railing to throw it back. She looked directly at Colin and said, "he's too small a fish, leave him alone." He knew she was talking about the mysterious Abbott Merisel, not just the little fish. She reeled in her own line and gathered up her pole. "And me, too," she added, sotto voce. She turned on her heel and walked fast down the pier. Colin did not follow her. He threw his fishing line back into the water with a resounding *plop* and settled in to wait. He stayed on the pier long enough to give Grace a healthy head start back to Los Angeles.

"Thank you. Wait for us." Elliott Marston helped Sam Flanagan to the ground. "We'll be out in a few minutes and you can take us back."

"Yes, sir." The driver nodded respectfully as he pocketed the silver coin tossed to him.

Marston and Sam examined their destination. It was a flourishing enterprise, almost the size of a barn with a large yard in front and running around the side. Almost a dozen men were working in the open areas: repairing saddles, leading horses into the building, unloading feed sacks from a wagon or coming and going from an office that was separate from the main work area. There was no sign of Liam.

"Now we agreed that I would do the talking." Marston's voice held a warning note.

"No, we didn't." Sam slanted a look up at him, then smiled. "You simply declared that you would and I didn't argue."

In spite of the circumstances, he smiled back. They were working together as a team. It was an exhilarating feeling.

It had been an action-filled three hours. Getting further information of Ches Watters's plans out of Belle had been difficult until he dropped the pretence of courtesy and threatened to have his friend the mayor take a close look at her business. Only then did she sulkily provide them with what little else she knew.

Apparently Watters had revealed his intentions to one of Belle's associates as he left her room early that morning. It was Belle's professional opinion that he would return to his home to sleep and refresh himself. Business would keep him housebound until the evening. So spiriting Liam away from the stable to the safety of the hotel should be easy to accomplish if they moved quickly.

Belle had been shoved back into her carriage and sent on her way. Her exit had rivaled her entrance: the hotel manager would need a holiday to recover from it. Then Marston and Sam sat down to make their own plans.

He had expected to have to argue for his ideas but was pleasantly surprised to find her in full agreement with most of them. That the law enforcement officers of Fremantle would not be notified was immediately determined; it would be impossible to keep word about old Sam's whereabouts from getting out and attracting even more unwelcome attention.

They also agreed that Marston should take the initiative in any confrontation with Watters since his social and professional standing in the town would stand in their favor.

Deciding the details of their plan had been more contentious. Marston was forced to agree to Sam's presence; Liam was more likely to listen to his sister than to his soon-to-be brother-in-law. Sam agreed to leave all other dealings in Marston's hands.

"Do you see him?" Sam craned her head to scan the stableyard.

"He could be inside." Marston checked the street in both directions, then started across. "Let's get this over with."

Their arrival didn't seem to attract much notice. They entered the yard and looked for someone who might be in charge. An inquiry of the boy watering some of the animals revealed the name of the foreman and his location. They proceeded to the office building in the corner of the yard.

An old man sat on a crate in front of a battered desk piled high with papers that were held down by horseshoes. He peered at his visitors through watery blue eyes. "Liam? Oh, yeah, him. He's mucking out the stalls." An imperious wave through the window beside him brought one of the hands to the door. "You, get young Flanagan out here. Tell him he's got company." The employee ran off and the foreman returned to his papers, his manner suggesting that his business was vital and pressed by deadlines.

Marston and Sam waited. Finally Liam appeared in the doorway, looking at the foreman's office. After pausing to wash his hands at the trough, he joined them with a nod at his sister and a belligerent stare for Marston.

"Isn't this a nice surprise? We were out shopping and we decided to give you a ride back to the hotel." Sam gestured to the cab and driver still parked across the street.

Liam stared. "But I don't get off til after supper when the drivers get back."

"Oh, but we talked to your boss." Sam nodded at the foreman. "He said it's alright just this once."

"But I'm not finished yet." He frowned suddenly. "Is something wrong?"

Marston thought Sam's smile was starting to look a little desperate. "Of course not, silly!" She laughed in a high register. "What could be wrong? Get your stuff and come on."

"It's Dad, isn't it? Did he have another stroke?" Liam was getting frightened and his independent pose dropped to reveal the boy underneath. "Tell me!"

"Your father's fine." Marston thought it was time to step in. "Sam just wanted to surprise you. So since we've already arranged things, you can leave without any problem."

Liam remembered his family standing and scowled at Marston. "I get paid for a full days work and I give a full day's work. I can get back to your fancy hotel when I'm done." He turned away and headed for the stable again.

Looking back over the incident later on, Marston felt that his first real mistake had been not giving in to his impulse to knock Liam out, tie him up and toss him into the cab. It would have made everything so much simpler. But Sam did not give him the time to act. She followed her brother into the stable, arguing the entire way. With a sigh, the rancher had followed her.

Liam was suffering the embarrassment that only a young man on the verge of manhood can feel when an older female relative hectors him in front of his friends and associates. Even in the gloom of the stalls his ears were a bright red. Normally Sam would have been more compassionate but fear made her reckless. Finally she reached out and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him with her.

Marston paused inside the door and shook his head at the undignified tug of war between the siblings. The other men stopped working and stared, some shouting advice to Liam, others simply laughing at the sight. Liam was now crimson with mortification. With a final wrench the boy managed to break away, stumbling backward in the effort.

"Liam!" Sam became aware of her surroundings again and lowered her voice. "Please come with us."

Her brother shook his head and backed away even further. Marston decided to bring the spectacle to a close.

"Look, son, why don't we go back to the hotel and discuss – "

"I'm not your son!" Liam spat the word. "And don't think you can order me around just because you buy nice things!"

An impasse had been reached. The other stablehands were now openly watching the proceedings with no pretence of doing their work. Sam was panting from the exertion and her emotions; Liam was in the throes of a growing anger fueled by wounded adolescent male pride. Marston considered his next move carefully.

And then a new voice was heard from the doorway behind them. "Well, well, what's going on here now?" A middle- aged man with a barrel chest and bowlegs swaggered into the stable. "Looks like a argymint of some kind." He scanned the group with a cold eye, pausing at a familiar face. "Afternoon, Ed."

The stablehand nodded respectfully. "Good afternoon, Mr. Watters."

"No one has seen Ed in the house for a while," Claudia told the boys. "He may already be in the Tardis. If he is, make sure the Doctor leaves before Ed realises what's happening."

"We will mummy. And if he isn't there, we'll get the Doctor to help us find him."

"Good boys. Remember, it's very important you are as far away from here as possible. The Interrogator is about, and things are going to get much worse before they get better."

As Claudia dropped the suitcase outside the Tardis, she turned and crouched, an automatic reflex at the crackle of twigs and rustle of leaves, that told her someone was approaching. Through the trees a way off, she could make out someone moving purposefully into the gloom. Odd, very odd. No one came into the West Wood unless… More movement. She could make out the uniform of an AR agent, and the unmistakable form of Colonel Brandon.

She had not offered an apology, and Hans had not asked for one. He is man who knows how and when to speak, and when to let his actions speak for themselves.

No need for words, yet no silence felt.

This morning, however, Hans would have to attend to business. And she, well . . .

She accompanies him downstairs, and he walks to the front desk. "I will take my car today. Will you meet me for an early dinner?"

Hans' hands on her bare shoulders. "I thought we said lunch." Another hastily arranged lunch meeting? Something was up.

"The early call I took this morning was from Colin. I need to speak with him at lunch--a few things." His hands are gone. He takes his keys from the desk drawer.

"You're being mysterious about work again."

"You know it's partly to protect you--"

From what I don't know? If only you knew, what . . . "I know," she assures him, aloud.

"--and to keep you from boredom," he finishes. Hans bends and kisses his wife just below her left ear.

"Life is never boring here, Hans," she says, closing her eyes at the nuzzle of his beard into her neck.

Moments later, a mere ghost nuzzle remains. The silver convertible Mercedes Benz slips out the front drive, the side mirrors reflecting the tall Italian cypresses as they fly by in a blur. In a flash, Hans is gone.

Alone, or as near alone as the wife of the Hansbank CEO can possibly hope to accomplish without sufficient time to plan, Mrs. Gruber considers whether and what she should do. She smiles, as she hears the familiar echo, "What can I do?" The friendship, loyalty and love she bears to Brandon and his wife . . . and to all those whom they call friends.

But . . . Claudia? Her face clouds. HIS effect on women who thrive on adventure, risk . . . yes, the pattern was all too recognizable. And what had this latest casualty done to annoy HIM? Likely little more than look at HIM, crossly . . . Poor woman. And what fate to Claudia, if she has been involved?

And Renie remembers now . . . some image of Claudia coming to her, someone waving on shore, in a dream, just after the break-in at the medical clinic. When Hans had told her the test results. The blood tests, showing that HE was the father. That Claudia, her dear friend Claudia, could have done this--

She will have to speak with Claudia. And tell no one of the break-in, and Claudia's possible role. Not until more of the truth is known.

Will Claudia deny it? Has she finally thrown in with HIM, seduced into slavery of the mind and soul? Renie absentmindedly returns upstairs, moving first to her bedroom closet, then soundlessly opening and closing the drawers to her dresser. She would never put herself--or her baby--at risk by going to HIM, not anymore. With a shudder, she thinks on events when she--and Mary Anne--had left Safehouse #3, with a map, which HE had sent.

By e-mail.

No. Although, at the same moment, she realizes that if there is any chance she can help, she cannot deny it. Would HE have changed the computer access she had been granted? A simple tapping in of letters. Is it possible HE has not changed the means by which she might contact HIM? Yet what risk would there be, for HIM, when even the most sophisticated security hacking devices have proved ineffective against his more ingenious arsenal. And it would be a way to maintain some sense of power--HE, so close, yet out of range. Within her reach, but beyond her grasp.

HE has not changed it. Of this she is certain.

So deep in thought, her heart so full of emotion, she does not realize the import of her subconscious actions; her hands and feet seeming to move without guidance, without wasted motion.

She is packing.

There is no button at the waist of Andrea's skirt. Her FOF role has required this actress to lose and gain a good deal of weight recently, and she has set aside her tailored outfits in favor of oversize and elastic waist separates.

HE slips a hand inside the waist of a few layers of clothing, brushing past her navel. HE yanks at the over- and under-garments to pull Andrea from her leaning position against the table.

Andrea grasps HIS arms to steady herself. Or is it something more? Is she fighting HIM? Is HE near the spot?

HE is not eager to end this game so soon and would like to delay achieving HIS goal for a while longer. HE peels Andrea's fingers from HIS arms and lifts them to the back of HIS neck.

Andrea clasps her hands behind HIS head and rests her cheek on HIS chest. She reminds herself to breathe and commands her knees to not buckle.

With HIS hands at her sides, HE inserts HIS thumbs into the waistband and pulls her clothing a few inches lower. HE slides HIS thumbs toward her spine and then returns them to her sides while working the fabric down on her hips. Back and forth. Lower and lower.

Andrea squeezes her eyelids tightly shut and wishes that the lights would go out.

Suddenly, HIS hands grab hold of her ribcage and lift her to sit on the Yoga mat cushioning the tabletop. HE bends to remove the clothing from her legs and slip off her shoes.

No longer able to lean against HIS chest, Andrea bows her head and stares at her bare knees. Her hands grip the edge of the table. She straightens her arms, locking her elbows and raising her shoulders to her ears.

And you must dress for the part.

Hans Gruber attends to the last acts of grooming that a man like Hans would never leave to chance. The collar of his white shirt. An adjustment. There.

His wife releases the curtain of the window. Pale rose and yellow breathing on the browned hills, the canyons yet in shadows. A new morning, very far from the heaths of Wessex.

Hans had been firm--about his news. She picks up a hairbrush, strokes her long hair, then turns from the high window of the master bedroom to look at her husband, in front of his dressing mirror. She remembers his words of the previous night . . .

As we are in . . .

Flashback:

"I have run every possible test, there is no mistake, meine leibe. The fingerprints on the silver wrapper found in the hallway are Claudia's. I have waited to tell you, hoping there was some error. But there is not."

"Hans--what does it mean?"

"A trick, possibly. Her prints could have been planted there."

"But to get them, HE would have to--"

"Not necessarily--HE could have collected them without her knowledge or consent . . . however . . . "

Renie sighs, and finishes the thought. "Her disappearance from Egdon. Oh, Claudia. How long has she been missing?"

Hans does not relish his next task, yet it must be done.

"She is--back. My sources tell me she has returned with some story about a health farm. And the woman with Dev at Mary Anne's wedding--SHE is missing."

"And Mary Anne?"

"Unharmed. The Alliance Rose is still in place at Delaford, and they are organizing the search and rescue of the young woman."

Renie swallows, and casts her eyes onto the comforter's patterns, her heart made heavy with guilt. Yes, guilt--for would any of this have happened if she had revealed HIS presence at Mary Anne's wedding? Perhaps it might have all gone differently.

"Is Andrea alright?"

"There is no news that she has been directly involved. Meine leibe . . . Renie . . . you will not take any responsibility for any of this."

"Won't I?" Her voice rising, unnaturally. Her friends, under fire, under threat. "Is that an order? Am I just an another Hansbank underling?!"

Surviving each day seemed to be the common thread of late and Dana was happy for some time to herself. The past two weeks had passed in a whirl and seemed a bit foggy in her mind; nature has its way of dulling extreme pain. Little had been said but PL had refused to leave her alone even for a short time until today.

I just know there's a bad joke in here somewhere . . .

Mary Anne crouches in the armchair, remaining perfectly still; she knows that she stands a good chance of being overlooked in the semi-gloom of the parlour, just in case whoever is at the door is someone she does not want to see. However . . .

She eyes the fireplace.

It has already occurred to her that she is not out of The Interrogator's reach. HE is quite capable of striking at her within the very walls of Delaford.

However, she is close enough to the fireplace . . . the poker would make a fair weapon . . .

Be serious--against a GUN? That's what it would be, most likely. Still, better than nothing . . .

And then, a voice.

"Mary Anne?" A pause, as the figure at the door peeks into the room. "Are you in here?"

At that, Mary Anne does jump out of the chair and move--but not to the fireplace. No. Straight to the door, and the man standing there breaks into a warm grin at the sight of her.

"Why are you hiding, Missus Brandon?" he chuckles.

"Stop that 'Missus Brandon' this instant!" laughs Mary Anne. "Or I'll have to start calling you 'Mister Venn,' you know!"

"Well, if it's threatening me you're going to be doing . . ."

Mary Anne is promptly wrapped in that hug that she and Renie have dubbed the DVBC: the Diggory Venn Bone Crusher. But he keeps it short, then releases Mary Anne and steps back from her a little, looking carefully at her face. "Did you need to be to yourself? I'll go if you'd rather."

Mary Anne shakes her head. "No, Diggs, please stay." Brief flash of a grin between them; Mary Anne has never called him that before. "I did need to see someone, I suppose, and there's no one I'd rather see right now than you."

"What, not the Colonel?" teases Venn gently.

"Well, he won't be back without Mister de Valera. You'll have heard what's going on, I suppose?"

"Yes, that I have, but there's no knowing what to believe of all that you hear." A glint of something behind those kind, earnest eyes. "They say . . . the Bad Man's about, again."

"Yes." Some might be amused at this evidence of Diggory Venn's Egdon heritage. The Interrogator is known by many names and titles throughout the Realm--and only a few of them can be printed or repeated in conversation. Egdon has simpled labeled HIM, with eloquent understatement, The Bad Man.

"And that HE took your friend, Miss Therese . . . ?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I am sorry, then. I hoped that part of it was wrong." Venn lays a hand on her shoulder, an attempt at comfort. "But th'Alliance'll have her back . . ."

Mary Anne conceals her smile; Venn's Egdon accent surfaces at odd moments, but she will not have him think she is laughing at him, especially not when he is trying so hard to comfort her.

And now Venn is taking charge, leading her back to her chair. "Too cold in here by half. I'll have us a fire like that--"

"Don't trouble yourself, Diggory. I'll ring--"

"You will not." Venn cocks an eyebrow at her, an expression so reminiscent of Brandon's look of command that Mary Anne wonders for an instant if they might have had a common ancestor. "Sit you quiet and let me tend to this fire, and then you'll tell me what's a trouble to you. Or better yet--"

Tiny burning threads as the tinder catches and glows, and Diggory patiently begins to feed in cuttings of kindling.

"-- you can start to tell me, now. I can listen."

Quickly, Mary Anne sorts through the gossip making the rounds at Delaford, separating truth from rumour.

"--and that's where we are now, Diggory. I'd almost call it being under siege, with HIM having taken Therese, and nobody knowing what might happen next--and UNIT moving in on us, and perhaps the Imperial Guard as well--"

"That would explain it, then," murmurs Diggory, keeping a careful eye on the fire. "I know Mister Gruber left--him that's Hans' father. A fine man."

"A very fine man, indeed."

"Yes, well, could you see trying to stop him?" chuckles Venn. Then, more soberly: "But those Alliance people--well, we were setting about to leave for Egdon, but they put it to us that it mayn't be so safe to try, now."

Wielding the poker, Venn moves the logs carefully into place. "But it's no difference; when my Tamsie heard it all, she said the Manor could run without us a day or so more, or two, or however many. She said--"

Venn pulls his chair close by Mary Anne's, and even as she stretches her hands out toward the fire, her heart warms at the look of affection on his face.

"--she said you'd need us. That you'd be after missing Miss Renie--" Venn laughs, catching himself. "I mean, Mrs. Gruber! Well, that you'd be missing her, and that you were making friends with Miss Therese . . ."

Venn's voice trails off. Nothing is spoken for long moments, and yet the silence is not awkward. So comfortable, thinks Mary Anne, not to have to fill every silence. Real friendship.

Her greatest treasures have always been her family and her friends.

Finally, Venn breaks the peaceable stillness with, "Fire's not enough." Moving about the room with a glowing twig, a steady hand, and a bit of improvisation, he manages to light most of the lamps, driving out the dusky gloom with shining warmth before he turns back to Mary Anne and reassures her, "We'll not be leaving, so long as you need us, Mary Anne. Tamsie and I've decided. And so's Giles and Miss Emilie." A broad grin, now. "But shoo us off, soon's it's safe and you're tired of us."

"It's kind of you, Diggory. You make me ashamed of shutting myself away like this, when I have such good people I can go to with my troubles."

"Your troubles? Seems as they're our troubles as well, if HE is about."

"Well, yes; that's true." Mary Anne looks anxiously at Venn. "You said Tamsie meant to stay--"

"She did and she does."

Mary Anne hesitates, then plunges ahead with the question that has troubled her for months on end. "Diggory, I don't mean to pry--but it could be dangerous for her. And you. After all . . . she once worked for . . . The Interrogator. You both did, back in Egdon."

Diggory's face, usually so mobile and alight with feeling, is for once expressionless.

Already feeling that she has gone too far, Mary Anne pushes on. "I mean, I can't help wondering--why? How did good people like you ever come to be working for . . . HIM?"

He leaned back in his chair and eyed Belle narrowly. It was probably safe to say that her idea of a proper afternoon outfit for a lady differed significantly from that of many Fremantle matrons. They would not have worn so many feathers or diamonds. And few of them considered a heavy gray veil that could have been designed by a beekeeper to be a fashionable daytime accessory.

He could appreciate Sam's gratitude for helping her family when other doors were closed to them. But he suspected that the woman's good nature was heavily streaked with self- interest and he waited to hear the real reason for her visit.

Sam was not so cynical. She listened attentively to Belle and asked after all the professional ladies by name. Belle was only too delighted to gossip about every mutual acquaintance. Finally she came to the end of her recital.

"It seems so lonesome at the Palace without those kids around." She sighed deeply and dabbed at her eye with a hanky. "Keep a body young, they do."

Sam leaned over and patted her hand. "It's too bad they're not here right now or you could say goodbye to them."

Belle looked up with a start. "Good-bye?"

Marston noticed that her eyes were dry. "We'll be leaving for my ranch very soon. I've been gone for longer than I expected."

"Well, that will be nice for the boys, I'm sure." Belle folded her hands in her lap and looked speculatively at him. "But what about old Sam?"

"Oh, Dad's coming with us. The open air will do him good and the new doctor says he should be well enough to travel if we take it in slow stages." Sam's tone was slightly challenging. "We're taking a nurse back with us. Dad's looking forward to it."

Marston said nothing. It was true the old man was resting more comfortably in the hotel room down the hall with two nurses in almost constant attendance. But he was inclined to believe that the improvement derived from knowing that his daughter was close at hand and his sons were no longer living in a brothel. The old man had made his peace with the world and waited for what he called "the final call".

Belle's eyes narrowed. "Then that's that. When's the ceremony?"

"Tomorrow morning." Sam beamed happily. "Right here in the hotel."

"A small ceremony. Just the family." Marston added hastily.

"Well that is nice." Belle looked from one to the other with a brittle smile. "It's so good to see everything working out well for you. I wish I could say the same for me - But there, I don't want to burden you with my silly problems." She shrilled a laugh that made Marston wince.

"Belle what is it?" Sam frowned. "Just tell us and if there's anything we can do…"

"Well, now that you mention it, there just might be." Belle settled back into the sofa cushions. "You know, dear, your daddy made a lot of enemies over the years."

"He didn't –" Sam bit back the sentence. "Yes, I know. What about it?"

"And it wasn't easy sometimes when he was staying with me to keep those lowlifes away from the place. Only natural that some of them are curious about where he is and how he's doing." Belle brushed down her skirts with exaggerated care. "A couple of them took his leaving real personal, if you know what I mean."

"We don't." Marston interjected. "Tell us."

"Ches Watters, for instance." Belle mused. "He's one that seems to feel old Sam owes him something. Didn't finish a job he wanted done."

Sam was rigid with anger. "He didn't take the job. Watters wanted a criminal, not a security agent. Dad didn't do that kind of work. He never did."

Belle examined her nails critically in the light from the window. "Chess disagrees. And he's looking for your father."

"Why?" Marston noticed with concern that Sam had gone pale.

"To kill him, of course." Belle rolled her eyes. "Some men just take everything so seriously."

Sam clenched her fists on the arms of the chair. Marston jumped in quickly. "I've hired security guards on this floor and throughout the hotel. He'll never get the opportunity."

"I kind of figured you'd do that. That's what I told Ches."

"Then he won't try anything." Marston watched Sam carefully. He wished she would not look so worried.

"Not here. But one of the girls told me that he's planning on visiting young Liam at the livery stable. Apparently Flanagans is all the same to him."

Mary Anne sits in the privacy of the small parlour where her wedding presents had been displayed. Here she can be quiet, and alone.

The meeting in the library had finally broken up after much discussion of strategy and procedure, and it had been all Mary Anne could do to sit quietly through it to the end. But she had stayed, knowing that Brandon would want to hear about all of it when he returned; as a military man, his suggestions could be invaluable.

Hudson had made no comment about Dev's departure, followed by Sifuentes and then Brandon, contenting herself with an ironic glance in Mary Anne's direction as if to say, We can't take our eyes off of them for a second, can we? There was obvious sympathy from McCoy and Looey as well, and Mary Anne had done her best to maintain the calm and poised manner suitable to the Mistress of Delaford.

The meeting over, she had given orders to Miss M that an early dinner was to be spread in the East Parlour so that, after a suitable rest, the Alliance personnel would not have to wait long before they could eat and make their preparations to move against . . .

HIM.

Mary Anne sighs. So long as the others were watching, she could maintain her composure, but now . . .

She is alone. Brandon has not yet returned--or if he has, she has not seen him. Perhaps he and Sifuentes have caught Dev and hauled him off somewhere for a much-needed talking to . . . as if it will do any good. They should have all seen that coming, that the minute Dev had any idea where to start searching for Therese he would immediately go after her. Strategy and planning and caution be damned.

And she can hardly blame him. As the shadows lengthen into the early twilight of a winter afternoon, Mary Anne reflects on what Therese might well be suffering at that very moment and can feel the tears rush to her eyes, hardly to be held back . . . for she is frightened. The Interrogator. Always and always, HIM. HE is nearby, and it seems as if that presence waits for her in every shadow, as if she will walk down some hallway and turn the corner and there HE will be, standing before her--often evaded but never escaped.

Her mind dwells on HIS past treatment of her, that strange blend of tyranny and tenderness that she has never been able to fully comprehend--and it is, she suspects, far different from how HE is most likely dealing with Therese, who had slipped through his fingers that day on the ride and made HIM look foolish into the bargain.

Mary Anne shudders. No. HE will have no tolerance to spare for Therese--if tolerance it could be called, the treading of that fine line between care and cruelty. She can still hear HIS mocking reassurances to Brandon, in the cellar of Safehouse #3, that HE would as soon think of striking her with that steel lash as HE would think of desecrating an art treasure. Mark that lovely skin . . . ?

But suppose . . . just suppose . . . she should fall into HIS hands, now? After what had taken place between them in the Valley of the Moon . . . could she still depend on HIS tenuous resolution--never truly articulated but consistent throughout HIS dealings with her--that she would not be tortured by HIM? At least, not as most people would understand the term. Choking dread, yes, and such dire anguish of the spirit, but she cannot blot out the memory of lying helpless before HIM as HE caressed her, raising waves of chills, murmuring that she is so beautiful and that HE has better things to do with her than hurt her . . .

Mary Anne suddenly realizes from the pain in her throat that she has been stifling cries of horror, and that her legs are numb because she has tucked her feet up under her in the armchair and practically curled herself into a ball, wrapping her arms tightly about her body in a vain attempt to warm herself and control her shivering . . . though it is not the cold that makes her shiver.

With an effort, she straightens in the chair. Stop it. You're no good this way, not to yourself or anyone else. She chafes her legs for a moment, trying to rub feeling back into them, but only partially succeeds; the room is rather chilly.

But before she can cross to the bellpull and ring for a servant to help her build up a fire, the parlour door edges open . . .

Engrossed in HIS kiss, Andrea abandons all thoughts of resistance. She slides her hands up along HIS white shirtsleeves. Setting her wrists on HIS neck, she fingers HIS hair just above HIS crisp shirt collar. She is barely aware of HIS hands leaving her hips to unbutton her blouse.

Careful to not break the kiss, HE reaches inside her open blouse and glides HIS hands over her ribs to meet behind her. HIS fingertips drag up and down and up her spine and then research the closure of her bra. Discovering four sets of hooks and eyes, HE dismisses the notion of releasing each pair individually. Squeezing either side of the fastener between the fingers and thumb of one hand, HE easily dispenses with this barrier.

Not at all alarmed, but a bit nervous, Andrea ends the kiss. Bowing her head, she rests her forehead against HIS chest and speaks huskily into HIS tie. "Did you learn that trick from George?"

"No. From you. I read all your scripts, whether or not they include my character." Removing her hands from behind HIS neck, HE lowers her arms to her sides. HE burrows HIS fingers beneath the neckline of her blouse and works the blouse and bra straps off her shoulders and down her arms.

Because Andrea leans against the table, the garments fall freely as far as her wrists only. She is pliable in HIS hands, and HE bends each of her elbows in turn to slip this clothing from her hands.

Unable to look HIM in the eye, Andrea asks HIS tie: "Can the lights be dimmed further?"

"Not without plunging us into utter darkness." HE tosses her blouse and bra in the direction of a chair. They hit the seat and tumble onto the floor.

"We'll need it for tomorrow morning. A porter from the hotel will pick everything up then." Elliott Marston settled the bill with the seamstress but kept a wary eye on the bow window overlooking the street. Sam Flanagan sat on a small gilt chair and stared through the glass without seeing anything of the traffic or weather outside.

She'd been like that for most of the afternoon. No matter where they were or what their errand – buying a marriage license, picking out a wedding suit, shopping for the boys – she had been distracted and silent.

He would have preferred it if she had fought him over everything: he was growing accustomed to that and getting better at handling it. But this stillness was something new.

Holding her in the hallway last night had given him the chance to sketch out some plans. Her father was right; his time was limited. As she gradually stopped crying, he told her about their conversation and his commitment to the dying man. She had listened carefully, then nodded her assent.

And she had remained like that ever since.

Telling the boys had not been a problem; they were all used to Sam taking charge and making the arrangements. Even Liam had accepted things, although he scowled at Marston periodically to show his independence.

"Will there be anything else now, sir?" The proprietress beamed happily at them.

"No thank you." Marston bowed slightly. He stepped up to Sam and touched her arm. "Daydreaming again, my dear?"

She looked up without smiling. "No, just thinking."

He reached for the door handle. "Come now, such somber thoughts have no place in our wedding plans!"

She passed into the street in front of him. "I suppose not. But since I've never been married before, I can't be sure." Glancing over her shoulder at him, she grinned.

He suddenly realized he was holding his breath and released it. "Now that's more like it." Settling her hand on his arm, he watched her profile carefully. "I was becoming quite intimidated by your manner."

She laughed at that. "I guess I'm sort of numb. You've just swept in and taken over."

He watched her carefully. "Do you mind?"

"No, not really. You don't know what a burden it's been." Sam looked around at the shops. "It's been years since I've been able to go shopping without worrying about things."

They were leaving the retail district behind. Mercantile establishments gave way to office buildings with spike railings and thick polished doors. Carriages moved purposefully through the streets carrying men of business on serious matters. Marston nodded in greeting to acquaintances who watched the pair with open curiosity. Sam seemed not to see them.

"I am worried about Liam. Just a little." She paused to stare at a heavy wagon whose driver was trying to turn too tight a corner with inches to spare. "He's changed so much in three months I hardly recognize him."

"He's growing up." Marston acknowledged a wave from a banker across the street. "He's been the man of the family, taking care of things for you."

"Well, I don't –" She stopped in her tracks. "Elliott! Look!"

His head snapped around. They were approaching the Royal and had a clear view of the front of the hotel. A crowd of people had gathered to watch a large landau drawn by four matched black horses come to a halt. The animals were decked out in holiday array with pink and white ribbons threaded through their manes. The carriage itself was painted white with gilt trimming and lavish pink upholstery. Lolling back on the seats were four ladies whose work rarely took them out of doors during the day. They languished under the outraged stares of the matrons on the sidewalk and the interested looks of their husbands.

The hotel doorman was attempting to argue with the driver, who ignored him except for spitting disrespectfully on the ground between the other's feet. Onlookers began to laugh openly at the scene.

"What in the world…?" Marston stopped on the edge of the crowd and examined the apparition with the rest.

"We'd better go inside before the manager comes out." Sam sounded amused. "I'm afraid Belle's come to visit."

When I sent this last post, Mac went EEP! and told me the 'document contains no data.' So, I, well, sent it again. . .

He LIED!!

Therese awoke with a start, her stiffened limbs groaning in protest as she attempted to move. She had no idea how long she'd been in the room, there were no windows to indicate the rise or fall of the sun, and her internal clock had been thrown completely askew. She knew only that she needed water as she had never required it before, it was no longer a desire, but sheer and desperate need. She felt sluggish and weak from the physical ordeal which she'd been through, and every inch of her body shuddered with the cold which seeped into her very bones from the hard, damp floor she was sprawled upon.

Carefully and laboriously she pulled herself to a sitting position, and drawing her knees up to her body she hugged them to herself. Her stomach felt hollow and empty, and she could not remember ever having been closer to sheer and utter despair.

Time passed, but she had no way to gauge its progression. She counted off the minutes several times, but lost track eventually with each endeavor. There was no way to record the elapsed time anyway, and no way to know whether this brought her any closer to her release, or toward further trials with HIM, so finally she simply gave up. She tried to think of Dev for a bit, but could not do so without tears, so she wondered what was occurring at Delaford due to her abrupt absence. They would come for her, she was confidant only of this one fact, but she knew it to be true as she could be sure of nothing else in her current predicament. Eamon would come for her himself if need be, but the Realm took care of its own. They would find her, she need only to survive until that time.

She heard the bolt slide in the door once again, after what could have been a half an hour, or could have been two or three. She only knew that physically, she could take no more.

HE flipped on the overhead light before he entered the room, and Therese's eyes clamped shut of their own volition, tears forming at the edge of her eyes as she struggled to open them more quickly than it took her pupils to adjust to the sudden brightness. She wanted to keep her eyes on HIM at all times.

HE looked clean and refreshed, she thought with a dark scowl. The end of HIS hair was still slightly damp from bathing, and her senses, heightened from the deprivation, could smell the clean, fresh scent of soap which emanated from HIM. HE wore a freshly pressed white shirt, and dark gray trousers, having forgone the tie and suitcoat, and left his collar unbuttoned, looking very much like a typical businessman pursuing a casual lunch. Therese hated him with every fiber of her being, and her dark eyes flashed angrily. That he should appear so normal looking when he harboured such evil.

"Quite happy to see me again, I see," HE said, regarding her closely as HE entered the room, shutting and locking the door behind HIM. HE carried a single chair in one hand, a neatly folded blanket resting upon the seat.

Therese did not deign to answer HIM, but moved back to the farthest corner of the room, pressing herself as deeply into the crevice of the wall as space allowed. She kept her head down, studiously contemplating the floor.

HE placed the chair in the center of the small room, leaving roughly ten feet between HIMself and Therese, then lifted the blanket into HIS hand and sat down before her. "Rather cold on the floor I would imagine," HE began, "I brought you this." HE held the blanket out to her invitingly.

She wanted that blanket. Could already feel the soft warmth it would provide, but she could not bring herself to even look at HIM, let alone move to within arm's length. She could still feel the strength of HIM when HE had so easily forced her to the ground, and covered her body with HIS own. She could not have stopped HIM, and had felt HIS desire--why had HE stopped? She could not even begin to fathom an answer, but she could imagine that the next time HE would not cease. She remained in her corner.

"Come here." HIS tone was one of command, it was an order, not a request, yet still she remained. HE waited several long moments, giving her the chance to obey before HE rose, placed the blanket on the chair, and approached her. Therese's entire body tensed, her muscles screaming for the flight of which she was no longer capable. HE squatted before her, sitting back upon his heels, and taking her lower jaw in HIS hands as HE forced her eyes up to meet his.

"You are either very determined, or very stupid, and I cannot imagine it is the latter. Have you not figured out that each time I have been forced to restrain you in some manner, it was as a direct consequence to your defiance?"

"So this is all my fault then, is it?" she growled at HIM, her tone low.

"Much of it, yes," HE told her as he removed HIS hand from her face.

"I told you early on that I would not cooperate, no matter what you did. I at least, have been honest with you.

"Honest, yes, but smart, no." HE laced HIS fingers through her hair, and pulled her head back painfully. "Now I will make it a bit less difficult for you. You will do as I say from this point, or I will throw you to the floor, and take you here and now."

Therese attempted to wrench free from HIS grasp, but could not, and when she could finally bring herself to look upon HIM she gazed into those tea coloured eyes, and saw that HE spoke the truth. Her shoulders sagged at the realization, and HE released her before returning to HIS chair. Her stomach churned crazily, and she fought back the bile which rose in her throat.

HE held up the blanket, and repeated HIS previous order. "Come here."

Slowly, with a pain that was as much emotional as physical, she slid across the floor to sit before him, her head hanging to her chest.

Carefully, and ever so gently, HE laid the blanket across her bare shoulders.

Last Chance!

The older man said nothing for a long minute. Then he opened his mouth and breathed out heavily. "Marsss-ton… Sit…down…there." A hand pointed weakly at a chair.

"Dad, we've got to get back to the hotel." Sam pushed herself away from the door and hurried to the bed. The boys stood against the wall, their eyes on their visitor.

"You can...wait…a few minutes." The tone was one of command, as if the speaker did not know that his voice was almost painfully fragile. "Take the boys…out of here."

Marston watched as Sam fought an internal battle. Finally she nodded, her common sense giving way to the older instinct of obedience. She turned to her brothers, taking Conn's hand and Niall's shoulder and pushing them towards the door. Liam stalked ahead with adolescent dignity, disdaining the label of boy.

On the threshold she looked back. Marston nodded in response to her unspoken question. Liam scowled and reached past her to pull the door shut.

Marston turned back to his host. The older man's breathing was harsh in the sudden silence of the room. His eyes were closed but opened when he heard the door.

"We…haven't got much time.." A raspy chuckle escaped him. "No…make that…I ...haven't...got much time…I can feel…" He coughed, the covers shaking with the paroxysm.

Marston reached for the water glass and raised the other's head so he could drink. Flanagan nodded and waved him back.

"I can feel…the next one coming…My hands get shaky…" He suddenly looked up and once again Marston saw a younger, stronger man, now a prisoner. "What do you want?" The eyes were fierce and stern. Tension held his body rigid as he waited for the answer.

Marston understood. "I want to marry your daughter. And I am willing to take care of your family."

Flanagan nodded and fell back on his pillows. "Good." His eyes closed again.

"But she's very stubborn and it's going to take some time to win her over." Marston leaned forward to watch the older man. "First of all I want to move you to some place where you can get proper medical care."

Flanagan shook his head. "No…no more time…for me. Very soon now." He waved his hand in the air weakly. "Take them away. Don't let them…see me die."

Marston frowned. This was going to be harder than he thought. "But at a hospital… "

"No! Take them someplace…safe." A hand shot out and gripped his wrist. Marston flinched at the unexpected force. "For God's sake...man…let me die in peace!"

The old man was panting and sweat beaded his face. Marston watched his efforts. Sam would probably be upset but he had no choice. He would make her understand. "Very well. I promise you that I will marry your daughter and I will take your sons out to my ranch where they will be safe. We're days away from the nearest neighbors."

Flanagan opened his eyes again. The brief revival of strength had passed and something mortal looked out at the world. He was right, he didn't have much time; and what he had left was too precious to waste on quarrelling.

Marston continued. "Why is Sam frightened? It's more than just worry."

Flanagan nodded. "Years ago…I let a man go…who should have been hanged for murder. But he was young...and I felt sorry for him." He licked his lips. "The murdered man's brother… found out…threatened to kill me…for it."

Marston frowned. "Has he tried it?"

"A few times…I think. But he's an important man now…Can't be seen with dirty hands…" The old man gasped for air. "I've got some papers…can cause him trouble…in my bags. You take care of it…for Sam."

"Leave it to me. Everything will be fine." Marston looked at the door. It was asking too much of Sam to leave them alone for much longer. Any minute now she would be back. "I'll be back tomorrow with all the arrangements made."

"I don't think….I have any other…appointments." A low chuckle wheezed out of him. He sagged back on the bed, almost deflating into sleep.

Marston looked around for the bags the old man had mentioned. The trunk by the foot of the bed seemed the best place to start.

A quick rifling indicated several layers of boys' clothing, mended trousers, darned shirts and knitted socks. Official- looking papers were further down; on one yellowed certificate he caught the words of a marriage license. At the very bottom on one side, there was an oilcloth package that was about half an inch thick. He opened the flap and peered inside. Contracts and legal agreements over several years were folded together and wedged into the interior. He tugged at them but they didn't budge.

He tucked the package into his coat and rearranged the trunk again. The old man slept on, his breathing painfully loud. Marston moved as quietly as he could to the door and opened it.

Sam stood on the other side. She peered around him and scanned the room. Finally she looked up and large tears escaped down her cheeks. Marston held out his arms and she walked into them, shoulders shaking.

He held her tight in the upstairs hallway of a rundown brothel in a harsh frontier town. Inside the room behind them a life was ending.

And in the days ahead of them a new life would begin.

She knew from first hand experience what that substance could do. The first time she had been with the Interrogator, a year and a half ago, during the Delaford picnic, HE had injected her with a suspension of the same substance, and her blood had boiled with desire for HIM. She new a small amount wouldn't have nearly so dramatic an effect, but it would be an uncomfortable feeling, especially with no release likely.

She made her way, after several wrong turns, back to her room and found the boys there, lying on a bed and reading a book together. Their eyes lit up when they saw her and they hopped off the bed and ran to her, each hugging a leg tightly. "Mummy! Where have you been?"

Claudia knelt down on the floor and hugged them both tightly. "I'm sorry boys, there's been some important work I needed to do. I'm sorry I left so suddenly."

"That's alright. We've had great fun. This house is so big! And there's horses… and we fed the ducks…and there's lots of cake in the kitchen…"

"Ed was sad though, mummy."

"I know, baby. And I need to ask you two a big favour. There are dangerous things happening here. I need you to take Ed back to Gallifrey with you and keep him safe. Can you do that for me?"

"Do we have to go back to school so soon?"

"I thought you enjoyed it. You said you'd learned more than I could."

"Yes, mummy, we love to learn about being Timelords. But we miss you."

"I'll come and be with you soon. I just need to finish a few things here first. Ed is in danger, and I need someone I can trust to keep him safe."

The boys looked solemnly at her. "You can trust us mummy."

"Good boys. Now get your things together and off to the Tardis. See if you can pursued Ed to go with you without telling him why. He is very stubborn."

Dev took the steps to his guest quarters two and three at a time, feeling more alive than he had since Therese had been taken. At least now he could act. And God alone knew that inaction had been one of the most difficult things he had ever faced. Each second that Therese was alone with HIM drove him just a bit more mad, and he didn't know how much more he could take. Finally, his waiting was at an end. He scribbled a hasty note, left it lying on his neatly made bed, and left the room.

It had taken him little time to change into servicable trousers and workboots. He'd unearthed his pistol from the depths of his traveling case--the one a man in his position could not afford to be without--though he had never dreamed that he would have to seek it on behalf of Therese, made sure his pocket knife with the saw, pick, and screwdriver attatchments was in its usual place deep within his back pocket, and left the room. His face was set in a grim, solid line of determination, and wore no other outward sign of emotion. But if there had been someone to witness the look in his eyes, those deep, dark, fathomless eyes. . .Eamon de Valera would not be stopped. He was as commmitted to bringing Therese back as he was committed to no other idea, concept, or function. If he failed, he would die trying.

Which was why Lt. Scout Sifuentes did not attempt to stop him within the halls of Delaford. He had witnessed Dev slip out of the meeting which took place in the library, when the discussion had turned to plans of strategy, and talk of waiting for the Imperial Guard. He had not expected the Irishman to tolerate a further dely, and was surrepticiously keeping an eye on de Valera. Scout allowed the man a two minute head start, then follwed.

Dev had picked up an effortless lope the moment his feet hit the front lawn, and headed due West, directly toward the area that had been discussed. Scout realized that it would not be easy to convince the other man to return. He was prepared to use whatever means were necessary.

Brandon, too, had witnessed the proceedings, and had seen the progression of defectors from his library. He took his wife gently by the arm, and led her to a quiet corner. "Mary Anne, I cannot explain at the moment, but I need for you to trust my judgement."

Mary Anne looked toward her husband, concern written in her large blue eyes, her expression intent. "What is it, Christopher?"

"Eamon's patience has reached an end. Quite frankly I am surprised that he was able to hold out this long. I have no desire to slow the strategical planning, and do not wish for Commander Hudson to be distracted. I must follow."

Mary Anne's eyes widened, the struggle within herself evident. "You cannot go alone," she managed, her tone deceptively soft.

"I will not. Lt. Sifuentes has already followed. He is a most competent man. It will be a simple thing, we will merely bring Eamon back and have him wait until the Emperess' guards arrive."

"A simple thing?" Mary Anne asked, incredulous.

Brandon nodded his head in concession. "You are right, he will not come easily, which is all the more reason I must go. Promise me you will stay here." He looked deeply into her eyes, his darkend pupils larger than normal, making his gaze even more intense. "Promise me."

Mary Anne lowered her head for a brief moment. You did not choose for yourself an easily obedient wife," she thought with a sigh.

Brandon took her shoulders firmly in his hands, forcing her to look up at him. "I cannot--will not--leave until I know you will be safe. There is no danger here. Promise me so that I can go, and we can bring back Eamon. We will have Therese back with us soon, and she will need you. Promise me."

Mary Anne raised her gaze until she looked her husband directly in the eye. "I promise, I will remain here," she said quietly.

Brandon's hand caressed her elbow briefly, his fingers grasping her own lightly before he turned, and slipped quietly from the room. Mary Anne watched him leave, then turned back toward the proceedings, one hand tightly clenching the other.

Brandon caught up to Scout before the other man had left Delaford's main gate, and together the two men jogged after de Valera.

. . . and capes.

Would someone please catch Her Majesty before she faints? ;-)