Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which Joya and I plan our future."

The rest of the afternoon and early evening saw the most splendid reunion two people ever indulged in and survived. In between bouts of activity I told Joya about my adventures since she last saw me, especially my encounters with Estrilda. She laughed until she cried, hiding her face in a pillow when the sound threatened to penetrate even the solid wood of the door. I looked on indulgently, pleased to see that she had lost that drawn, tense look.

A peremptory knock during the dinner hour sent me back behind the tapestry again. It was Marion’s servant, enquiring after her patient’s appetite. Joya managed to straddle the fine line between not being able go down to dinner but still requiring a substantial repast. The woman went off to the kitchens and staggered back loaded down with enough provisions to last us all night and most of the next day. As soon as she was gone, we barred the door again and fell on the food like ravenous wolves. Joya cheerfully declared that her recent distaste for roasted meat did not extend to poultry and she consumed two whole quail with relish. I ate the third and managed to secure a small portion of the vegetables and dried fruits. Then to make up for such gluttony, I mopped up the sauces with chunks of bread and fed them to her as she cuddled against my shoulder.

Finally we sank back against the pillows, all our hungers sated, at least momentarily. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the feel of clean silk sheets and a thick feather mattress. It wasn't my own bed, of course, but it felt positively opulent compared to the lumpy pallet at the Mottled Ox. Joya sprawled on top of me, her long hair tangled round my fingers. Settling her more comfortably, I roused my sluggish mind to deal with matters of immediate importance. I had to leave before some attendant arrived and we had some vital planning to do. "Joya? Are you still awake?"

"Hmm?" she breathed and burrowed against me.

I shook her gently. "Come on, we have to talk. Wake up."

"Don't want to." It sounded like a pout. She reinforced it by digging her nails into my chest.

"Neither do I but we have no choice." Hissing slightly, I disengaged her talons and captured her hand before more damage could be inflicted. "We have to talk about the future. Krone has to die, that's obvious. I'll handle that end of things. I can do it tonight before I leave -"

"What?" Joya lifted her head and stared at me. "George, wait a -"

"I said I can kill Krone before I leave tonight. Yes," I frowned in thought. "It had better be tonight. We don't know when the king arrives. If he comes tomorrow the castle will be full of soldiers and it will be harder to move around without attracting attention."

" - minute!" She scrambled into a sitting position, her hair tossing wildly around her shoulders.

"And then of course Krone would have to dance attendance on the king so there would be too many witnesses." I smiled to reassure her. She seemed very agitated about something. "Don't worry, darling. Tonight it is and you'll never have to see him again. Won't that be wonderful?"

"George, listen to me." She seized my shoulders and punctuated each word with a slight shake. "You cannot kill Krone.

"Of course I can." I couldn't understand her meaning. "There are any number of ways I can do it. All I have to do is get him alone in his room. One good dagger thrust and he'll be on his way heavenward to join all his fallen Crusader pals."

She let go of me and pressed her hands to her temples, closing her eyes as if she were in pain. "George, that is not possible."

"Yes, it is. I'm not without experience, sweetheart." I insisted gently. Really, I simply could not follow her reasoning. "Straight through the gut from the front or either side. It's trickier from the back but it can still be done if you take your time and don't rush. Now personally, I prefer to get in and out in one stroke but there is just as much to be said for -"

Joya leaned over me and covered my mouth with her hands. "Be quiet for a moment and listen to me! You cannot kill Krone. It would be suicide. We've got to be methodical about this. And stop licking my fingers."

I pulled her hand away from my lips. "Then don't tempt me with them. And I am being methodical. I won't march up to him in front of the whole castle and pull out my blade. I'll make sure there's no one around. Give me credit for some intelligence."

"George." She switched tactics, purring my name as she traced circles up my chest. My suspicion was instantly aroused. "It's too dangerous. I would be devastated if anything happened to you. Please don't go after Krone."

"It's a pity I'm so exhausted already, darling, or that little trick might actually work." I pulled away so I could watch her. "Very well. What do you think we should do instead?"

"The only logical course is my original plan." She dropped the romantic facade and fell back onto the pillows beside me. "You leave town and stay someplace safe for a few months. I marry Krone, everyone leaves after the wedding, he falls off the wall and I'm left a pregnant widow. After some time passes, you can slip back into Nottingham. I arrange for you to be pardoned by the king and you get your lands back. It will take some doing but I think it's feasible."

I looked at her in silence for a long time. I don't know much about pregnant women but I do remember hearing that they sometimes get peculiar notions. Something to do with the physical changes in their bodies, I suppose. It was the only explanation I could come up with for such a ridiculous suggestion.

"We can't be impulsive about this." Joya continued. "The stakes are too high. A pardon can be contrived but it will take some time to bring about. And it will cost a fair bit too. From the gossip I've been hearing this week, the king needs money now that he's back from the Holy Land and I believe he'll overlook past troubles if he can be assured of ready funds."

I stared at the canopy over our heads. Obviously her condition was having an effect on her reasoning. As if I was going to hide in the forest like a common outlaw while she married that pompous fool and flattered the king on my behalf! The very idea was repugnant to me. I was the master in this household and I would act as I saw fit. I shouldn't have told her what I was going to do. I had no wish to cause her undue anxiety. We both had to think of little George and the effect it would have on him. No, all things considered, it would be better if she didn't know anything in advance so she wouldn't worry.

"I know it's asking a lot of you. But you have to understand that things have changed. You're not Lord Nottingham any more. You can't just point your finger and fire commands at everyone. I know what I'm talking about. Many times in my life I've had to take the roundabout route to get where I want to go. It takes longer but it's worth it in the end." She rolled onto her side to gaze at me earnestly. The firelight caught the gold tints in her hair. "So I want you to promise me that you won't try to kill Krone tonight or ever and that we'll do this my way."

"Of course, darling." I turned to meet her gaze and lied with a smile. "You have my sacred oath on it."

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Moving day tomorrow; will be away until the 10th, - Saturday, September 30, 2000 at 18:44:24 (PDT)

FOF Set, Cindie sits at her desk, ruminating now on what happened earlier that afternoon:

“You left.” Cindie looked up to see Patrick Mistral standing in the entrance to her cubical. His gaze was level, his voice was neutral. Why did she feel as though she’d been accused of a criminal act?

“What do you mean?” she replied, pretending she didn’t know exactly what he meant.

“I noticed you stop by the set this morning, but, when the scene was over and I looked for you, you’d left.” He had been working at the fingernails of his left hand with his right-removing an imaginary piece of detritus from one of his fingernails. Now he looked at her with an impassive expression.

“I had work to do.” The excuse sounded lame even to her own ears.

Patrick looked down at the floor moving his right foot in an arc. “I see.” He said looking down.

“I do have a job you know,” she said defensively. She shot out of her chair, propelled by emotion, and stood facing him.

“Of course.” He said simply.

“It’s not as if I can just hang around the dungeon all day hoping to get a chance to talk with you.”

“Of course not.”

Anger flashed through her. “Why should I feel guilty because there is work to do?” she demanded. Why do I feel like I’ve betrayed him somehow?

“You shouldn’t.”

They stood there looking at each other in silence. At this moment a runner from the set arrived. He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds and then stammered, “Excuse me sir, they sent me to tell you, the camera is fixed. You’re wanted back on the set now.”

“Very well, thank you.” Mistral looked at Cindie, turned on his heels, and went back to work.
Cindie
Has PM ever been known to frequent the Stag and Thistle?, - Saturday, September 30, 2000 at 14:44:55 (PDT)

Therese, I see that I am going to have to make room at the top for my "favorite" FOF story---all right, I admit it, they are all at the top--not possible, you say? Well this is a created world, and lots of "number ones"
a Rickman admirer
- Saturday, September 30, 2000 at 12:19:33 (PDT)

FOF--Off Set

Therese was mad. No, she reconsidered, she was furious. She'd been upset with Eamon after their dinner the previous evening. He wanted committment, she felt crowded, but when she tried to talk to him about it, he retreated behind the bluff and bluster of his perceived rejection.

Anger had entered into the picture after the spectacle Eamon and Hugh had put her through in the lunch room earlier in the day. That, undoubtedly, had been planned.

Stalking off the set, she'd carefully walked around the left side of the vehicle, where her driving instincts told her she should be, opend the right side door, and sank gratefully into the driver's seat of her new Mitsubishi Eclipse, relieved that she could call it a day. She'd arrived home, expecting an apology to be waiting for her with the blinking light on the answer phone, but though there were messages, none were from Eamon.

Thinking that a run would improve her frame of mind, she quickly moved through the spacious loft, entered the bedroom, donned a t-shirt and running tights, hooked the dog up to the leash, and headed out for a run. Four miles, friendly waves from the familiar faces along her route, and the dawning recognition that more and more people seemed to recognize her when she was out. Still, no one invaded her personal space or her privacy, and even when the occassional autograph seeker did stop her with a request, she was still too bemused by the whole thing to find anything to object about. Besides, no one ever stopped her when she ran, Tory pretty much saw to that.

She returned to the flat, feeling flushed but invigorated--until she noted that the status of the messages on her answering machine had not changed while she'd been away. And still had not by the time she'd showered and dressed. "Damn," she muttered, as she fed the dog and the cat, then paced the length of the kitchen and hall.

She was not going to call him, she absolutely was not going to call, and the fact that she felt she shouldn't have to, that by all rights he should have called her long since, well, that's when her anger crescendoed into fury.

Picking up the phone, she dialed Mary Anne. After all, it was Friday and the start of a weekend, there was still hope for the evening. For her and Christopher, anyway--they had tickets to a show. As did Claudia, who was terribly pleased with Ed, given he had managed to find tickets to The Lion King, which was playing on the West End, was booked through till Christmas, and wasn't that lovely? Therese agreed gloomily, and reset the phone it its cradle.

Joanna was volunteering at the hospital. Scout was teaching the final night of his self-defense course. Renie and Hans had caught a flight to Paris for the weekend. Linda was babysitting the grands. The Director, who didn't seem as surprised as Therese had thought he would be to receive her call, "Had plans," and was not forthcoming with any further information.

Therese sighed. Her anger was disolving into self-pity at an alarming rate.

Giving herself a mental shake, she marched to the bathroom, gave a few moments over to styling her hair, applied a light coat of lipstick, a not so light amount of her favourite perfume, and decided that she would have fun this evening in spite of everything.

She hadn't been to a pub by herself since she'd moved to England, but she and her cast mates had been to The Stag and Thistle many times. Taking a deep breath she entered the establishment, a wide grin upon her features, and always play the part, running through her head.

There were a lot of people present already, and the mild crush nearly sent her back the way she'd come, but determination won out. Reaching the bar she was rewarded by a warm welcome from the barkeep. She placed her order, and was just getting comfortable in a high back chair when she caught a glimpse of him.

And there was no mistaking him.

She felt the air escape her lungs, but it didn't seem as if she was able to take a replacement breath. It was almost the same sensation as the countless times she'd been thrown from horses, the impact of the ground causing her heart to race, the heavy, arduous feeling of dragging unresponsive limbs back into service after impact.

It wasn't physical, this crushing, paralyzing impact that reminded her of the bone jarring trauma of a wreck, but the effects felt every bit as devastating--if not more so.

The bartender returned with Therese's drink order, and peered at her curiously. "You all right, love?" he asked.

Therese nodded dumbly, and slid several coins toward him without thought.

For she couldn't take her eyes off of the man on the dance floor, and the breath stealing sight of him as he moved with his partner. His motions were fluid and graceful as he lead her on the floor, tucking her close against his body. His hips followed the beat of the music, arms supporting, helping her to read the rhythm in the music, the beat, and in himself.

Belly rubbing music, Ed had jokingly called it at the wedding, only a short time ago.

But that time, Eamon de Valera had been dancing with her, not the gorgeous creature wrapped tightly around him at The Stag and Thistle.

Therese
- Friday, September 29, 2000 at 23:21:08 (PDT)

Cindie--what a "sweet" comment that is. ;-) Thank you.

MA
Who is VERY fond of . . . candy. *ahem* , - Friday, September 29, 2000 at 21:14:35 (PDT)

MA, When I read your posts I feel like a kid in a candy store. Of course its eye candy. That is I candy.
Cindie
Make that Mr. I candy, - Friday, September 29, 2000 at 16:45:02 (PDT)

FOF set, Mister I’s cubicle:

Mister I, during a brief break in which a malfunctioning camera is being examined, sits in his cubicle reading some script pages-a most peculiar sort of reading, as several minutes go by and he does not turn a single page, but stares blankly at the sheets.

Some throat-clearing noises at the door finally attract his attention, at which he blinks, startled, and looks up to see Mary Anne standing in his doorway, holding a sheaf of papers.

"Ah . . . come in, Mary Anne," he invites, hastily rising from his chair, but Mary Anne waves him back to it, her expression . . . what is her expression, exactly? Neutral. Unfathomable.

"A pleasant surprise," he continues. "What brings you here?"

"Just some projections for future scenes. I thought you’d like to see them," she replies calmly, handing over some of the papers. "And these."

He examines the few extra sheets she passes to him, frowning slightly as he catches the web address clearly marked at the top of the pages: bengalcat.com .

With a small grimace of chagrin, he looks up at her. "Are you angry?"

Mary Anne does not smile, precisely, but there is no rancour in her gaze. "No. In fact, I think I’m a little envious."

"Of me? Because I have a cat?"

"No." And this time, she does smile. "Of Cindie."

Mister I peers hard into her face for a moment, then smiles in relief, a warm and affectionate grin that transforms those angular features into something uniquely attractive. "Now she tells me," he informs the ceiling, snapping his fingers in mock regret at a missed opportunity. Then, perusing the pages, he indicates one of the pictures. "There. Annabelle looks a lot like that one."

Mary Anne looks and gives a low whistle of astonishment and appreciation at the contrast of the creamy and dusky markings of the animal that resembles a silver leopard in miniature. "Well, you have fine taste in cats, I must say. Almost as fine as your taste in women." She gives him a sidelong, appraising look. "This one seems very lovely. Don’t let her get away, Mister I-"

He cuts in, not even sure of why. "My name is Mistral-"

"I know." Gently. "Mistral." (homage) A pause. "I’m happy for you."

"A little too soon for that, don’t you think?" Suddenly, he finds himself in a mood to confide.

"Too soon?"

"Well . . ." He fidgets, toying with his wristwatch. "We’ve worked together a long time, haven’t we, Mary Anne?"

"From the beginning."

"Yes. Well, you’ve seen what it’s like. I wish I could understand . . ." Tiredly, he pulls one hand through his hair. " . . . what it is that women see in HIM. I enjoy the role, but I’m ready for someone to see me. More than ready." He shrugs. "But you probably wouldn’t understand."

"Wouldn’t I?" retorts Mary Anne. "Always so pure and gooooood . . ." He bursts into laughter at her sickening drawl over "good," and earns a wry smile. "Though I know your side of it, too, come to think of it. Remember the Evil Mary Anne thread?"

"How can I forget?" he croons.

"Well, you should have seen some of my fan mail from that. Men who-" Mary Anne blushes a little, then nerves herself to go on. "Men who said that they wouldn’t have minded being the one strapped to that table!"

It is truly good of Mister I not to laugh. He confines himself to a raised eyebrow, and exclaims, "You’re having me on!"

"I’m not; I promise. Maybe," ruminates Mary Anne, "it’s some of the same thrillseeking that makes people read horror novels or go to scary movies. It’s safe danger; they can close the book, or leave the theatre." She turns on him a frank look that makes him shift about a little in his chair. "I doubt seriously these women would really want to meet an Interrogator. But they can get those thrills off of you-and it keeps them from thinking too much about real dangers, the ones we can’t stop when they’re happening to us." Another sly smile. "And probably none of them think you’d really hurt them if they were in your . . . power."

His return smile is razor sharp. "Scarpia," he enunciates. "Not in the opera. You’re read Sardou’s Tosca, the play?"

Mary Anne nods, a little flash of recognition in her eyes. "La torture aussi?" she queries playfully.

"Jusqu’a ce que tu m’aimais," he promptly counter-quotes, and Mary Anne nods in understanding as he adds, sombrely: "If they think HE wouldn’t really hurt them, they missed the episodes with Therese. But I don’t want to hurt . . ." A pause. "Anyone."

"I believe you. And I wish you luck. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help."

"Thank you." Then, so the moment will not become awkward, he taps the second set of pages. "Scene projections, you said?"

"Oh, yes! Some ideas Claudia and I had been thinking up . . ."

"Spare me," he groans. "If you and Claudia have been at it on scenes for me-more torture, right?"

"Are you anxious, or eager?" ripostes Mary Anne, chuckling as she moves toward the door so Mister I can read the scene proposals in peace. "You have to understand, though, that it may be necessary for HIM." She turns at the door, shaking her head. "After all, your character is so proud and stubborn." Then, with a little wiggle of her fingers, Mary Anne is gone, and so does not hear his quiet reply: "You have no idea."

MA
Floria Tosca: "Torture, as well?" Scarpia: "Until you loved me." (Courtesy of FOF Translation Service) *grin*, - Thursday, September 28, 2000 at 19:13:02 (PDT)

*Snorfling* like crazy... Cindie, it's too bad my storyline isn't set in Bermuda - that would be perfect!
Sandy
I'm just happy it didn't show up as black sand. Would it then have to be bleached before dyeing?, - Thursday, September 28, 2000 at 15:26:59 (PDT)

Emma, the continuity girl, was back from discussing with the props department the appropriate coloring and placement of the sand, when she heard over the radio

During Hollywood Salutes Bruce Willis: An American Cinematheque Tribute on Turner Network Television (TNT), host Alan Rickman mentioned that the Queen Mum had worn out her DVD of the film Hudson Hawk. Sources close to Buckingham Palace have hastened to clariy that she replaced that DVD several months ago with a DVD of Dark Harbor, and the music video In Demand. The Queen Mum has not been available for comment.
This is Ian Nai, BBC World Service

Oh Sandy.....the new supply of sand just arrived. It's pink. Do you think the props department can dye it?
Cindie
putting on my best innocent smile, - Thursday, September 28, 2000 at 06:21:37 (PDT)

Sandy’s eyes flashed as she stood up and grabbed her script from the printer, groaning. "I’m sorry I ever told you I said that! It’s going to turn into a running bad joke, isn’t it?" Chris laughed good-naturedly. "Of course! Like you even have to ask..."

"Oh, man... You do want me to help you, don’t you? I don’t suppose I get a consultant’s fee for this either," Sandy growled, scowling furiously. "If I can’t get two salaries, you certainly can’t get a consultant’s fee," Chris teased. "Phhht," Sandy raspberried her, but grinned wickedly as she picked up her coffee mug, sniffing appreciatively as the fragrant aroma reached her nostrils. "So where do you sit?"

"Right around the corner. C’mon, let’s go! I have to report to the wardrobe mistress in an hour," Chris replied excitedly, taking off in a run. "Slow down! Just how many cups of tea did you have so far this morning?" Sandy asked suspiciously, trying not to spill any coffee on her jeans in her efforts to catch up with her much taller friend. "One, o caffeine fiend," Chris snickered as she obligingly slowed down. Sandy rolled her eyes in silent reply.

"You said your storyline is sci-fi and fantasy, right?" Sandy asked as she caught up with Chris, who nodded. "I’ve got an extremely important tip for you: make sure you’re never wearing your costume around Alex."

Chris stared at her friend in puzzlement. "Why on earth not?" "He gets sci-fi convention flashbacks," Sandy replied with a giggle. "This from somebody who gets her jollies by saying 'By Grabthar’s Hammer' and saluting the man whenever she gets a chance to," Chris snorted as she imitated the Tev'Mek salute. "And your point is?" Sandy raised her left eyebrow. "There is no point. I’m just having a great time ribbing you," Chris chuckled.

"Well, let me amuse you some more. Take a look at this," Sandy said, giving her a piece of paper. "What is it?" Chris asked curiously as her hand hovered over the printout. "Go ahead, take a look. This sheet's just a list," Sandy invited her friend, taking a large sip of her coffee as they entered Chris’s cubicle. Chris's blue eyes widened as she scanned the sheet. "Those are rather unusual set props you're asking for here," she murmured.

Sandy's eyes twinkled with mischief as they sat down. "Tell me about it. I've already received a memo about the requests I’ve made so far. The accounting department's having a major fit about the amount of money being spent on sand. I'm told that Cindie's looking for a new supplier since we've already exhausted the current supplier's reserves," she remarked.

"I can definitely believe that about the sand business. By the way you keep dumping it on Alexander, he'll have enough of the stuff to open his own private beach," Chris replied with a giggle, Sandy joining in. "He's actually been a good sport about the whole thing," Sandy said with a gentle smile.

"He may revise his opinion when he sees this," Chris observed, involuntarily shivering when she saw the last 5 items listed on the paper. "Umm...he already has," Sandy murmured, her face reddening slightly as she bit her lip. "And you're still alive to tell the tale? Wow, I'm impressed," Chris teased. "I just hope he doesn't have any type of phobia - or the other cast members, for that matter," Sandy chuckled as she pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes.

"I’m positive that by the time you’re finished with the story, they certainly will! I would, at any rate. Have you been taking writing lessons from the Interrogator or what?" Chris asked as she moved away a box of personal items that had yet to be unpacked so she could put her chair next to Sandy's. Sandy rubbed her hands together in glee, an absolutely evil expression crossing her face. "No way! This is completely my own doing."

"The verdict’s in: you’re totally mad from working on THAT..." Chris sighed. "I AM sane! It’s just my imagination that’s completely nuts," Sandy replied. "Let’s see what you’ve got written so far."

Chris gave her a draft of her next script. "Thanks," Sandy murmured and quickly read through the first five pages, making notations in the margins as she did so. "Backstory here..." she muttered under her breath, blinking hard when she was about halfway down the sixth. "Unicorns with red horns?!" she exclaimed. "Thought that would get your attention," Chris grinned. "That it did...," Sandy nodded in agreement as the two began tossing ideas back and forth.

Sandy
- Wednesday, September 27, 2000 at 18:09:38 (PDT)

Magda, you're fantastic. Thanks for the info-ps-would love to have George and Joya on DVD too!
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, September 27, 2000 at 15:21:00 (PDT)

"Sandy, you're not going to believe this!" Chris almost shouted as she stormed into the little cubicle. "What's happened?" Sandy responded, eyes alight and gesturing to Chris to sit down on a chair.

"My lead lady had to drop out last minute, apparently, and the Director put ME in there! I've never acted before in my life, so this is a nightmare! My first bit of writing and my first ever acting all at the same time, I'm so stressed I almost feel like I'm working on THAT project again!"

"Now now, it can't be that bad," Sandy retorted, a wicked smile on her face. She shuddered. "NOTHING could be that bad," she continued vehemently. "So, how's it going? Have you done any scenes with Hamlet yet? Is he as gorgeous as he looks?"

"It's going ok, at least I already know the lines, and I have to admit right now I'm more worried about the story-line, but I just can't believe it happened! Can you believe I told the Director that if I was doing both jobs I ought to get paid both salaries?" Chris grinned as she remembered the scene. "And yes, he is gorgeous, and the very first scene contains both of us. But I'm worried I've taken the story ahead too quickly, without enough details. There are so many things I'd like to change now I've seen it in action," Chris continued, with a frown on her face. "I've already learned so much, and we've only done 4 scenes, but I really do have to work a bit more on my scripts before I release them to be done. You'll have to come by my cube-it's only just up there, and have a look at the storyline so far, give me some criticism. You've been doing this for so long, and I'm sure you could give me some pointers." Chris winked at Sandy. "Oh, by the way, I hear you've made Alexander sandy again!"
Chris
Ok Sandy, your turn...grin, - Wednesday, September 27, 2000 at 08:44:24 (PDT)

Admirer: now that the last scene is out of the way, I can anwswer your question. In the Middle Ages, when the issue of inheritance of property by posthumous offspring arose, everything would be put on hold until the mother gave birth. Since that could take several months during which time everything would grind to a halt legally speaking, it became a convention that the child was assumed to be a boy until physical evidence to the contrary was available. To use a techie phrase, a boy baby was the "automatic default position". Joya is simply being prudent and hoping for the best.

As for George's impending papa-dom: you're right in that he's not imagining walking the floor at two in the morning. He's thinking more along the lines of another generation inflicting mayhem on the Midlands and the impact little Georges will have on the immediate neighbourhood.
Magda
- Wednesday, September 27, 2000 at 06:06:35 (PDT)

Cannot imagine George as a papa, although he might already be one, knowing his "habits". Patrick Mistral is a nice name--I would like to know more about this mysterious character, as long as it doesn't include barbecues, and he doesn't hurt Claudia~~~~~
a Rickman admirer
- Tuesday, September 26, 2000 at 21:27:43 (PDT)

Magda, That was lovely. Well worth the tiny wait. I always knew George had a nice, if somewhat lingeringly murderous, side. Thank you.
A-m
"Seat "more firmly in seat once again!, - Tuesday, September 26, 2000 at 19:12:41 (PDT)

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which Joya finishes her story - and the partnership is once again a going concern."

"Pregnant." I repeated the word carefully.

"Yes, pregnant. Expecting. Having a baby. Great with child. Baking a bun in the oven." Joya mimed a swollen belly with both hands. Her smile widened into a grin. "You do know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Yes, I do." I looked her over carefully, alert for signs of change. It might have been my imagination but she did seem a little plumper around the waist and a bit heavier - uh, higher up. I wouldn't have thought that was possible. It certainly warranted further investigation. But - regrettably - there were other matters that had to be cleared up first. So I swallowed hard, averted my eyes and dragged the conversation back to the main subject. "And so you selflessly agreed to marry Krone just to preserve my lands?"

"To tell you the truth, I wasn't thinking that far ahead at first." She leaned into my shoulder and made herself comfortable. "The shocks of your murder and being pregnant almost overwhelmed me. All I could think of was if I agreed to marry him, he'd go away and leave me alone. All I wanted just then was to be left alone."

She was snuggling against me, fitting as comfortably as if she'd been designed as part of my wardrobe. I slipped my arm around her and tightened my hold until she squeaked in protest. With my other hand I toyed with a strand of her hair. The scent of lavender clung to my fingers. We were both in very tight situations and my castle was full of people who wanted me dead in the slowest possible manner, but nothing had the power at that moment to disturb my tranquillity. We were safe behind that barred door. I tugged on Joya's hair. "Then what happened?"

She shrugged, dislodging her chemise further down her shoulders. "Well, he did leave me alone, after he told me how honoured he would be and how much he'd cherish me if I said yes. Then he went off to see to the winding up of the household and I retired to bed with a cold cloth on my forehead. I had this idea that once we were away from the lodge and in town where there were other people, I could contrive to break my promise and get away from him. I had your gold after all. If I could persuade Marion that I had made a mistake and wanted to retire to a convent, she would have helped me and Krone would have been helpless to stop it. But the more I thought about the way his men had apparently murdered you, the more I was determined to make sure your son inherited your title and lands. And so I made my acceptance conditional upon his receiving the lordship of Nottingham. He was ecstatic and swore he would make sure it happened."

She obviously believed this was a clever ploy but I had my doubts. While I didn't have much use for Krone either, the man wasn’t a total moron and he could presumably count. "What were you going to do when he noticed that you were carrying a child in your womb long before he could have put it there himself?"

"Oh, I spent a lot of time thinking about that, too." Joya rescued her hair from my grip and twirled the ends around her fingers. "All during the ride to Nottingham I was considering several options but it wasn't until I got here that I figured out the details. Every day I walked along the ramparts of the castle on the north side, where the cliffs are, and worked out exactly what I would do. I'd wait until the wedding was over and the king and his entourage gone. We'd be all alone and I'd suggest a walk along the walls in the early evening. We'd stop at the north tower, just where the drop is the highest, and Krone would slip on the loose stones by the portcullis and fall to his death."

"You're assuming a lot." I laughed. "There aren't any loose stones up there."

She slid me a look from under half-closed lids. "There are now."

The laughter congealed in my throat. Fortunately, she didn't seem to feel that a response from me was necessary but continued with her story while I gasped for air. "I would be left a grieving widow who would be prostrate with grief at the thought of my husband never being able to hold his heir in his arms. Everyone would assume that Krone and I had been intimate at the lodge. I would swear that the child was his and if I give birth to a boy, he would inherit his supposed father's lands and title while I raised him to know the circumstances of his birth and the identity of his true sire. On the other hand, if it turns out to be a girl, well, I would accept a financial settlement and the king would probably gift the holding back to Robin of Locksley. Not the ideal denouement by any means but at least I would have the satisfaction of knowing that I'd tried my best."

I was breathing normally again although there was a stentorian quality to the sound. The breadth of her machinations dazed me. This was a woman any man would be proud to claim! And she was all mine. I wasn't taking any more chances of losing her: we would be married as soon as it was safely possible. I'd have to eliminate Krone, of course; in her condition, she couldn't do it herself. The winter wind blew briskly on the walls. I didn't want her to catch cold up there. Sir Walter would meet his end at my hands in a less lofty setting. Still, the thought of what she'd been prepared to do for me warmed the very marrow of my bones. I wrapped both arms around Joya and hugged her tight. She responded enthusiastically and we didn't talk for many minutes.

Finally she lifted her head and peered at me through disarranged hair. "Well, am I forgiven or do you still want to punish me?"

"There is nothing to forgive, partner," I kissed her nose. "And yes, I want to punish you very much. So get back here."

She obeyed with alacrity. Lying on the covers in the light of a dying fire, we celebrated the renewal of our alliance and the beginning of new life. It was strange: I'd always envisioned my homecoming as a bloody affair, with battles and fighting and the steely taste of hard-won victory. But there on a bed not my own with Joya, I felt at peace. I had come home.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
- Tuesday, September 26, 2000 at 18:48:01 (PDT)

FOF Set:

Cindie set her briefcase on her desk and slipped the notebook inside. She leaned back in her swivel chair and reflected on the day. Its tantalizing beginning had slipped into a blur of activity as it unfolded. She hadn’t had time to reflect on its implications until now. Her conversation with Patrick Mistral kept replaying itself in her mind.

He clearly was a very private man. She chuckled to herself at the understatement. Despite what she had since decided was genuine alarm on his part, there had not been a whisper of his cat-owning status on the set. It seemed unlikely that on further reflection Mary Anne would maintain her assumption that his cat was a feral tigress. It seemed further unlikely that the sense of untapped suspense he had generated was, in itself, going to deter her from revealing his secret. What was apparent was that his fellow cast members, including Mary Anne, had a great deal of respect for him. That, along with Mary Anne’s own ethical and moral makeup was more than sufficient to ensure his privacy in this matter. But why the nervousness in the first place?

She sighed recalling their parting. She had hoped to continue their conversation. At one point she had stopped by the dungeon set. Looking at the metal bars in place at each individual cell she had shuddered. Although make believe, the cozy looking gulag was part of make believe at its best. They were just beginning to film when she’d caught a glimpse of him. After the bantering intimacy at their table this morning it had been difficult to watch Patrick’s transformation. She had watched him joke with a lighting technician one moment, then, just as he’d taken his mark she’d watched his familiarity scurry into hiding. The soulless eyes of the Interrogator appeared and gave her pause. She left the dungeon set with a vague sense of disquiet.
Cindie
I'm here too--I wish I could take a sabbatical from my day job and do this full time!, - Tuesday, September 26, 2000 at 18:34:28 (PDT)

Claudia held her breath for a moment. This felt more and more like a game, she was being toyed with like a mouse waiting for the cat's paw to fall for the final blow. She decided to pretend, for the moment that she didn't have any doubts about the other prisoner.

"Of course you are real. We are talking to each other. We are interacting. You don't need to see something to know it is there."

"They can do that these days. Computers an' things. We could all be part of some simulation, stuck in a loop…"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" yelled Claudia… then took a few breaths, steadying herself. "I'm sorry…" her voice shaking falsely. "I'm sorry, please talk to me, I didn't mean to shout. We're alone down here, we should stick together."

"Alone…" the Interrogator's voice echoed through the hallways. "That's the worst of it, after a while you can't separate yourself from the shadows. After a while all you are is a shadow. Not real not any more."

"Tell me about yourself," said Claudia, not the most patient person, but trying very hard. "Tell me your story, then perhaps you'll find yourself."

"Don't know that I know that story. Perhaps if you tell me yours, it might jog my memory?"

Claudia sighed again, and after a brief pause, began to tell him the more mundane, uncontroversial parts of her life. Trying to prove to him that at least she was more than a voice.
Claudia
I'm here!, - Tuesday, September 26, 2000 at 17:49:00 (PDT)

Patience, patience, all will be revealed in due course. But where is everyone else?
Magda
- Tuesday, September 26, 2000 at 16:28:22 (PDT)

How does Lady Joya know that the baby is a boy? Perhaps the Sheriff would insist on his issue being of the male persuasion? Life and chance have a way of disabusing us of such matters--since Joya seems to be a bit smarter than George, perhaps a child taking after Joya would be acceptable to him?
a Rickman admirer
- Tuesday, September 26, 2000 at 13:39:20 (PDT)

I'm so close to the edge of my seat that I may do permanent damage to something. I'm wearing a path in the carpet running up and down the stairs looking for a new posting. The story gets better and better!! Since I need my "seat" in the future and I can't afford new carpeting at the moment, please post as soon as possible.

My seat and my wallet, not to mention my psyche, will certainly appreciate it!!! Thanks in advance!!
A-m
- Monday, September 25, 2000 at 16:46:20 (PDT)

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which Joya continues her story - and I hear some unexpected news."

The room was dark now except for the glow from the fire. The sun had probably set sometime ago leaving behind the deepening gloom of a late winter afternoon. The wind buffeted the shutters, futilely begging admittance. On the bed, I lay on my side and cuddled Joya, alternately bribing and rewarding her with caresses. I had decided to change my strategy; threats weren't working so I would lull her suspicions by physical demonstrations of affection. This way I was in charge. It was working so well that I was forgetting it was only a tactic. For her part Joya lay on her side, telling her story and purring like a cat.

"So what happened when Marion and Krone arrived?" I nuzzled her throat.

"Well, there was a fuss because the lodge really isn't big enough to handle that many people who need separate bedrooms. Ooo, that's nice! More!" She wiggled until I had better access which I immediately took advantage of. "Marion was there to meet Melisant of course. They spent most of their time together, getting to know each other. I was concerned because Krone moved right in too. The dratted man was constantly underfoot, poking his nose into things and asking questions of the servants. Fortunately, we ran low on food and he had to get out into the forest to bring some meat in. It was easier to put up with him when I didn't have to see him."

I pushed her chemise off one shoulder and applied myself to the exposed area. "And then what?"

"Don't be so impatient." She arched her back with more purring but I pulled back until she resumed. "Things got very active. Messengers were constantly arriving with important business. Krone dealt with all of them but it seemed to me he was waiting for something special. On the second day, a horseman in Locksley colours rode in with news that the king was coming north early and that Krone and Marion were to escort Melisant to Nottingham as soon as possible. The wedding was going to take place as soon as the king arrived. You can imagine the pandemonium resulting from that little announcement."

"Mmm, hmm. I certainly can." I had rediscovered a most enjoyable area. "Go on."

"Just what I was going to say to you," she sighed. After a moment, she managed to rouse herself. "Well, the servants began packing and Melisant started crying and I was spending most of my time in my room under the pretext of having a severe headache (which wasn't completely a lie, by the way). I couldn't wait to see the last of them. But that afternoon Odo came back. He and Krone disappeared for a long time and when they came out Krone insisted on speaking to me immediately. When we were alone, he told me that he was very sorry but that you had tried once more to escape and that Odo's men had killed you. Apparently you were very violent."

"Force of habit, no doubt." I stroked her back and watched the effect in her eyes. This part of the story interested me exceedingly. "What did you say to that bit of news?"

"I was speechless. I did wonder if he could be lying but I was in no position to challenge him or even to send someone to Barnesdale to find out what happened." Joya pulled away from me and sat up. The covers slipped down to her waist, allowing me to watch the play of firelight on her hair and flesh. "But mostly I was dazed. I couldn't stop thinking that even though Odo and Krone had killed you, that I was the true murderer. If I hadn't acquiesced in your arrest, if we'd fought it somehow, you would still be alive. And then I remembered how you'd threatened me when they took you away. At the time, I told myself that it would convince the sheriff that the whole thing wasn't a trick. But when Krone told me you were dead, I knew that you would have died believing that I'd betrayed you. And I found that a heavy burden."

Unshed tears shone in the flickering light and she brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. I felt her distress like a needle-sharp pain. It irked me to admit it but she had done her best to save my life. And I was even more annoyed when I knew there was much she wasn't telling me: how vulnerable she must have felt in Krone's power, how isolated she was at the lodge. I thought about that silver cup buried in her wardrobe and my blood chilled at what Krone might have done had he known about her theft. I reached up and curled a strand of hair around my fingers, gently tugging her back down to my side. With a loud sniff, she allowed me to have my way and we lay silent for some time, listening to the sounds of hearth and wind. Finally she gave a deep sigh and continued her account.

"He was quite sickeningly unctuous about the whole thing, told me that he was sure you'd been a good servant and would be hard to replace. He even managed to get your name right, so I knew he was trying to play up to me." Joya propped her head on my chest and toyed with the laces on my tunic. "Then he asked me to marry him! He said he knew it was bad timing but that with their imminent departure he was forced to be more precipitate than he would have liked. I wanted to say no but I had - other considerations. So I told him I was honoured but would need some time to think before I answered. He told me that he could only give me two days as the household was leaving then. I agreed."

"What 'other considerations' are you talking about?" I stroked her hair. Had she been frightened of Krone's reaction if she refused him?

She turned her head to meet my eyes. "I made a - discovery - during those frantic days. I'd had my suspicions before but that week I was sure. And so I agreed to marry him, provided the king granted the lordship of Nottingham to him."

I sat up abruptly, dislodging her. "Ah, yes, I have some questions about that. Explain this determination to be Lady Nottingham. You never indicated to me that it was a great desire of yours."

"It wasn't until a month ago." She propped herself on one arm, the faintest smile curving her lips. "That's when I found out I was pregnant. And marrying Krone and becoming Lady Nottingham was the only way I could ensure that your son inherited your lands."

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Admirer: two a day is too much but thanks anyway, - Sunday, September 24, 2000 at 18:17:29 (PDT)

"So." The voice of The Empress. "We already knew HE is clever."

"Too clever by half," agrees Rupert, who has just brought her a report from the Captain of the Guard. "He says he didn’t interfere, as he thought we might get some useful information. There isn’t any way The Interrogator can actually get at Claudia . . ."

The Empress shakes her head. "I wouldn’t be so certain of that; we’ve had reports that HE can cause pain with HIS voice alone. But I understand what you mean. I assume the Captain is keeping a recording of what’s going on down there?"

"Of course." Rupert is silent for a moment. "As I said-HE can’t get at her, but this could be disturbing to Claudia, all the same. I had to reprimand a guard who couldn’t control his tongue."

A sharp look from The Empress. "What did he say to her?"

"Just a hint that she might be tortured-a joke in rather questionable taste, nothing more. Now, with that on her mind . . ."

Rupert allows the sentence to trail off, and The Empress frowns a little, considering. "As much as I would wish to spare Claudia any distress," she says slowly, "I have to take this opportunity. If The Interrogator thinks he’s getting away with something, we may discover some information about him. HE may grow careless." A sigh. "You were troubled when I used the radix, but there was no other way I could get him off-balance enough to assert myself; if he had all his wits about him, he would have called my bluff, down there in that dungeon. He was bound to the column for less than two minutes; I don’t know how much longer I could have convinced him . . ."

Rupert, sensing her agitation, moves nearer; the woman sitting there before him is his ruler, his commander, his Empress-but his friend, as well, and his regard for her is no product of Imperial conditioning, but the result of years of acquaintance, of trial and error, of shared joys and griefs. He will be her adviser, her protector, and her good right arm, as far as she will permit, and though he does not actually touch her, his posture alters slightly as he stands closer to her, leaning above her and curving himself watchfully about her, as if to catch further burdens before they can settle upon her shoulders.

Dearest Majesty, Rupert is thinking, be careful what you do. Beware. We think and think-and consider HIS methods necessary and justified, if they suit our just and gracious purposes. But I once knew a man who was killed-because of intellectual arrogance. My intellectual arrogance. In what you do with Claudia, with HIM, with any or all of your subjects, take heed, I beg you . . .

Rupert speaks none of these thoughts aloud, but perhaps The Empress hears him just the same; she knows him of old. They finish each other’s sentences at times. Sensing his thoughts may not be beyond her powers, for she relaxes imperceptibly, allowing herself a moment of abandonment to the invisible shielding of Rupert’s concern and affection, before she straightens and pronounces, "I will take the greatest care in this; I promise you. Tell the Captain to keep me informed."

Rupert, hearing his dismissal in her tone, bows quietly and leaves the Empress to her musings and plans.

Meanwhile, in the dungeons . . .

The Interrogator waits to see what Claudia will make of HIS little performance. In the silence that has fallen, he can practically feel the sound of her thoughts, the echo of her indecision. So she’s weighing it all in her mind, trying to figure out what to do. Good. But if she takes too long-not so good. She’s clever; perhaps she won’t disappoint me.

She had certainly not been a disappointment to HIM before, in . . . other . . . ways. It would be a pity if she let him down, now.

"Hello!"

HE smiles. Claudia’s voice. She can’t leave things as they are; concern and pity demand this of her. Very well . . .

HE waits, as Claudia tries again. "Are you all right? What did-was it one of the guards? What did he do to you? Are you hurt?"

Time for a bit of a shock. HE drags himself about a bit, allowing Claudia to hear the aftermath of brutality, but HIS voice, when he speaks, is carefully cheerful. "Not so bad as all that," he laughs weakly, with heartbreaking joviality. "It’s the fear, mos’ly; you forget how bad that can be, but it’s been worse than this, lots of times. Nothing at all."

Claudia does not sound convinced. "It didn’t sound like ‘nothing at all!’ You need someone to come and check you over; you could be hurt!"

The crack of her voice on "hurt" conjures up visions of ruptured spleens and collapsed lungs, and HE smiles to himself. Not so bad on vocalization. She’s got talent. HE should certainly know all about that. If it had been Mary Anne in that cell, she’d have felt it all as if it were happening to her-one doesn’t have the fortune to meet a subject like her every day. Mary Anne, with those glorious sensitivities of touch, of hearing; Mary Anne with her nerves so near the surface . . . With subjects like that, I could be spoiled in no time . . .

But for now, Claudia.

With her last indignant inquiry still ringing in his ears, he allows a sort of exasperated patience to creep into his voice. "How could I have been hurt, then, when it wasn’t real? When he wasn’t real?"

He can hear the "Oooooo" noise from Claudia’s cell, the frustrated fuming, and grins as she shouts down the corridor, "Well, he certainly sounded REAL to me! As real as you are!"

The Interrogator leans back against the wall, abandoning the note of forced jollity and allowing the despair to creep back into his voice-and ignoring the pang from within that insists he could not convey that despair so convincingly without feeling it, somewhere deep within . . .

"How do you know," HE quietly challenges, "that I am real?"

MA--poor Brandon, having his parts discussed in public like this! ;-)
Be contented, though; I have plans for the very sort of posts you mean--and I shall endeavour to give satisfaction. *chuckle*, - Sunday, September 24, 2000 at 17:50:23 (PDT)

MA, all the parts are good, especially Colonel Brandon's parts; been a while, about time for a refresher course--honeymoon 101
a Rickman admirer
- Sunday, September 24, 2000 at 00:16:35 (PDT)

Well, Admirer, what sort of honeymoon would you prefer for them? You must've missed all the "good parts" so far . . . *grin* But not to worry; there are more on the way.

MA
You can't turn down the corners of these pages . . . ;-), - Saturday, September 23, 2000 at 15:17:26 (PDT)

Subtle... me? You must have the wrong person MA ;^D
Claudia
- Saturday, September 23, 2000 at 14:33:09 (PDT)

arrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhh!!!!!!!!I cannot stand the suspense--Magda, you really should consider publishing this--it's fantastic--are you open to bribery......name your price as long as you publish TWO episodes a day....BTW, you other fantastic writers, I appreciate you too--MaryAnne and Colonel Brandon, not much of a honeymoon, if you take my meaning~~
a Rickman admirer
- Saturday, September 23, 2000 at 12:31:40 (PDT)

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which Joya begins to tell her side of the story."

"Now then, my lady, you just lie there and take care of yourself. We don't want you coming down with no cold just afore your wedding day, do we?” The cheerful voice rose and fell as the speaker puttered around the bedroom. “But there, you ladies would go traipsing in the snow just like little children what don't know no better."

I grit my teeth as I leaned against the stones. The only place big enough to conceal me was behind the tapestry hanging on the wall but it was not comfortable. I listened while Marion's servant tucked Joya into bed and cleaned up the mess on the rug. I badly needed someone to do the same for my tunic and especially my boots.

"Thank you, Sarah. You are most kind and I'm very sorry you were forced to undertake that unpleasant task yourself." Joya's voice was thin and weak. "I'm sure I'll be all right tomorrow. To tell you the truth, right now I just want to sleep."

"That's a good sign, my lady. Means you're on the way to getting over it." Soft footsteps padded across the carpet and stopped in front of my hiding place. I held my breath. "I'll send up a posset for you tonight after you've had your dinner. And don't worry about Lady Marion; she'll handle that impatient man of yours!" She giggled inanely. The door creaked open and closed with a dull thud.

"She's gone, George." Joya called, sounding much stronger.

I lifted a corner of the heavy cloth and emerged into the room. The first thing I did was bar the door so we wouldn't be interrupted. No more delays. She'd tell me where that gold was if I had to beat it out of her. She could expect no mercy from me. I secured the wooden barrier and turned around, ready for action.

Joya lay propped up against the pillows (including the charred one, now turned over to hide the mark from the attendant). As I walked over to the bed, I examined her carefully. She certainly looked much better than she had less than an hour before. Faint colour was returning to her cheeks and her eyes sparkled like blue fire.

"You're really here. I can't believe it." She watched me under half-closed lids as I advanced. "I’m so sorry about your clothes. It’s just that I can’t seem to tolerate even the idea of roasting meat lately.”

"Think nothing of it." I responded with frigid politeness. "I am so sorry to find you are unwell. If you will be so kind as to hand over the gold that apparently came into your possession when my belongings were removed from the lodge, I will be on my way and won't trouble you any longer."

She sat up and nodded at the corner of the room. "It's over there in your chest. As well as your other belongings."

"Thank you very much." I was across the room and lifting the lid before the words were out of my mouth. Just as she said: two large bags of gold, my weapons, my mail armour and my spare tunic. The last was something that I had a great need for at the moment. I changed quickly and used the soiled one to wipe down my boots. It wasn't the most thorough job but at least I managed to eliminate the worst of the mess and an inn servant could finish the job later. Satisfied for the moment, I tossed the ruined garment onto the fire.

Joya was sitting up watching me. "Now tell me everything that happened after you were arrested."

"No, my lady, you tell me everything that happened and you can start by explaining why you told that pathetic excuse for a law officer to arrest me." I returned to the side of the bed and sat on the mattress, close enough to lean over her in my most threatening manner. "And my patience has run out, so quit stalling."

"Very well. There really isn't that much to tell." She clasped her arms around her knees. " You might recall that 'Odious Odo' brought me a letter from Sir Walter when he arrived at the lodge?"

I propped myself against a bedpost and nodded in acknowledgement.

"In it, he informed me that he was escorting Marion of Locksley and would arrive in a matter of days. By the time I finished reading Odo's men were well into the process of taking the place apart looking for that incriminating dagger. I knew they would never find it so -"

I interrupted. "Just for the record, and incidentally to satisfy my own no doubt vulgar curiosity, where did you hide the dagger?"

"For the record," she smiled. "It was strapped to my thigh, where it has remained ever since. No one else ever had a chance to see it there."

"No one?" I looked at her searchingly.

"No one." She gazed back steadily.

" Very well." I took a deep breath, and then another. The constriction in my chest was gone. "Get on with your story."

"As I was saying, I knew they would never find it so it would be safe to let them arrest you and take you to Barnesdale. Had Marion seen you, it would have been over for you."

"She need never have seen me!" I jumped in again. "I could have hidden in the woods until she left again. Did that occur to you?"

"Yes it did." She nodded. "But think, George. When Odo and his men gave up searching, they would have watched the place like hawks waiting for you to make some kind of move. Had you tried to disappear into the forest, they would have hunted you down immediately and brought you to Krone. Marion would have seen you then and identified you on the spot. No, all things considered, I thought it best that they take you away so that Odo would relax and think he'd won something."

The log in the hearth broke apart with a loud crack and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. We both glanced over. For my part I was grateful for the distraction. Everything Joya said made perfect sense: once on the trail, Odo would never have given up especially when Krone was present. Getting me completely away had been the only option.

Joya turned back to me. "Without the dagger, they couldn't hang you. I thought that Marion and Krone would visit and after she left, I could force Krone to release you because he had no evidence. Even if he suspected we were hiding something, he would still have to let you go."

I adjusted my seating to get more comfortable. The post was quite hard. "Very well. Go on."

"Would you like a pillow?" she asked.

"Yes, I would, thank you." I reached for one.

Joya seized my hand and tugged. "Then come down here and share mine." She slid over to the side of the mattress to make room for me, a slow smile curving her lips.

I hesitated for a moment, then shifted position. The pillows were firm and large and there was certainly room for both of us. Immediately she rolled over and settled against my side, one hand rubbing my chest through the cloth and the other stroking my hair. "Now we can be cozy when we talk," she whispered into my ear, punctuating her comment with a gentle bite.

Closing my eyes, I wondered if I had the fortitude for this conversation.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
- Saturday, September 23, 2000 at 10:27:42 (PDT)

Correction made.
Nice kitty...
D.o.C.

Ooooops! D.o.C.--a late-breaking one here. I just now noticed in my post about Annabelle being a Bengal (tiger--*ahem*) that there's a mistake: at MA's exit, it should read "not without a speculative backward glance" instead of "with." Thanks. Proofread, proofread . . .

MA
"Back to them dungeons . . ." Is that a subtle hint, Clods? ;-), - Friday, September 22, 2000 at 21:26:16 (PDT)

They ended up being the last ones to leave the mess hall, and consequently were right at the back and pushed up against a pillar in the assembly area. Oh fantastic, now we won’t see a thing, Chris grumbled to herself, but had to admit that at least they would be safe if it was one of those religious nuts trying to convert people again. She’d been hauled up on the stage once by one of them, and it was all she could do to get away without the standard ‘demon-driving’ torture. Even with her lucky escape, she’d limped for days from the burn they’d landed on her thigh. They had not been there for long, when the crowd quietened down, and Chris and Hamlet craned their necks to see what was happening. “The Boss is up there”, Chris heard the whispered comment passing through the crowd, and strained to see. The Boss never addressed his workers, so this was something new. The small knot of anxiety in her stomach intensified, and she glanced around for the exit in case of trouble. The guards were standing right in front of the exits, to her dismay, and looked like they would not budge even if a catastrophe unfolded. She didn’t like this, it was too weird. Why would the guards be keeping them in? Generally if there was entertainment, the crowds had to be forcibly removed once it was finished, almost no matter what it was. There was little enough diversion in their lives.

“I have an announcement to make,” The Boss said, through the micro-megaphone. “Over the last few weeks, We have become aware of a large vessel heading this way in space, on a collision course for Terra. That vessel has now arrived, and we have been in talks with the beings on board this vessel. They have technology we need desperately, which they are willing to share with us. This technology will enable us to start colonising other planets within the next 5 years. Successfully and without delay. They ask very little in return for this technology,” The Boss hesitated as a huge wolf-like creature stepped out of the shadows at the back of the stage. Restlessness grew among the workers, a steady buzz permeating the room. “This facility will close, and you are all going to go with the beings willingly.” After this amazing speech, The Boss disappeared off the stage quickly, as bedlam broke out among the workers.

Chris and Hamlet were crushed towards the pillar, and Chris thought she was going to die from the weight of so many people on her. Hamlet grabbed her close and tried to protect her with his 195 cm frame, but even so they were slowly getting squished. She glanced towards the doors again, but the guards were still there, with guns aimed towards the crowd.

Suddenly, the surge of people moved towards the doors and the guards shot indiscriminately into the mass of people. Several people collapsed, but the surge kept coming, and although many people were shot, it kept coming, until the guards were overwhelmed. Chris and Hamlet were swept along into the corridor, until the panicking crowd started dispersing, individuals clearly trying to hide or get to their rooms. Chris decided to go to the equines. She could not quite understand the panic, as no threat as such had been given, although it was a bit odd. She supposed that the fear of the unknown was getting to people, or perhaps they knew something she did not. She discovered that Hamlet was following, and swore under her breath for forgetting about him.

“I’m going to check on the equines” she shouted to him, for the corridor was still echoing with the screams and shouts of panicking people. Hamlet just nodded and kept pace with her. They had to work their way through the throng of people still milling about, panic abating, but with a dazed, confused look on their faces. There were people everywhere, and it took them much longer than usual to reach the stable block.

Chris
A twist in the tail?, - Friday, September 22, 2000 at 08:45:53 (PDT)

Magda, ahh yes, but what TIME...I'm never sure when the next day's installment is going to turn up...and they can't fire me, the whole company is leaving, so soon I'll be the only one here!
Chris
Sitting on the edge of my chair in suspense, - Friday, September 22, 2000 at 01:23:15 (PDT)

Hello everyone. A brief OT. If you look at the top of this page there is a link to Whos Who. This is terribly out of date, and embarrassing!

Would any newbies like to contribute something about their characters to add here, and if anyone has anything to add about FOF and how it works, that would be great.

Now that Mr I has finished his tea... back to them dungeons...
Claudia <claudia-riley@xtra.co.nz>
- Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 20:41:04 (PDT)

FOF lunchroom:

Cindie watched Mary Anne’s retreating figure. What a lovely woman, she thought, a good match for Colonel Brandon. No doubt she keeps him on his toes. She made a mental note to ask Mary Anne about her breakfast companion. Mary Anne’s warning had a note of sincerity which Cindie was not sure how to take. She turned to her host, “You seem to enjoy cultivating assumptions,” she said. “Yes please,” she added to his proffering of a cheese danish.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, setting the danish on her china plate with a delicate pair of silver tongs. “If people will assume the worst it says more about the nature of their character than my own.” He replaced the tongs on the tray, picked up the last morsel of his croissant and popped it in his mouth. He then plucked the linen napkin form his lap and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. Replacing the napkin on his lap, he added, “don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, but you seem to revel in the disconcerting effect they have.” She began to pick at her danish with a silver fork. She absently noticed the intricately carved ‘M’ embossed in the handle.

The left side of his mouth turned up in a smirk, “I suppose that is one of my guilty pleasures,” he admitted. “But one must find one’s amusement where one can.” He reached for a scone.

“But at the expense of others?” she replied, refusing to back down.

“Others’ assumptions are their own. If they create an effect which is amusing I am hardly to be faulted for being amused.”

“You certainly seem to play things very close to the vest - others aren’t left with much but assumptions.”

“I revealed a bit of myself to you and have already paid the price. Miss Mary Anne will have the fact that I own a cat all over the set.”

“Since you seem to be a self-avowed cat hater that is hardly surprising,” she countered.

“I do find cat’s loathsome. Annabelle happens to be a singular exception.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. Since Mary Anne is under the impression that your cat is a tigress her fear of being fed to it might temper her enjoyment at bandying your ownership about the set. Besides, if you didn’t conceal so much these tidbits wouldn’t be fodder for the gossip mill.”

“I do chose to guard my personal life. I own to that. But you must allow that while I reveal nothing I also conceal nothing.” He finished the scone with dispatch.

“Yesss - I suppose that’s true. But be careful for it is also true that in revealing nothing you may reveal all,” she said with a gleam in her eye.

He laughed, “yes, there is a risk there as well.”

She finished her tea, set her cup on the saucer and sighed. “As much as I enjoy this I have to get to work. We’ve had requisitions for some unusual materials, red horns and such, and I’ve got to make sure everything has arrived in time for today’s shoot. That and I’ve got to find a new supplier for sand.” He arched an eyebrow. Then he stood up and positioned himself behind her chair. He moved her chair out as she also stood. “Thank you for the lovely breakfast” she said quietly.

“The pleasure was mine I assure you.” He extended his right arm inviting her to shake hands. She responded by extending her hand as well. With the most courtly of manners he took her hand by the fingertips and raising it to his lips, kissed it. He bowed as he released her hand. “It is my sincere hope we can continue our conversation,” he said earnestly.

“A hope which I share,” she replied. Cindie turned and began to walk back to her desk, sincerely hoping her knees would not give out before she arrived.

He sat back down and took a sip of tea. What did he want? He’d been envying Dev his relationship with Therese. A relationship which provided Eamon the pleasures of a woman, the comforts of a companion, without sacrificing his freedom. Yet Dev had been complaining because Therese would not agree to an exclusive relationship. He had essentially told Dev he was crazy - to have such an arrangement and object! Yet, how did he feel about that today? Enough. He had work to do as well. He pushed his plate back, got up from the table, and , pausing to look at the now empty chair across from him, headed to work.
Cindie
MA: What a lovely thing to do. My first at being written in by someone, snif. , - Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 18:07:37 (PDT)

Here's the link for the page if you're interested in finding song lyrics: The International Lyrics Server.
Sandy
- Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 13:28:26 (PDT)

Egypt, approximately 100 miles from Giza:

"I don’t like it," Melanie broke the silence after an hour of digging and scraping away the sand from the Jeeps. "It’s too quiet. It gives me the creeps." She pushed her long chestnut-colored hair away from her sweat-laden face and stretched briefly.

"Would you rather listen to the wind howling?" Jack snapped in reply, his dark brown eyes sparkling in rage as he turned to face her. "I’d rather listen to that than to hear your whiny voice complaining!" He pushed his shovel back into the sand with an angry motion.

Melanie’s emerald-green eyes widened in fury as she stalked over to him and got right into his face, poking him sharply in the chest, making him wince. "Why don’t you take that shovel and..." "YEEEEOOOWWWWWWW!" Jack yelped in pain as she reached out and twisted his nose unmercifully before anybody could stop her.

Tom, Colleen, David, Roberta and Shelley exchanged great: here we go again expressions of disgust, rolling their eyes upward in exasperation as the two of them were quickly and unceremoniously pulled away from each other; Jack by Tom and Melanie by Alexander. "Oh, come on you guys!" Shelley moaned as she threw her hands up in the air. "Can’t the two of you work together without starting an argument?"

"Let me go!" Melanie screeched angrily, trying to free herself from Alexander’s grasp. He held onto her with a vise-like grip as she struggled. It took both Tom and David to hold the absolutely outraged Jack from going after her.

"Knock it off, both of you!" Alexander never raised his voice, but the tone of authority in it was enough to make them stop their struggling immediately. "We don’t have time for this petty foolishness. We have to get out of here, so put aside your disagreements and let’s see if we can get the vehicles moving." It’s like dealing with children when these two start their bickering, he thought to himself as he let Melanie go while Tom and David loosened their grip on Jack. She swung her arms back and forth while Jack rubbed his nose resentfully. The two kept a wide berth from each other, but didn’t go after each other, much to everyone else’s relief.

Alexander sighed quietly, walked over to the first jeep and surveyed the amount of sand that had been removed, rubbing the back of his neck in a futile attempt to ease the tension in it. He could feel his temples start pounding in rhythm. Oh, perfect. A headache is all I need to deal with right now, he thought to himself sourly. "You think we’ve managed to move enough of the sand away to get a running start, Professor?" Roberta asked softly, passing him a canteen as she interrupted his silent reverie.

Alexander drank briefly, glad for the water that soothed his parched throat even though the liquid was now quite warm. He rewarded her with a gentle smile of thanks before returning it to her. "I hope so. The biggest concern I’ve got right now is that those engines could be filled with sand-and that those two don't try to kill each other." He gazed down the sand-covered road and was relieved to see the faint outline of some pavement about a half a mile away from where they were located now.

Roberta bit her lower lip anxiously as her eyes followed the direction of his gaze. "Agreed. We don’t need the Bickersons over there totally losing it again. I’m afraid it could turn really violent the next time," she jerked her head in the direction of Jack and Melanie, who were glaring at each other in stony silence yet keeping their distance from each other. The Englishman’s lips quirked as David and Shelley pulled Jack aside and started an animated conversation with him while Colleen and Tom did the same thing with Melanie. "I sincerely hope not," he replied, shaking his head in resignation, knowing that the temporary truce between the two was just that.

"All right. I think we’ve managed to get enough sand away so we can start up again," Alexander called out as he and Roberta turned around and walked over to the others. He frowned as he thought for a moment before coming to a final decision. "Shelley, you get in the first jeep and Roberta, you take the second one and try starting them up," he said. "The rest of us will get behind and try to push them out," he finished.

The two women nodded in acquiescence and quickly got behind the driver’s seat of each jeep. "Great. If we can get the vehicles unstuck, I want the two of you to continue driving until you reach the pavement up ahead and stop there. We’ll walk over and meet you there," he instructed them.

"Here goes nothing," Shelley muttered, crossed her fingers and turned the key in the ignition. Roberta did the same thing. Both jeeps made horrible whining noises before dying out. "Try again," David called out encouragingly, exchanging worried glances with the others. The two tried a second and third time with no luck. "Oh God," Roberta moaned before turning the key again.

The jeep’s engine howled in protest a few times before it backfired loudly and settled down into a quiet purr. Shelley attempted to start the other jeep three additional times before the engine finally turned over, backfired, and settled down. A ragged cheer rose from the anxious group.

"Okay. Melanie and David, help me with the first jeep while the rest of you get behind the other one," Alexander called out over the roar of the engines. They nodded and took positions at the rear of each vehicle. He growled under his breath as he saw Melanie and Jack exchange yet another series of dirty looks. I’ve got to keep these two separated. Great; just great.

"Is everyone else ready?" Alexander called out again. The others replied affirmatively. "All right! David, Melanie, and myself will push the first Jeep. We may need the rest of you if we have trouble. Are you ready, Shelley?" he yelled over the roar of the engines.

Shelley stuck her head outside the window and gave a thumbs-up sign. "Put it into gear and step on it," he yelled as he placed his hands on the rear of the Jeep. The three of them pushed mightily, the sand underneath the tires flying about in all directions, covering them yet again. "Keep pushing!" Alexander yelled at he spat sand from his mouth.

After several minutes of pushing, the others joining them to help out, the Jeep finally inched forward. "GO!" they all hollered. Shelley waved her arm outside the open window to indicate that she heard them and continued driving in the direction where Alexander had pointed out earlier.

They turned their attention to the second Jeep and were more successful in getting it on its’ way. "Yes!" Jack hissed under his breath as Roberta drove down the road to join Shelley. The group gathered up the shovels that had been tossed aside earlier and trudged single-file down the road to where the vehicles were stopped.

Alexander, Melanie and David boarded the first Jeep as the others climbed into the second one after stowing the shovels away. "We were very lucky," David said quietly, breaking the oppressive silence as they continued on their way. Alexander turned his head to the back seat where he and Melanie were slumped down and nodded. "Extremely lucky," he agreed softly, not voicing the thought that they all could have died out there unless someone happened to come along and rescue them.

Just then, the two-way radio crackled into life and four voices emerged from the tinny speaker in perfect harmony:

"On the road again,
Just can’t wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin’ music with my friends
And I just can’t wait to get on the road again..."

Alexander’s face broke into a huge grin as the others joined in the second verse, laughing and singing at the same time:

"On the road again,
Goin’ places that I’ve never been,
Seeing things that I may never see again,
And I just can’t wait to get on the road again..."

Sandy - lyrics courtesy of "The International Lyrics Server"
Yes, Joya's tummy is definitely feeling MUCH better now, I'd say., - Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 13:21:02 (PDT)

Chris: don't get fired. Only one installment a day at the very earliest.
Magda
- Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 08:27:06 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
It is not to late to remedy the situation--I give you my word.
D.o.C.

Shoot! The italics should end after 'more like stew' D.o.C, if you wouldn't mind, please correct, I missed the / on my html code.

blushing wildly and getting down on knees to beg and grovel
Chris
- Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 02:15:53 (PDT)

They entered the mess hall together, and got in the line for the dispenser. She glanced around at the other diners. Soup and bread again, she thought. Oh, but there’s meat in it, more like stew! She was relieved, as both of them had worked hard. The food here was not great, but it had been getting worse recently. The evening meal was now the only full meal they got, and she was starving.

She placed her palm in the reader, and a standard pink tray arrived in the slot. Behind her, Hamlet placed his palm in the next reader, and the blue tray arrived on cue. She was relieved that they’d programmed him in so quickly. It had taken her three days to get a meal out of the dispenser when she’d started. She picked up her tray and scanned the eating area for a table.
“Care to join me at that table over there?” she asked the big man behind her. He nodded, and they made their way over and sat down.

“So, how did you get this job?” she asked him after they’d eaten about half the stew.
“I vas in a Block, no vork. I say I vork vith animals before, they say there is a farm vith the equines, you any good vith them?” he responded, slowly. It was clear that he was concentrating hard to get the words in the right place. “I say I try, I vork vith common horse before, dey say you not scared? I say no, if they hurt me is my own fault for getting in vay! I get vork.” He paused, clearly sorting out a sentence, and Chris didn’t rush him. She was pleased he was talking, but wanted more details! “I not vant to stay in Block, they bad places. Could have been made to vork build space station, and no one come back from that! I not vanting to die yet!” He smiled nervously.

“Where do you come from Hamlet?” Chris asked, when it was clear he had finished talking.
“I come from Danmark, from beginning. They took land because space needed for more building, so I vas put in Block. Vas family land, not good to lose. Father’s father’s father’s father had land, passed it down to each one. Then I lose it. Danmark is needing lots of buildings, for all the people,” Hamlet answered, clearly grateful to have someone listening to him. Chris supposed people were often impatient with his speech, but she found it very soothing.

Denmark, that’s one of those little provinces, the one with all the islands, I think Chris thought to herself. She thought about what he said about losing land. She supposed they must have been farmers or something, but couldn’t understand why They would have taken a farm, with food being the primary problem for Them. The population had continued growing for too long, there was simply not the room, or the food. She sighed. She would have liked to have had a baby, but her petition had been turned down several times. They didn’t want to allow her the time off work, They wouldn’t accept her as a suitable mother, she’d heard them all. The latest one was that she was not sufficiently intelligent, and would be more at risk of having a sub-normal baby. She’d argued that if she’d been allowed an education she would be more intelligent, but the decision was final. She was NOT allowed to have even the statutory one baby.

Waking up from her reverie, she glanced hurriedly at the guards. They were starting to move people out to the assembly area. That’s funny, we’re not due for an Entertainer yet, we only had one last week she thought to herself, frowning. She saw that Hamlet had finished his portion, and she gulped down the last of the stew. “Come on, looks like we’re being assembled tonight. Aren’t you the lucky one, with Entertainment on your first day!” she said to him. Deep inside, she felt a stir of anxiety. You just never knew what was going to happen when unexpected things came up.
Chris
Magda, you've got me so riveted, I keep popping online at work to find the next installment-you're going to get me in trouble! lol, - Thursday, September 21, 2000 at 02:13:36 (PDT)

All this interrogation, the voice, the tea, now the Once and future Sheriff--I can't stand much more!
Cindie
well, maybe I could stand a little more, - Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 15:17:53 (PDT)

Yes, the sound .wav is indeed from Closet Land. Mr. I can be very complimentary...
Suz
when he chooses., - Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 15:12:52 (PDT)

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which my interrogation doesn’t quite turn out the way I planned."

Most people don’t appreciate how difficult it is to really torture someone. Bodily suffering is only part (and not the greatest part) of the process. Any thug can beat someone almost to death but it’s not the same thing as torture. To really put your victims through the worst possible ordeal, you’ve got to give them enough time to let their imaginations run wild. Nothing you can threaten them with can equal the terrors in their own minds. Only when they are in a state of near panic do you inflict any physical suffering on them.

I’m not flattering myself unduly when I say that I am very good at torture. Nothing learned, really; it’s just a knack. There are literally dozens of my vassals who can personally testify to that. So as I stalked Joya in her bedroom with the heated poker in my hand, I wasn’t thinking about inflicting it on any particular part of her body. Rather I wanted her to appreciate the damage the glowing tip could do.

“Now let’s try again, shall we?” I swung the tool from side to side in a gentle arc so that the acrid smell of burning metal could reach her. “Where’s the gold that I had hidden away?”

Joya leaned against the post at the head of the bed. She tossed her head, her golden curls brushing the low-hanging canopy. “I don’t like your tone and I’m not answering any of your questions until you apologize to me.”

“Apologize?” I stopped and stared. “For what?”

“For that threat you made to me when you were arrested at the lodge.” She turned her attention to the wooden post, one delicate finger tracing up and down the carved vines. “And that’s just for a start.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Really? And what else am I expected to apologize for?” I reached the end of the bed and blocked her escape. She’d have to climb over the mattress to get away from me. She appeared not to notice.

“For frightening me in the garden. For shaking me just now.” She finally looked at me, her lower lip pouting. “And for making nasty threats.”

“Watch this.” I slammed the poker into the top pillow. The pungent aroma of scorched goose feathers assailed our nostrils. Joya gulped and backed up hastily. “The next time it’s going to be you if you don’t start being a bit more co-operative. Now where’s the gold?”

It seemed to work. She was pale again and clutching the canopy hangings with both hands. Sweat glistened on her brow in the firelight. I smiled grimly. Finally she was getting the message. It wouldn’t take long now. The idea of what was in store for her would loosen her tongue as mere verbal threats could not. Keeping her on edge would be crucial. Backing away from the bed, I crossed to the hearth and thrust the poker into the coals again. I had to admit I was pleased that it might not be necessary to actually subject her to punishment. I had fond memories of her luscious form and detailed plans for future activities. Marring that beautiful body would have been a true crime. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I could actually bring myself to do it. All the more reason, therefore, that she succumb quickly.

“If you think that you can wind me around your little finger, you’d best think again, my dear. I have a great deal of experience in matters of physical pain. In some circles, I’m considered an expert.” The shaft of the poker was bright red now. Some detailed descriptions might push things along. I made a show of lifting the iron tool from the fire and examining it carefully. “Most people find the aroma of seared flesh to be peculiarly repulsive.”

A choking noise erupted from the corner. I sneaked a look over my shoulder. Joya leaned against the post, one hand pressed to her mouth, her body wracked with shudders. Relief swept over me at the realization that she was close to giving in. It wouldn’t be long now. “If you’ve never experienced it before, it can be hard to describe. Imagine a great roasting slab of beef, hanging over a fire -"

“George, please stop it!” Joya hunched over, eyes screwed shut and taking in huge gulps of air.

“ - roasting in the heat, great gobs of fat running down into the coals -" I dropped the poker. She was ready to fall into my hands. Time to make the final push. In three strides I was beside the bed. I grabbed wrist and pulled her around. Her head lolled back and she stared at me with dull eyes. Her face glowed with perspiration. I slid my hands up her arms and held her against me.

“Please don’t! You don’t understand!” Her voice was thin and weak, interspersed with abrupt gasps. Her eyes shut again. “I have to tell you -"

“Yes, there’s so much you have to tell me.” I was exultant. She was giving in! “You have to tell me why you turned me over to that pusillanimous sheriff, why you absconded with my gold and why you agreed to marry that buffoon.” I punctuated each phrase with a shake.

“Oh God! Oh! Oh!” She seized my tunic and tugged hard. “Oh! George I’m sorry but I’m going to -HUH!” She fell forward and retched all over me.

I froze. Joya heaved against me, convulsions wracking her body as she voided the contents of her stomach. Loud gasps as she desperately sucked in air gradually gave way to soft moans. Finally she slumped onto my shoulder, uncaring of the mess between us. I wrinkled my nose and stepped back. She swayed bonelessly on her feet. I scooped her up in my arms before she fell and walked around to the other side of the bed, careful to step over the foul residue.

As I laid her on the mattress, it occurred to me that she’d done it again: completely overthrown my planned course of action. The very thing that no one else had ever dared to try, she managed to do with effortless regularity.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Now Joya's tummy feels MUCH better..., - Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 14:25:49 (PDT)

Nice save Chris on the storyline - should have asked before I posted last time :-) The .WAV file is from "Closet Land", isn't it?
Sandy - all this talk about cats: achoo! 'Scuse me :-)
Interesting little development for Joya happening there..., - Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 13:48:13 (PDT)

As the sun set slowly over the mountains, Chris sighed and turned back to the stables to do evening feeds. She pushed the button of the Feeder, quickly checking each animal’s rations before dumping it in the appropriate stable. That Feeder was known to misbehave, and they’d had several near-misses of animals getting far more than they were meant to. She smiled as she neared Ki’li’s stable, hearing the rhythmic brushing strokes. Ki’li was standing absolutely still, a look of contentment on her face as Hamlet ran the brush over her quarters. The equine had almost fallen asleep, and started as her feed was dropped in over the half-door.

“How are you doing Hamlet?” Chris asked quietly as she wandered past the stable.
“OK, danke, I think I learn,” Hamlet responded equally quietly. The equines didn’t want excessive noise in the stables, and could get very unpleasant if disturbed. Chris shivered as she remembered what happened to Hamlet’s predecessor. Those horns were nasty, and they weren’t afraid to use them. They had not had any spare trained stable resource, so had had to take on a rookie, which was hard work. Chris did have to admit that he was doing very well, though. He moved almost instinctively around the big equines, and did not shiver in fear each time one looked at him, as so many did. His response to questioning was that he’d worked with common horses before. Chris had breathed a sigh of relief that at least They’d had the sense to send someone with animal experience, and not a complete dwellie.

As she finished the feeds, she saw Hamlet leaving Ki’li’s stable, and came up to have a look at his work. She was still checking him, and thankfully he seemed not to mind. He smiled as she came near and said “I hope this ok, I do all I can think of.” She smiled back and quickly ran through the check-list: “Filled water? Cleaned hooves? Brushed everywhere? Untangled mane and tail?” At each affirmative, she quickly checked Ki’li, and had to admit that the equine was spotless. Her black hide shone in the dull light from the artificial lighting in the roof, and the ruby horn glowed subtly. She also appeared far more relaxed than usual. Deftly, she thought at the mare “Feeling good?” As she received a strong affirmative response, she was surprised. None of the equines had thought that strongly at her before. She was not meant to have a strong linking ability. She thought about mentioning it to the Leader, but then they might send her for more testing, and it might just have been a one-off. The equine was certainly behaving differently. Mind you, she was just coming up to 10 years old, the age of maturity for their species. Maybe she’s just stronger than the others, or more used to humans,Chris thought. This is the first foal born in captivity, so we don’t really know what they do when they mature. She decided to wait and see, she did not want to be sent back to the testing site!

“Right, we’re done here, come inside for dinner,” she said to Hamlet. He smiled and responded “Ja, I am hungry now, this be hard vork again, is good. I haf missed the vork. I like vorking vith the horses at my home.”
Chris smiled at his speech. He was a shy man, possibly partly because of the Standard barrier, and this was the longest speech she’d heard from him. She didn’t think anyone spoke the Native languages anymore, most of them had died out in the last century, so it was odd to have someone who spoke with such an accent. She tried to remember where he came from. One of the old European areas, she thought, but which one? She resolved to get to know him a little better, starting with ensuring he got a good dinner tonight. He’d worked hard, had not tried to shirk any duties, even the mucking out, which most farms did automatically now. They did not allow the automatons near these stables, in case something happened. The equines seemed to despise anything mechanical, and were too unpredictable and far too valuable to risk. I’ve missed having a man about the place, she thought contentedly. Just hope he continues this well!

Chris
- Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 09:01:23 (PDT)

"You say WHAT???"Chris looked at the Director with horror in her eyes. The Director looked back levelly, smiling a little. "Oh, come on, I bet you'd love it, and we really don't have much choice, the actress I had lined up is just not going to be able to do it," the Director looked at her, wondering if he'd pushed her too far this time. She really was quite insecure, even if she didn't show it much, but they didn't have any choice, he'd been quite truthful. Lining someone else up at this late stage would be almost impossible, especially someone unknown.

Chris gulped audibly, clearly distressed and thought about the work it would entail to write and act in the same script. Mind you, she thought, some of the others are! Why shouldn't I, at least it'll be interpreted the way I want it. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and said "OK, we'll try it. But if it's an unmitigated disaster then we'll redo the scenes with someone else, right?"

The Director smiled. She was almost too easy to manipulate to the responses he wanted her to give. Of course she'd do fine as the girl in the storyline, it was based on her own fantasy after all.

"And I reckon you owe me lunch for this one," Chris said stolidly. "At least...hey, shouldn't I get paid twice too?" She laughed delightedly at the horrified look on the Director's face. He'd clearly underestimated her, and that was never a good thing to do-with any woman.

Deciding to let the Director think she was actually serious, she left the suggestion there, and wandered off to get changed into the costume for the scene she was suddenly in.
Chris
Saving the storyline...LOL, - Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 08:56:41 (PDT)

Rickman Admirer: George would hurt anyone who he thought deserved it, and hurt them savagely too.

MA: Try a hot-water bottle.

Magda
- Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 07:46:46 (PDT)

"Annabelle, hmmmm?"

Cindie turns and looks over her shoulder to see Mary Anne, already costumed for the day and looking every inch the Mistress of Delaford, the adored wife of Colonel Brandon . . . and Mister I’s worst nemesis, judging from the look he fixes upon her as if daring her to make any comment about the situation.

"Good morning, Mary Anne!" smiles Cindie, chiming in with some slight rumble of a greeting from Mister I-which may be "Good morning," or perhaps something less chivalrous.

"Annabelle?" repeats Mary Anne, grinning at Mister I. "I thought I’ve always heard you say that you don’t like cats. ‘Bloody creatures’ or something like that is what you’re always calling them-especially when Therese wants to bring her Paul Kitty to the set."

"Well," protests Mister I, "if you’ve ever had that animal velcro himself to you and refuse to let go-"

"Oh, I have, once or twice, but I don’t mind it," chuckles Mary Anne. "So, what kind of cat is Annabelle?"

Mister I exchanges glances with Cindie, who find herself a touch alarmed at the gleam that suddenly lights itself in his eyes.

"Annabelle," he says quietly, "is a Bengal."

There is a silence, in which Mary Anne swallows and her eyes widen. Finally she manages: "You keep a Bengal tiger?!"

His only answer is a level stare, and the rise and fall of one shoulder in a shrug.

Mary Anne chews on it for a moment. "What . . . what does she eat?"

"Anything she wants," he smiles. A pause. "Anything I give her."

Mary Anne, who has been leaning forward to catch every word, straightens herself up at that and clears her throat. "Well, I . . . hmmmm. I certainly seem to have underestimated you. But aren’t there laws about that sort of thing?"

He raises an eyebrow. "No one’s made any trouble for me. So far."

"Yes. I see. Well, I must be going," and Mary Anne-who is looking a bit paler than usual, though it may be on account of her makeup-nods to Cindie. "You watch it around this character," she warns, trying to smile.

Cindie laughs. "If I’m lucky, I’ll never meet his character." She turns to Mister I. "Will I?" It is lightly said, but there is a challenge in it, at which he simply replies, "Heaven forfend."

"Well," offers Mary Anne, who seems to have recovered her composure, "enjoy your tea. I’ll see you around the set." With that, she hurries to the buffet and helps herself to a cup of coffee and a large cinnamon roll, and then exits, though not without a speculative backward glance at the tea table.

Vivaldi plays on in the background as Cindie inquires, "A Bengal tiger? Really?"

He laughs. "No. Simply a Bengal. There is a breed of cat called a Bengal, you know."

"No. I mean, I didn’t know." Cindie glances over at the door through which Mary Anne had exited, and cannot help smiling a bit before turning back to Mister I. "That was wicked of you, you know. Mary Anne assumed you meant a tiger."

He lays a hand gently on Cindie’s arm. "I am not responsible for Mary Anne’s assumptions . . . nor anyone else’s." He removes his hand. "Some pastry, perhaps?"

MA--Magda, my Gordian Knot has just added a few more loops, plus a sheepshank. Ooooo . . . *clutching tummy*
Cindie--a little treat. Hope you'll like it. 8-), - Wednesday, September 20, 2000 at 05:24:41 (PDT)

The stories are all fantastic!!Thanks for sharing your talent--ps George wouldn't hurt the mother of his child, would he?
a Rickman admirer
- Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 22:37:06 (PDT)

FOF set, lunchroom/dining hall, tea continued…

“My character,is unassailable.” The actor who played the Interrogator smiled as he poured out the tea.

“Your character,” Cindie laughed, taking a scone, “is highly suspect on many levels.”

“I am grievously wounded.” He grasped at his heart as if shot by an arrow.

“You give every impression of being incorrigible.”

“It’s not my fault I’m good at my craft.” He picked up his teacup in his right hand and took a long sip. He held the saucer in his left hand.

“Oh now,” she said putting down her scone and swallowing, “is this where I get the poor misunderstood evil Interrogator line?” The sting of her words was diminished by the smile in her eyes as she picked up her teacup and took a sip.

“Line! You’re being awfully hard on me aren’t you?” He tried his best to look wounded. He set the cup on the saucer and gracefully set the saucer on the table.

“Sir, I hope you don’t believe that I’m sitting with you because **I’m the woman who is going to change the Interrogator** and ** reveal his true kitten loving sentimental self**.” She picked up the scone again but held it absently.

“As it happens,” he responded, applying current jelly to his croissant in long even strokes, “I have a cat, her name is Annabelle.”

“We’ll have to exchange kitty pictures sometime.”

“Look,” he said, looking at her earnestly. “I just don’t want you to think I’m the character I play.”

“Now why would you think anyone working around writers and actors all day would make that leap?”

He grimaced, “I’m afraid in some of my past encounters it has been assumed.”

“Well, I try very hard not to assume.”

“Good for you. More tea?”

“Yes, thank you”

As he poured her tea he wondered what to make of this woman across the table from him. She seemed interested in him, but she certainly wasn’t going out of her way to make it easy for him either. One thing was certain, he wanted to see her again. Well of course you’ll see her again. She works on the set, he thought to himself. Yes, but that’s not what you mean and you know it. As they continued to talk he decided he was glad he’d foregone the thermos and went with the tea set instead.
Cindie
- Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 18:23:17 (PDT)

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which Joya and I finally have some privacy."

I caught Joya as she fell. My anger waxed strong but even so, I luxuriated in the feeling of holding her magnificent body close again. It had been a long month. She was still pale and her breathing was shallow but I didn't think medical attention was necessary.

Discretion, however, certainly was. I looked around. We might not be alone for much longer. A monk carrying one of the castle ladies was bound to attract attention. We needed to be private and quickly. I adjusted my hold until she was lying over my shoulder and took cover behind the hedges again. Not a moment too soon either: the tower door opened again as a young squire pulled a laughing maid outside and along the path.

They were making so much noise themselves that I didn't have to be as careful as before. I rushed down the row of cedars, checking occasionally to see if we'd been noticed. Joya moaned and shifted position. I hurried my steps to the still open door and slipped inside just as she began to push at my shoulders and make inarticulate demands. I pushed into the darkest corner of the stairs and set her on her feet. With one movement I straightened and clamped one hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened as she recognized me.

"Not one word." I hissed into her ear. She trembled at my breath on her skin. "Do you share your room with someone?" She shook her head once. "Then we'll go there. Lead the way but don't attract attention or I'll have to silence you. Understand?" She nodded and I lowered my hand.

She drew in one deep shuddering gulp of air and then climbed the stairs. I followed close behind, the hood of my robe pulled low to obscure my face. Plenty of servants were scurrying about the halls preparing for the evening meal but none gave us much attention. We reached the second floor of the tower without hindrance. Joya proceeded down the corridor almost to the very end and stopped in front of a large door.

I blinked in surprise. This was the largest room in this particular tower and not what I would have supposed appropriate to her rank. Perhaps Krone had made a special arrangement. I became aware that she was watching me. "Open the door and see if anyone's there. If there is, get rid of them." I stepped back into the shadows of the hall.

She obeyed me completely and nodded to signify that the room was empty. I hastened to follow her inside, kicked the door shut and slammed the bar down. No interruptions would be tolerated. I leaned back against the door, threw back my hood and surveyed my prey. "Didn't expect to see me again, did you, Lady Joya?"

"I can truthfully say I did not." Joya stood in the middle of the rug, hands clasped in front of her. She tossed her fur-lined cloak over a chair. "Although I have daily reminders of you." A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

I was confused for a moment. Then I realized she probably referred to my castle. Another thought struck me: perhaps she meant my gold. The embers of my anger, banked until now, began to glow brightly again.

"I'm a fair man so I'll give you a fair chance to tell me the lies you've concocted before I punish you." I pushed away from the door and strolled into the room. "And then you're going to know what it's like to wish you'd never been born."

"Nothing could be fairer than that." She laughed and stepped in front of me, blocking my progress. "But what if I prefer to be - punished - first?"

My control over my temper slipped. "Don't try your games on me! They won't work anymore." I seized her arms and shook her hard. Her veil slithered down her back and her curls rioted over her shoulders. Not a whimper escaped her lips at her treatment. I threw her away from me and she stumbled back against the bed.

"Very well, I won't." She pulled off her veil and set it on the cover. "But I'm not going to tell you anything either. You won't get a word out of me." Arms folded across her chest, she shot me a mischievous glance.

"You can't charm your way out this. I know your little tricks too well." I leaned over her so that she had to tilt her head back. "Where's my gold?"

"There's a nice fire in the hearth. Isn't that monk's robe awfully warm?" She ran one finger down the front of my garment.

"Yes, it is but I'm not staying long. Now where's the gold?" I pushed her hand away.

"But you look so uncomfortable. You can put it on again when you leave." She dropped her hand to the rope belt and tugged it off.

"I feel just fine." I grabbed her wrists and held her away from me. The room had become much warmer. "You brought the gold here, didn't you?"

"Just let me make you comfortable. Let's take that heavy cloth thing off." She pressed against me to push my robe off my shoulders and down my arms. There was a brief tussle when I refused to let her go; the sleeves bunched up until I dropped her wrists and the robe slid to the floor. "Oh, now isn't that better?"

"Much. Did you give it to Krone? Did he take it?" I couldn't understand how the room seemed hotter when I was standing there in my tunic. "What have you done with my gold? Answer me woman!"

"No, I won't. You'll have to make me." Joya set her hands against my chest and pushed me away with some force. I stumbled back, skidding on the rug. She ran around the bed and grinned at me over the covers.

She was obviously enjoying herself but it was past time that I asserted my mastery over the situation. I backed up to the hearth and reached for the poker. Joya continued to smile but watched me closely.

"Very well then. Have it your way." Picking up the tool, I stirred up the logs until the coals glowed whitely. Then I turned and walked back to the bed, the heated poker held out in front of me. "You're going to be punished first."

Joya stopped smiling.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Right now Joya's tummy isn't feeling very well at all, - Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 17:23:39 (PDT)

Thanks Cindie, but tomorrow is pretty much written-at least in my head! Will keep you in mind for future posts, though, definitely!
Chris
- Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 15:20:51 (PDT)

Chris, Hi there. Since I have myself working on the set in some nebulous capacity or other let me know if I can help tomorrow (or today for my character I think)!
Cindie
- Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 12:13:48 (PDT)

Chris stayed at the table for a while longer, sipping her drink, her mind playing over the past couple of hours. She couldn't believe her fortune, meeting Sandy here already, and getting Hamlet, and being introduced to Alexander Dane, and everything!

Eventually sighing, she got up and made her way back towards the entrance to find her car. She was so tired! Looking at her watch, she realized that it was late at home, and she hadn't had time to adjust to the time zone. I wonder how things are in London she mused.

Just as she left the building, the Director caught up with her. "Oh good, I'm glad I caught you. Hamlet should be arriving tonight-he's only up the road at the moment, so we can start doing the first scene tomorrow" he panted, as she looked at him in surprise. "Tomorrow?" she cried in anguish. "But how am I going to make sure everything is ready by then?" She thought of everything that needed to be done-and all the actors weren't here yet! "It's ok, everything is taken care of, and there are only two people in the first scene, so it's not as if I need to call many people in," the Director replied, drily. "We need to start some time, you know, and now is as good as ever," he continued.

Chris wandered off to her car in confusion. Tomorrow! she thought dazedly. Wait till she told Sandy about this! And she still didn't know how they were going to sort out the horses!

Chris
in for a penny, in for a pound!, - Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 09:06:50 (PDT)

Magda, But how is Joya's tummy feeling? Hmmm...how will George react to this bit of news?
Cindie
- Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 07:08:20 (PDT)

The Stables

The silence that had fallen after Brandon's last statement was abruptly shattered by a shrill, piercing whinny, and the muffled, pounding sounds of a hard fought struggle. Therese tried to jump to her feet as she would have been able to do so effortlessly in the near past, but instead staggered clumsily. Brandon was instantly at her side, his strong arms grasping her gently as he helped her to her feet.

Without pausing, Therese rushed to the door, and flinging it open was startled to see the violence of the struggle before her. The colour drained from her face and a gasp escaped her lips, her hand coming up instinctively to cover her mouth.

Brandon stepped in front of Therese, and surveyed the sight before him. The black mare had been half carried, half drug into the stables, men surrounding her on all sides. She fought against them, her eyes wild and terrified as she flung herself into support beams, stall doors, and anything else in her path. In order to contain her, heavy ropes had been looped around her neck, shoulders, and behind her rump as the men surrounding her used brute force to half carry, half drag the animal toward a waiting stall. In her struggles, the mare completely ignored her damaged front leg, and the limb flapped crazily, collapsing underneath the strain put upon it, and leaving a crimson trail along the aisle.

"Oh my God," Therese gasped, horror clearly writ upon her features, "my God. . ." she repeated, grasping at the doorframe to prevent her from falling yet again.

Brandon's first instinct was a protective one--it comes as no surprise, gentle reader, that chivalry came to Brandon as naturally as breath comes to the common man, however, he mentally checked himself. Long strides brought him quickly to the near side of the mare where Dev pulled tightly on one rope. Their progress was agonizingly slow, but the mare was nearing the stall, in spite of her struggle.

"Go to her," Brandon said, his tone short and clipped as he firmly gripped the taut rope, his hands taking hold above Dev's, allowing the other man to release his pressure.

Turning, Dev caught sight of Therese standing in the doorway, and for a moment he could not even breathe. She had always been tiny, but her spirit had always belied her size. At this moment she appeared to him so frail and fragile that any further motion or movement would cause her to crumble before him. She looked toward him, her dark eyes underscored by dusky half circles, and he knew that the sight before her triggered something far deeper than concern for an injured animal.

Therese
- Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 07:02:07 (PDT)

Therese, Already working on that little conundrum with some help from MA, have some ideas already--I think it will be fun.
Cindie <cynthiagreen@ameritech.net>
playing in the water now, - Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 06:48:36 (PDT)

Claudia found her breath coming in ragged gasps, as if she had run a great distance, or it had been her in that next cell. Constantly she asked herself what the test was. She couldn’t believe the Empress would treat her prisoners this way. What could that man have done? He certainly sounded harmless enough. Sounded. She reminded herself. You haven’t seen anything, you just heard.

She sat down shakily on the bed. Cupped her face in her hands, then ran her fingers up through her long hair. If the Empress were trying to unsettle her, it was working. She had to believe the other prisoner was real, or risk her own small madness.

Her thoughts turned to the only other person she knew was down here, and she shivered… not a totally unpleasant feeling running through her body. And as she knew HE was here, she also knew that nothing would be as it seemed. Whether it was HIS doing or the Empress’, she was still being tested. She would still have to prove herself and her loyalty. She sighed in despair. And where should she show that loyalty? It depended on who was testing her.

Then she remembered the guard, as she had been taken to this cell. He’d made a throw-away comment to her, meant to disquiet her, and instantly been reprimanded and sent away by Rupert. She thought at the time Rupert had been standing up for her. But now it seemed more likely he was trying to cover up the real goings on in the Palace. Perhaps the Empress wasn’t the kind, benevolent ruler she was made out to be in the publicity. Perhaps there was a darker side to Suzanne than anyone outside the palace knew.

Immediately she stood up and rattled the door, as much as she could such a solid object. “Guard, guard!” she yelled at the top of her voice. “I demand attention NOW!”
Claudia
I think we need a "name the quote" competition for the sound file - where is that one from?!, - Tuesday, September 19, 2000 at 00:02:14 (PDT)

Pray do not make us wait overlong for your entertaining tale, Miss Magda
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, September 18, 2000 at 21:28:55 (PDT)

Hey Cindie and welcome!

Regarding Mr. I and HIS name: HE was named by Renie quite a long time ago--though as Mary Anne mentioned, that name was used only in reference to HIM as the character, not the actor. (The name, btw, is "Mistral" which is a really, really cool name that I wish *I* could take credit for, but sadly cannot. . .A mistral being a type of storm, which certainly fits!)

That is HE was only referred to as Mistral until a couple days ago when in one of my scenes in the Dining Hall I did have Dev call HIM by name.

I guess if HE's your character then you can re-name him? For continuity's sake, should you decide to stick with "Patrick" for the actor and "Mistral" for the character, we'd better ask the DoC to go back and change the name in my post.

Whatever you decide to call him--just be sure to write lots!

Therese
What's in a name, indeed. . ., - Monday, September 18, 2000 at 20:49:57 (PDT)

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which I confront Joya at last."

The cold breeze slapping my face had a calming effect on my overheated blood. I breathed in the chilly air and considered my next step. A confrontation in front of Marion of Locksley was definitely not in my best interests. Perhaps a careful navigation of the garden would suggest a course of action. I stepped off the path and slipped behind the hedges.

I have seen gardens that were showplaces for flowers and arbours and such like nonsense. Mine was strictly utilitarian. If it couldn't be eaten, it didn't grow there. The only exception was the cedar hedges that bordered the area on three sides. Purely decorative, they obscured the walls behind them and provided the plants with some protection from the wind. I crept along the length of the first row, careful not to step on sticks or otherwise make any sound. At the end where the hedge turned a corner, I stopped and parted the branches to look around.

From this location I could see all of the open space in the garden. Marion and Melisant with their maids were walking away from me towards the tower door. Krone and Joya were on the path directly in front of me, Joya staring fixedly at an apple tree and Krone clenching and unclenching his hands. The four women passed into the tower and, after Marion cast a searching look over her shoulder, shut the door. The three of us were left alone.

Krone made a visible effort to relax, shaking out his arms a couple of times and taking deep breaths. He came up behind Joya and said something in a low voice I could not make out. She paid no attention.

He jerked his head back in obvious annoyance and marched around to stand in front of her. Setting his feet wide apart and propping his fists on his hips, he leaned forward until they were nose to nose. "How many times do I have to apologize? Do you want me to grovel? Is that it?"

"I don't comprehend your meaning, my lord." The apple tree was apparently fascinating. Joya stepped to one side to admire it from a different angle.

Krone matched her movement. "I refer to your refusal to show me the minimal courtesy due to your betrothed lord. You take every opportunity to avoid me, you barely speak to me unless others are around and," He stepped in front of her, blocking her view. "You have certainly not granted me any sign of your warmth and affection."

Joya spun away from him and paced down the path. "You exaggerate, sir. You certainly cannot expect me to dishonour my name by indulging in over-familiar conduct. That was not how I was raised."

"Ha!" Krone's shout startled the birds into flight. I ducked as they erupted from the foliage around me. "Your name! Did you worry about 'your name' when you engaged in wanton sport with that hired mercenary at the lodge?"

"You will not mention him to me." Joya's voice had not been noticeably warm so far but it descended to the freezing point now. "That a servant of mine should have been so treated by your men defies my understanding."

"He was trying to escape! He was an accused murderer!" Krone threw his arms in the air and brought them down again with a slap on his tunic. "My men did what they were supposed to do. But you act as though you think I ordered him killed!"

The cedar branch slipped from my numb fingers. My mind was whirling. Me? They were discussing me? Did Joya believe I had been killed at Krone's behest? That she was alone and had to fend for herself? Was that why she had thrown in her lot with him? I shook my head and tried to clear my mind. But then why was Krone so angry with her? Surely she should be doing her utmost to appease him until they were married. It made no sense. I flexed my fingers and pushed the branch aside for another look.

Joya was further down the path now. Krone was just behind her. As I watched, he grasped her shoulders and spun her around in her tracks. She twisted free and stepped back out of reach, an angry frown that I could have warned him about marring her face. For a long moment they glared at each other.

"I know you did not issue a direct order. You were at the lodge and had had no communication from your men when that snivelling toad of a sheriff of yours brought the news." Her lower lip trembled and she bit down on it. "But I believe your men knew what kind of news you expected to receive."

"You are imagining things, my dear." His tone was mild now, as if he realized that anger would not get him far in this encounter. The mock joviality made my teeth ache and I suspect it had the same effect on Joya. "Had I known that you would take his death so much to heart I would have ordered my men not to pursue him when he tried to flee. You see how much I would do to please you." He tried to catch her hand but she was too fast for him, ducking under his arm and hurrying down the path in my direction again.

"And you know full well how much I have done to please you." Joya halted almost directly in front of the hedge I was hiding behind. My stomach clenched at this undoubted reference to their intimacy. She turned to confront him. "Remember how you come to hold Nottingham."

"Yes, of course, I remember." Krone crept forward, almost cringing. He patted the air in front of him with his hands. "And I am grateful. Believe me."

I pulled back from the bushes. What was the man talking about? Surely he owed his holdings to no one but the king and possibly Robin of Locksley if he agreed to surrender them without a fuss. Why on earth would he be grateful to Joya?

"No! Stop it!" Joya's small shriek rent the air. I froze then pushed the branches aside without concern for being seen. Krone had come up to her and was attempting to subdue her by force. His arms were locked around her body and she squirmed against him in her efforts to escape. Their struggle was short but decisive; even as I fumbled under my robe for my dagger, Krone bellowed in pain and released her. She staggered back almost to the hedge, arms held out rigidly in front of her. Clutched in both hands was Krone's dagger.

There was no sound save for their laboured breathing and their gasping breaths fogged the air between them. Krone's gaze moved between her hands and her face, trying to decide if he could wrest the weapon away from her. From my vantagepoint, I could tell she wasn't holding it so well that he couldn't have done it but she might get lucky and cut him badly in the attempt. Prudently, from his point of view, he didn't try it.

"I'm sorry." The words were forced from his throat.

"Get back!" She almost snarled, jabbing the blade at him. "Get away from me."

He lifted his arms in a gesture of surrender and backed away down the path. When he was several yards away and safe from attack, he turned around and walked to the tower door. Like Marion before him, he looked back once and then disappeared inside. In the quiet of the garden, I heard the soft thud of the door.

Joya gave a long shuddering gasp and dropped her arms to her sides, the dagger still tight in one fist. She lifted the other hand to her brow and sat down on a snow-covered bench beside the path, apparently uncaring that her velvet gown was absorbing the snow. After a moment she dropped her hand to her stomach and rubbed her hand back and forth. "Well, little Nottingham, how your father would laugh to see me act the warrior."

I pulled back, perplexed. Surely she hadn't seen me in the bushes? And by all the gods, what did she mean by invoking my father? I frowned, suddenly angry. So it had all been an act. Well, it wasn't my preferred location for a confrontation but it would have to do. It was foolish to hide in the slush when she knew I was here. I gathered up my monkish robe and lifted the sodden hem free of the snow. I swept the cedar branches aside and stepped out on the path.

Joya heard me and looked up. As I appeared, her jaw fell open and the blood drained from her face. She rose to her feet, her limp fingers dropping the dagger into the snow and took an unsteady step forward. She lifted one trembling hand to my face, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she pitched forward in a dead faint.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
So poor MA's tummy can feel a little better, - Monday, September 18, 2000 at 18:02:11 (PDT)

FOF Dining Hall:

Sandy's cheeks were still slightly flushed as she mumbled, "Well, it seems that the set's survived worse than the two of us could ever hope to concoct with relatively little damage from what I've heard." She gave Alexander a wide-eyed stare as she continued. "Blonde bombshells of the exploding variety? Good grief, you'll give Hans bad ideas!" Chris tried not to snicker as Alex fixed Sandy with his patented 'why-don't-you-tell-me-another-one' glare. "I sincerely have my doubts," he intoned before his face broke into a warm smile.

Sandy's face relaxed as she returned the smile and said, "You're not upset?" Alexander shook his head. "No. I've heard worse - much, much worse," he told the two women. His hazel eyes twinkled as he recounted, "There's been such gems like 'egomaniac', 'control freak', 'scene hog' , several other descriptions that should not be mentioned in polite company, and my personal favorite..." Alexander broke off as he fixed an eagle-eyed glare on Chris' face, " 'Dane the Vain' ". Chris looked like she could have sunk underneath the table and cheerfully died of embarrassment right then and there. "Sorry about that," she grumbled. "No harm done, believe me," he reassured her.

Alex turned back to Sandy. "How come you didn't recognize her voice?" he asked her. "How would I? She was speaking in an Irish accent that's thicker than Dev's is, for crying out loud!" Sandy protested. "Plus, we haven't seen or spoken to each other in quite some time," she added. "It's been over a year I think since THAT evil project ended," Chris noted, frowning as she took an experimental sip of her hot chocolate after blowing on the still-steaming liquid briefly. Sandy shuddered instinctively, her breath drawing in with a harsh rasp. Alexander saw her reaction and made a note to ask Sandy about THAT at a later time.

"So what's the deal with the accents then?" Alexander asked, genuinely curious. "I've lived in both the UK and the US for a number of years, so my accent tends to slip back and forth depending upon who I'm speaking with," Chris explained. "I just tend to pick up accents quite easily." "Have you ever thought of taking up acting or doing voice-over work?" Alexander suggested. "Oh no, it hasn't even crossed my mind," Chris said. "But thanks, I'm very flattered."

"So, who is Oliver?" Alexander asked again. "Oliver? He's my dog - Ollie for short," Sandy told him. "Oh," Alexander replied in sudden understanding. Chris could have sworn she heard the faintest note of relief in the Englishman's deep baritone as the pair's voices drifted back to her. I must be mistaken, she thought to herself idly. "Actually, it's funny having a pet with a person's name. Every so often, I get mail addressed to him offering him all kinds of gold charge cards. He apparently has an excellent credit line..." Alexander laughed at Sandy's comment and added, "You're lucky he hasn't been called to serve on jury duty..." "Oh, like that cat named Nathan a few years back...?" Their voices quickly blended into the background noise and faded away. Chris shook her head in amusement as she finished her cocoa. It's sure going to be very interesting working around here, she thought to herself.

Sandy - a big hello right back to you Cindie - and you're a much braver woman than I *gulp*
Oh my gosh, MA. I think I may have to bring the chocolate-covered nine inch nails over here. Yikes!, - Monday, September 18, 2000 at 15:30:38 (PDT)

The Imperial dungeons:

The Interrogator paces about his cell, waiting patiently for Claudia to become impatient, and smiles as he considers that it should not take very long. Not with Claudia, who always prefers doing something-anything-to waiting. Much like Mary Anne in that regard, he thinks. They are neither of them fond of waiting.

It had been a surprise to him when he had recognized Claudia’s voice from the other cell; after he had overheard the guards’ conversation, he had been expecting Mary Anne. All that talk of blue eyes . . .

"Expecting," indeed. A sharp internal rebuke. You were hoping, weren’t you? No, do not look away! Answer!

He shakes off his distraction. Time enough for such thoughts later; for now, what does it mean, that Claudia is here? How much had she told the Alliance? He had taken great care that she would not have much to tell them, not without incriminating herself beyond all hope. Perhaps that is exactly what has happened. HIS lips curl into a small, gloating smile as he thinks of Claudia’s third "task." It would be most interesting to know what had happened at Delaford . . . but no. Other matters, for the moment.

Are they watching me, now? This moment? A great deal depends upon it-will they stop HIM, if he attempts to extract information from Claudia? Not my usual method of extracting information. HE is conscious of a grim inward laugh at the irony: even as a prisoner, even in a cell where he can touch no other human being, he can still function as a torturer, if necessary. He can still practice his profession-for there is no doubt in his mind that Claudia, after her long, frustrated silence, will try again. And again. And again.

She is commendably persistent.

Perhaps he will not be stopped. Perhaps The Empress, even if she detects HIS design, will allow him to continue, that she might learn more about both of them. It is worth a try, to see what he can discover from Claudia.

And besides, a man must have some means of passing the time. Some amusement.

HE waits. Paces about the cell. Removes his glasses, holding them up to the light . . . checking the lenses, the fit of the earpieces . . .

The silence continues for some time longer.

HE raises an eyebrow. Stubborn of her-not what he had been expecting. HE will give her ten more minutes . . .

The allotted ten minutes pass, and HE makes his decision, moving nearer to the door. Time to play . . .

As he had done before, The Interrogator slides down the wall to sit on the floor, and releases an inhuman-sounding wail that erects the hairs upon his own neck-to say nothing of what it must do to those upon Claudia’s. He can picture her, springing toward the door of her cell, blonde hair flying about her face as she strains to peer out into the corridor.

And there, bang on cue. Claudia’s voice. "I’m here, what is it? What’s happening to you? Tell me!"

"I told you to go away!" HE shrieks. "I said I wouldn’t listen! You’re not real, not real . . ."

Not real, not real echoes through the corridor.

"But I am real!" cries Claudia." HE pictures her hands clutching the bars on her door, and almost imagines he can hear the sound her skin would make, against those bars . . . remembers the sound of her skin against his own . . . and the feel of it.

Her voice again. "I don’t know what’s been done to you since you’ve been here," she continues, "but I’m not trying to do anything to you, I swear."

"It’s what they always say, at the first," he replies. Sullenly. "Tell me they won’t hurt me, they’re tryin’ to help me . . . but it always ends the same. They’re not real." A sob. "No one is."

"I am." Instantly.

"Prove it!" Just as quickly.

"How can I prove it? What can I tell you that you’ll believe?"

For some moments, he makes no response except low, shivering breaths like those of a man worn out with hopeless weeping.

And then: "They never have names. Tell me your name and I’ll believe you."

A moment of silence.

"Claudia." Pause. "And what’s yours?"

HE is prepared for this occurrence, and launches instantly into another voice in his repertoire, heavy and brutal. "Shut your noise, you!"

What follows is a bravura one-man performance of helpless prisoner being slammed about the cell by Imperial thug, and HE can find it in his heart to regret his lack of an audience. Unless someone is watching me through that mirror or some other spy-hole. Ah, well . . . Claudia will at least hear it if she cannot see it: the cries and shrieks of, "No, please!" and the gasps of a man being beaten and kicked, mingled with the mockery of a cruel VOICE repeating such taunts as "Always sayin’ as no one’s REAL! I’d think you’d be GLAD to see me, wouldn’ you? Does this-" Noise as of a fist against flesh, followed by a sharp shriek-"feel REAL enough t’you? DOES it?" A thud, as though a body had been hurled against a wall. "Not a spirit-" It comes out as speerit--"am I?"

All this through long moments, punctuated by Claudia shaking the bars of her own cell, screaming, "Leave him alone! Stop hurting him!"

A pause. HE is sweating from his exertions as he moves closer to the cell door to toss a bone to Claudia in the form of a penetrating hiss: "Leave it, love, or I’ll pay you a visit next."

"Just try it," snaps Claudia, hoping that her voice doesn’t shake. "And see what you’ll get."

HE smiles, not in the least surprised.

"Brave lady," mocks that cruel VOICE. "But not so brave, after a trip down below." A rasping chuckle. "Ask this one here, if you don’t believe me." More laughter. "Ask him-if he ever decides that you’re real . . ."

At this, HE allows a silence to fall, broken only by his hoarse breathing as he makes the sounds of a beaten man dragging himself about.

HE wonders whether Claudia will pass the test-a sort of intelligence test. Will she be able to think clearly enough to understand that this was all a sham? Plenty of clues.

Life here has just become a great deal more interesting, HE decides with satisfaction as he settles himself near the door, and reflects that, whatever happens, he has given her a great deal to be uneasy about. It is notoriously difficult to think clearly and logically when you are wondering whether you might be dragged off to a torture chamber in the near future.

The Interrogator indulges in a cynical grin. But she’s an interesting girl. I believe she would find it rather enjoyable. (homage) If she can manage to reason out anything with that prospect before her . . . well, that would make her a very promising ally. Or enemy. Either way, it will be fascinating.

For now, though, HE waits. It is up to her to take the next step . . .

MA--hi, Cindie. "Patrick"? I guess that would make "Mistral" a surname--for the "actor." Of course, he could say anything about his name . . . *wink*
Claudia--maybe this'll give you something to chew on. Therese--thanks for the, um, "return" of Brandon. *grin*, - Sunday, September 17, 2000 at 19:53:00 (PDT)

FOF Set: The next morning Cindie entered the FOF studio by nine o’clock. The FOF crew wasn’t known to be a morning bunch and she hadn’t asked him what time they should meet. She had meant to be casual about their meeting this morning but as soon as she awoke she found herself thinking about it. What to wear, more makeup than usual, less makeup than usual, pantyhose, well let’s not get ridiculous. Black slacks and top, emerald green sweater, the usual foundation alone, trouser socks, and black flats. Back into the bedroom for a squirt of Chanel No. 5 and off to ….. to what exactly? Tea with a nice man who plays the part of a very not nice man. What could be simpler? As she walked in the door and headed for the lunchroom she thought almost anything.

There were just a few people in the halls as she headed for the lunchroom. She smiled and said hello to everyone as she passed but her mind was on her destination. He might not even be there, she thought to herself. He could just be toying with you for all you know. She entered the lunchroom half expecting to see a line of empty tables. Whatever the other half of her was expecting it certainly wasn’t the sight that greeted her. There, at the far table, seated facing her, was the actor who played The Interrogator. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit and a muted blue patterned silk tie. In front of him the table was spread with a white linen tablecloth. There was a complete silver tea service and several trays with scones, muffins, croissants and every imaginable breakfast pastry. The two places were set with what was obviously fine china although she did not immediately recognize the pattern. As she approached, the gentleman stood up and pulled out her chair. He bowed and motioned for her to sit. The sounds of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing in the background. She sat down wordlessly, stunned by the trouble to which he’d gone. He smiled, “shall I pour?”

After a few moments it occurred to her that she needed to answer him. “Yes, please. This is all so lovely!”

“It was the least I could do after inflicting my horrible sense of humor upon you so early in our acquaintance. You must understand,” his eyes took on a very intense glow, “I hope you understand, that this is simply a role which I play. It is not who I am. Certainly, however, people perceive me, at least initially, as the character. I often deflect this by playing it up, to lessen the effect through humor….” He stopped and took her hand in his. He looked at her and said plaintively, “Look, I know I’m mucking this all up, I just wanted to apologize and ask you to give me a chance to get to know you and allow you to get to know me. And have tea.” He smiled, “there, I’m done prattling on. Please tell me, how do you take your tea?” He released her hand and reached towards the silver teapot.

“Not so fast,” she replied, “you don’t get off that easily.” He looked at her with a concerned expression. “You need to tell me your name before I can consent to have tea with you.”

He leaned his head back and laughed. It was an amazing sound, pure and clear and, most importantly, not even remotely diabolical. “Fair enough,” he chuckled. “My name is Patrick. What is yours?”

“Cindie”, she smiled back. “Now, to answer your question, I take my tea straight.”

"Fine then, Cindie," a mischevious twinkle entered his eye, "I was afraid you were going to ask me for an apology letter."

"I can see we're going to have an awful lot to talk about Patrick"
Cindie <cynthiagreen@ameritech.net>
I'm in it up to my neck now. Big hello to everyone on the set. So how much trouble am I in for naming HIM?, - Sunday, September 17, 2000 at 19:02:35 (PDT)

The Stables

Brandon handed her his hankerchief, but did not break the silence. He had said his part, at this point it was up to Therese. She took the scrap of white fabric from his outstretched hand wordlessly, crumpling and twisting it between her fingers, then pulling it straight only to mangle it once again.

The silence continued, punctuated only by the muted sounds of Therese as she vainly attempted to staunch the flow of tears, and the gentle clump of Brandon's boots as he shifted his position.

Instead of calming as time progressed, Therese grew more agitated, and she turned toward Brandon several times, stealing quick, darting glances before she quickly looked away. He remained impassive in his regard.

"What do you want from me!?" Therese finally jumped up to stand in front of Brandon, her words bursting from her in her frustration. She could feel the soft fabric give way in her hands, and she clenched it even more tightly, her knuckles turning white under the strain.

"What do you need, Therese?" he asked calmly. "I only want to provide for you whatever it is that will help you through this."

"I don't know," she bit out, her words a growl of frustration, "and it's unlikely you could understand enough to tell me."

"But what if I could?" His voice was whisper soft, gentle, soothing. . .but the implication of that simple question made Therese's knees go out from under her, and she sat down heavily upon the floor. For she knew that Mary Anne had been imprisoned by The Interrogator, and it only made sense that Brandon would have rescued the woman he loved, just as Dev had come for her. She hadn't thought of it before, but of course, obviously he would understand.

And, just as obviously, he had understood when the victim had been Mary Anne. She had attended their wedding, after all, so they had managed to recover from HIS evil. Perhaps then, there was hope? For she could not imagine Brandon, though his ways were different from Eamon's, being any less protective of Mary Anne, the Eamon was of her.

"How did you manage?" Therese asked, knowing that Brandon would understand precisely what she meant. She didn't ask how he survived while Mary Anne was gone, but how they had been able to continue after--when the ordeal was supposedly over, but really had only just begun.

"You told me once, not long ago, that without Eamon in your life, your future looked bleak. I was angry with him at the time, and in my ire it was difficult to remember that love can weather substantial difficulities. If you ask me could I imagine my life without Mary Anne, I must tell you I could not. So to lose her to HIM, even though I had her back, was unthinkable."

Therese sighed, and wiped at her eyes with the remnents of Brandon's hankie. "She told you, then, all that she had been through?"

Brandon nodded. "She did." He paused for long moments, as if choosing his words with utmost care. "It was not easy for me to listen to, I cannot tell you otherwise, and I have no doubt that it was harder yet for her to relate. But neither one of us could begin to heal until everything had been told."

"But what if. . .what if Eamon cannot bear what I must tell him?"

"Do you believe that Eamon's love for you is less than what you feel for him?"

"No! Oh no, of course not!" The words were out of Therese's mouth without her having to think--she had no qualms where Eamon's loyalty was concerned.

"Then, were the situation reversed, can you imagine anything that could happen to Eamon which would cause your feelings for him to change?"

Therese was silent for long moments, and when she answered, her voice was soft. "Again, no."

"I will not tell you that it is easy, but you know that. A man cannot listen to injustices perpetrated against the woman he loves without much emotion. I felt furious, horrified, devestated, helpless--and so many more sentiments which escape the limitations of language. Eamon will no doubt feel the same, but in spite of the onslaught, he will be conscious of one thought above all else, just as I was." He looked at Therese, his hazel eyes boring into her until she turned to meet his gaze. "Do you know what that one thought was, Therese?"

She nodded slowly. "I think so."

"I had her back," he said, the sense of wonder still evident in his tone. "In spite of all I went through, in spite of all that Eamon feels right now, he has you back, and that, in the end, will be enough."

Therese
Okay, MA--Brandon is done now--he's all yours!, - Sunday, September 17, 2000 at 14:00:43 (PDT)

"Day the Hundredth, in the month of February - In which I have some qualms about Joya."

I looked at Queen Berengaria sprawled on the floor in front of me, then at the whip in my hand and then down at the queen again. What was it Adam had said? She needed "a cleric to tend to her spiritual needs". Ha! Spiritual indeed! That was a new description. Had I known about these proclivities before, I would have made an effort to know her better the last time I was at court, the minx.

Well, King Richard's lack of interest was explanation enough, I suppose. And in a way it was quite an honour. In other circumstances I would certainly have accepted what was offered. But I am a perfectionist in matters of personal indulgence and I did not want to start something that would have to be concluded haphazardly. Some things just can't be rushed.

And it would have to be rushed if I was going to confront Joya and make a timely departure. So while I pulled the leather thongs through my fingers and admired their tensile strength, I turned her down. "I'm afraid, Highness, that I cannot oblige you." The regret in my voice was not entirely feigned. I dropped the whip on the chest and raised my palm for a farewell blessing.

She looked up in surprise. "But...but I must be punished. Brother Aelgwyth says that only through the chastisement of the body can the soul be purified."

What a delightful tease she was! Really, she did it so well that it would have fooled someone more naïve than me. Well, I could play along. "Brother Aelgwyth isn't exactly the pope, is he, hmm? He's not the only one who can lay down proscriptions." I raised my hand again, feeling benevolent. "The pilgrimage I am undertaking limits my activities in the performance of the sacraments. Were I to scourge you, I would enjoy it so much that I would have to undertake my own penance and my schedule would be upended completely. No, we'll have to forgo the usual penance this time, Highness. Just say the prayers I assigned and we'll forget the rest."

She looked uncertain but allowed me to help her up. When she was on her feet again, she paced across the room, dusting her gown with both hands. She paused at the window and looked out for some time, apparently lost in thought. I tried not to fidget. Then with a flick of her skirts, she turned around. "This gives me much confusion, what you say. I told Brother Aelgwyth I wished to have my husband's love. He tells me that to be worthy of a man like Richard the Lion-Heart I must be devout and religious. Only through the most rigorous piety will my husband appreciate my devotion. And now you say that there are other proscriptions. Explain please!"

Obviously she was one of those women who liked to talk about it first. I was reminded of Estrilda but pushed the image out of my mind. The queen's situation was much different and she was far more beautiful. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I was tempted to take her up on her offer. I had never been this long without a woman before. It was more than time to end my involuntary abstinence. I ran my eye over Berengaria's stately figure. Not precisely my type but she was available, apparently willing and had a predilection for toys that intrigued me. And I would have the added satisfaction of cuckolding the king.

I walked across the room. Yes indeed, it was past time that I renewed the carnal adventures that had been such an important part of my life before my exile. How appropriate that I was home again! How fitting that I was on the verge of regaining my gold so that I could retake my castle and lands! The queen looked up at me as I stopped directly in front of her. She would be the first - the first in a long line of women that the reinstated Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff would enjoy in the future. Women who weren't Joya.

It must have the sunlight from the window. All of a sudden Berengaria's dark comeliness dwindled to a portion of its former appeal. I closed my eyes tight to clear my vision, then opened them wide again but it didn't work. The queen had somehow lost her beauty. Unfortunate but no reason not to proceed. She looked at me quizzically as I reached for her, a small frown furrowing her brow. I hesitated, uncertain how to proceed.

Laughter and voices floated through the window beside us. To gain some time I looked for their source. This room looked over the gardens that ran from the inner bailey to the wall. The bare limbs of the fruit trees were stark against the snow but still concealed anyone walking along the paths. Reds and greens flashed amongst the trees and then a group of women appeared. I peered closer. Melisant and Marion of Locksley in front and behind them, two maids, bringing up the rear was Walter of Krone and Joya.

I grasped the window frame and leaned out. The conversation was animated and the laughter constant but Krone and Joya were silent. She kept her gaze on the group ahead, hugging herself as if she were cold. He stared at her and paid no attention to the others.

"You see, Brother?" Berengaria's voice was bitter. I started at the sound. I'd forgotten she was there. "There is another situation like mine. He loves only her but she will have none of him. Madre de Dios, I begin to think there is no one in the world well-matched." She turned away from the window with a weary shrug.

I looked down at the garden again. Krone had caught up with Joya and seemed to be arguing with her. He pointed at the castle and then swept his arm around to include the garden. Joya refused to look. He glanced over his shoulder at the others, then slipped his hand behind Joya's back. She stiffened suddenly and tried to twist away from him. He held her tight for a moment, then released her.

I was stunned. He'd hurt her! Then a wave of hot rage consumed me. How dared he - in front of me! I spun around and marched to the door, fumbling under my robes for my dagger. Walter of Krone was about to learn an important lesson in the sanctity of private property.

"Brother! Where are you going?" Berengaria's voice halted me at the threshold. "What about my penance? What should I do?"

I emerged from the fog of my anger long enough to realize that one didn't just walk out on the queen. "Highness, you should follow the penance I assigned. If you feel that more is required, then take that delightful instrument that Brother Aelgwyth gave you and use it on King Richard the next time you're alone with him. But tie him down first!" Then I pushed the door open and stalked out before she could respond.

There was only one entrance to the garden from this part of the castle. I ran through the smaller hall past servants cleaning the floors and then down the spiral stairs to the base of the tower. The great wooden door was unbarred. It creaked open and I stepped into the churned up slush of the garden. I looked around. There was no one in sight.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
- Sunday, September 17, 2000 at 12:55:01 (PDT)

Dev’s guest quarters, Delaford:

After Dev’s abrupt departure, Mary Anne stares after him for a few moments, then slowly moves to the window, feeling weary and sick. With neither Dev nor Therese in the room, she has no business being here . . .

What do you mean, you have no business being here? It is your home, after all.

Pressing her forehead to the cool glass of the window, Mary Anne stares blankly out at the lawn below. Yes, it is her home, but to have been in this room and seen . . . she wonders if she will ever be able to forget the way Therese had huddled in the bed, as if trying to make herself smaller when Mary Anne had entered. As if she thought I would hurt her-as if she can’t be certain of what anyone might do.

Mary Anne shakes her head. No, she will not be able to forget that, nor the way Dev had slammed his hand into the window frame-a stroke that had behind it all the heartfelt agony of love that a proud, private man can suffer when the one he loves most is separated from him by the memory of terror and pain.

Now that the room is silent, Mary Anne feels like an intruder, but she cannot bring herself to leave. Not yet. To step through the door is to enter the life of Delaford again, to compose her face into her best "Mistress of the Manor" expression, and she is anything but composed. Below her, she can see the frightened horse, at the center of a narrowing circle of men: Hayes and several of the stablehands, together with . . . Mary Anne squints through the glass, then smiles a little. Her eyes had not deceived her; it is indeed Diggory Venn who has joined in the effort to control the panicked mare and return her to her pen. Poor Diggs. He and Tamsie must be anxious to be getting back to Egdon by now. Her smile widens as she remembers how Diggory had assured her that he and Tamsie will stay for as long as she needs them. He’s a dear-and even if he weren’t, the Alliance won’t be easing up around here for a while. They’ll be on the lookout to catch any stragglers of HIS, from the West Wood . . .

At the thought of The Interrogator, Mary Anne’s half-smile disappears as abruptly as if someone had blown out a candle. HIM. Almost absently, as if watching a person entirely apart from herself, Mary Anne looks down and watches her own hand curl into a fist against the windowsill, beating against it in frustration and anger-slowly at first, then faster and harder until she forces herself to stop, squeezing her eyes shut against the sight of the wild-eyed horse there on the lawn, plunging this way and that in an attempt to escape the circle closing about her.

What if I had killed HIM when I had the chance?

It is not the first time she has wrestled with this question, but seldom has it seemed so troubling as now. Her first opportunity would have been cold-blooded murder, from which Brandon had dissuaded her. And her second chance? Overwhelmed by evil, she would have taken HIS life-slowly-but again, Brandon had been present to intervene. More to save me than to save HIM. But if it had meant Therese wouldn’t have to go through this . . . and Dev . . . would it have been as wrong as all that, to make an end of HIM? If only . . .

The anger is terrifying, and powerful, and exhilarating, and Mary Anne allows it to sweep through her for several moments before a sudden chill of fear opens her eyes and forces her to remember what she had been.

What SHE had been. Is there, she wonders, any way of bringing that about . . . without the Machine?

She hopes not. For it seems to her as if that evil self is very near, in her wishes that she could once again have a chance to harm The Interrogator and see that HIS schemes would never again come near anyone she loves. Is it her imagination, or can she hear, faintly and far away, a voice warning: Be careful what you wish for . . .

What price, protection from HIM and all HE represents? Security, in exchange for her soul? Destroy The Interrogator, only to take HIS place?

Like the proud, vain girl in one of Andersen's most harrowing fairy tales, Mary Anne is filled with grief for herself and it seems as though the gate of mercy could never be opened to her. (homage) And Reader, if her conscience seems to you a touch particular and over-scrupulous, consider that she has made the closer acquaintance of evil than most people are ever likely to make. Small wonder that she is fearful, and as vigilant against attack as one of Her Majesty’s own Imperials.

Watching the scene below her, Mary Anne suddenly becomes aware that Therese has not entered the fray-and that there is no sign of Brandon. Perhaps he caught her coming out of the house and took her out of the way. I hope so. The last thing she needs is to be dragged about again by that animal. I wonder if . . . Mary Anne does not want to entertain the thought. What if the horse cannot be calmed? If there is no way to bring her under control, then . . . but she will not think it. It seems a betrayal of Therese, who is clearly bent on helping the frightened mare if she possibly can.

But how do you help, when there is no help? What could I do for Therese today, except listen? Was I any help at all?

Below her, she sees Dev hurry out of the house onto the lawn-asking after Therese, from the look of it, and Venn calls an answer over his shoulder.

Mary Anne turns from the window, her lips set into a firm line. Dev’s a brave man-he sees that something needs to be done, and he does it, or at least he tries to do it. Now get yourself out of here and go see if there’s anything you can do.

Mary Anne checks herself quickly in the mirror to make certain all of the dog hair has been brushed from her gown, and then leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

MA--it's okay, Therese; I know Brandon will be safe with you. ;-) "Old man," my tuckus . . .
Claudia--dungeon stuff with Mister I, coming up. , - Saturday, September 16, 2000 at 18:18:12 (PDT)

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