May, 2001
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Delaford. Dev's Quarters:
Dev let go a small sigh of frustration when the door burst open a second time--mere moments after a thoroughly disgusted Joanna McCoy had stalked from the room, none too pleased with a certain Irishman despite Therese's insistant defense.
"Aye, Miss Therese, t' Missus t'would be--" Miss MacCleod broke off abruptly at the sight of Dev on the bedside next to the recipient of her message. "Och, I 'ad no idea you were here too, Mister De Valera."
Dev waved a weary hand at the tall Scottish woman, "Think nothing of it, Miss MacCleod," he responded, "you're certainly not the first."
The other woman looked at the couple with trepidation--there was a decidedly tense undercurrent prevalent in the room. The wee woman's features were set stubbornly, and t' big Irish bloke looked as though he'd like to throttle someone, if only he could narrow down the field of candidates to the one. There was a time not too long ago when Moira MacCleod would not have left the wee lass alone with the Irish brute--and not only because it was well known just how uncivilized t' Irish were in general, but they'd all heard a great plenty about this one in particular. . .yet she'd come to know him just a bit, and unless he'd greatly fooled her--and that would be a first, she could admit with no sense of ego, but simply a truth. No, she well knew that this man meant no harm to the little woman, he'd proven to her and all the rest of the staff of Delaford and the Alliance how important she was to him.
Best to impart her message and leave these two to their own, whatever it was. "I'm sorry to be a bother sir, ma'am, I'd not known you had company Miss Therese. Missus Brandon wanted me to be tellin' ye that she is breakin' her fast in t' library, and she'd like to invite ye to join her if yer able t' leave yer room."
"Please inform Mrs. Brandon--" Dev began, his deep bass voice at its most direct.
"--that I must put on suitable attire, and I shall join her directly," Therese finished for him, her eyes flashing angrily.
"Aye, that I will," the older woman replied, and turning, she retreated from the room.
There was a long silence, during which time Therese rose from the bed, her body slightly unsteady, but growing stronger as she began to move about the room. Dev remained on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, his hazel eyes fixed upon her angrily.
"So you mean to go to her then, despite all I've told you, despite all we've been through--it means nothing to you does it?" he demanded.
Therese stiffened at his tone, and turned back toward him slowly. "Certainly, that would be correct. It means nothing at all to me that I thought I had been taken from you forever. It means nothing at all that I lived through unspeakable horrors that I'd never dreamed of, let alone imagined I could survive. It means nothing whatsoever that for the first time in my life I thought that I was going to die--and that the thing that bothered me the most was I couldn't imagine having to leave you alone once again, knowing that when you lost your wife it almost killed you. So how could you imagine that what I'd been through could mean anything at all?"
Eamon's head snapped back at her response, and she saw all too clearly the pain that she'd inflicted. She wanted to recall her words then, knew that she'd always been one to speak her mind rather than think things through, and had never learned to bear the consequences of that action well.
"So then you'll take the chance of putting both of us through that once again?" he asked quietly.
Therese crossed back over to the beside one more time, and lowered herself to the bed beside Eamon. He stiffened for a moment at the contact, then, as had always been the case when he was near this woman, found that he could not hold himself apart from her, and took her in his arms. Therese drew in a ragged breath, and curled herself against his body.
"This is Mary Anne, not HIM," she said after several long moments of silence. "And I need to know whatever story there is behind such a concept as you've told me. At one time I would have been merely curious, but now I need to understand. I can't not know. Please don't be angry with me."
Dev held her to himself even more closely, breathing in the faint scent of lilac that she never seemed to be without and kissing her gently on her forehead. His eyes closed for long moments, fighting to understand and accept her needs, and battling with his own compulsive desire to keep her far away from the slightest possibility of harm.
"You will allow me to accompany you?" he asked bleakly.
"Of course, I always want you with me, you must know that."
"Well then, I suppose we shouldn't keep Mrs. Brandon waiting."
Therese
bottle feeding orphaned kittens right now (*not* mine before the untimely demise of mum, I might add--spay and neuter your pets being my middle name)--this post brought to you compliments of Ken, Bob, Phil, and Shirley, who all require their last feeding of the night in 45 minutes. . .right, best get on with it then, - Thursday, May 31, 2001 at 21:18:35 (PDT)
FOF set:
Mary Anne hurries through the corridors with a dressing gown flung over one shoulder, a pair of carpet slippers in one hand, and a CD in the other. Time had gotten away from her as she sat in her cubicle, drafting out script projections for the scenes of "Mary Anne and Brandon go to the Palace," and had looked up to discover that she had only ten minutes before her massage appointment with Jutta.
Down the hallway, around a corner--
WHUMPFF!!!
Mary Anne collides with The Director, and the CD goes flying--
--to be caught neatly out of the air by The Director, who hands it back as he supports Mary Anne with the other hand. "Steady on, now!" he laughs. "Really, Mary Anne, it will still be there when you get there—whatever it may be."
This, from the man who used to fuss at me if work wasn’t done a week in advance, no less. But she can’t help smiling back. "Well, ‘it’ is my first massage appointment with Jutta."
"Ah." The Director looks pleased. "Good to see you’re following her instructions."
"Yes," replies Mary Anne demurely. "I am following her instructions to the letter." It requires a truly heroic effort of will, to lay no particular stress on the her.
Meanwhile, The Director is peering at the cover of the CD that he has handed back to her. "Boneless Baroque"?
"Another of Jutta’s instructions, sir. She said that to help me relax during the treatment, I should bring a favourite recording of some soothing music." She nods toward the CD. "And anyone who can’t relax during this is strung tighter than Jamie’s cello."
"Sounds just the thing." Then, a little too casually: "And did you have a good weekend? Have some fun?"
What is he driving at? wonders Mary Anne, but she manages not to look at him too sharply. In a duel of wits with The Director, an innocent look is one of her best defenses. "Not this time, I’m afraid," she sighs—perhaps a little too exaggeratedly, for he frowns in sympathy, and she lightens her tone. "Well, you know how it is! Sometimes you have to do everything on the weekend you couldn’t get done during the week, and not always fun things, either—"
"Well, you should get out more. Consider that part of your, ah, relaxation regime."
"Relaxation regime? Sounds like an oxymoron to me." She smiles up at him, blue eyes twinkling through thick, dark lashes.
As if by magic, his voice softens. "I’m serious! It can’t be good for someone like you, sitting home by yourself—"
Hastily, Mary Anne throttles back on the charm. Good Lord, is he about to ask me out?! Say something; say anything . . . "Well, Christopher had a lot to do this weekend, too, but we talked about next weekend . . ."
"Brandon." Some change, here, that Mary Anne is not able to identify. Chagrin? Jealousy? "Ummmmm . . . yes. His company would be very good for you."
Possibly, just possibly, that change could have been relief.
"In what way, sir?" Teasing, now. "Because he helps keep me in order?"
"Partly." Some snap in that—now, that’s The Director she knows. But he is smiling as well. "Partly that, but partly because . . ." Again, that elusive gentleness. "He’s kind, and knows how to treat you well, and . . . and I just think it would be good for you to get out more, do more things you enjoy. You had been working so hard. And I want you to know that I do appreciate it, but the fans wouldn’t thank me if you worked yourself into an extended hiatus for fatigue."
Mary Anne cannot resist. "Or malnutrition, sir."
A piercing look. "Or that, or anything else! Now, get on to your appointment. You mustn’t keep Jutta waiting."
"I won’t. But it’s my first massage ever, and for some silly reason, I feel a bit nervous about it."
"No need. In fact, you should find it very enjoyable. Now, on your way."
Mary Anne nods and hurries on, her head whirling with what has just taken place, until she reaches Jutta’s suite.
As she had been instructed, Mary Anne passes by several doors and knocks on the one at the far end, hearing from within a call of "Enter!" Taking a deep breath, she twists the handle, opens the door, and peeks in.
Jutta is waiting. "Good day, Mary Anne. Everything’s ready for you. If you’d like to step over here, please?"
MA--more Welsh for me?Diolch, Cindie.
Jutta--hope everything IS ready. Bet you thought I'd never get there! 8-), - Thursday, May 31, 2001 at 19:17:02 (PDT)
They wiled away the last bit of the afternoon left to them by continuing to walk through the house as Mistral explained more of some of the rooms and their contents. No more rogue furniture was present and Cindie did not mention the gowns again. They agreed that he would sit with his mother for a bit while she got out the things for dinner. He initially objected but ultimately agreed, realizing that she needed to do something constructive.
Before going down to see what could be found for supper, Cindie went back to her room and began to pack. It didn’t take long but she lingered, looking back at the room she’d only occupied for one night. It might be a cliché but in some ways it seemed a lifetime. She placed the suitcase outside her door as she’d been admonished. Despite her protestations that she was perfectly capable of carrying one suitcase down the stairs, Mistral had insisted that she leave it for him to take to the car. She thought she should’ve found this irksome, but found instead that she appreciated this bit of chivalry.
She chose the route to the dining room which took her through the library. Going immediately to the window she peered out at the stream and its waterfall. It was a breathtaking view and she tried to imagine growing up with it every day. Seeing a flash out of the corner of her eye she turned and noticed Mistral’s cufflinks still on the end table where he’d placed them last night. Cindie strolled over to the table and deftly pocketed the treasure.
Continuing into the dining room she laid the table with china from the immense buffet. There were actually several patterns and she chose a different one from the previous night. She recognized another pattern as being from the same set Mistral had laid their table with that morning in the lunch room when he’d surprised her with the elaborate tea. She’d been so nervous! He’d seemed so stern and unapproachable on the set at first. Drawn to him, she found herself looking for opportunities to observe him, and soon suspected there was much more beneath that guarded exterior than first appeared. It was slowly sinking in that he was drawn to her as well and she found this prospect both exciting and frightening. Not a fear of him, a fear of the intensity. The riddle. In some ways it was more puzzling now than when they’d first begun to see each other. One thing she knew, in trying to untangle it, she was becoming more entangled by the day. Smiling, she also knew that she had no intentions of trying to become disentangled.
The refrigerator and pantry yielded cold ham, assorted cheeses, bread and salad. Placing the food on the table she cubed some of the cheese to make it easier for Mrs. Mistral to pick up. Deciding to go a bit further, she sliced the ham and cut it in manageable pieces and arranged it on a serving platter. She did the same with the bread. There was a water pitcher which she filled but she didn’t know where the wine was kept. She wasn’t about to go looking. Finally, she surveyed her preparations with satisfaction. Dinner was served.
She was just lighting the tapers which had been left on the table from the night before when she heard his foot fall. Looking up, she’d expected to see Mistral leading his mother into the room. “Where’s your…” her voice trailed as she noted his carefully controlled expression.
“Mother is feeling very poorly tonight and will not be joining us,” he said stiffly. His eye caught the carefully set table and the preparations which had obviously been made on his mother’s behalf. “Caaredigrwydd, what a lovely thought…” he began quietly. He pulled himself up and began to clear the place setting where she would have sat.
“Leave it,” her voice as gentle as the fingertips on his arm. “We can clear it later, when we do ours.” His face did not alter expression but he nodded and held the chair out for her. She sat and they ate in an unhappy, though not uncomfortable, silence. “Do you still want to leave?”
“Yes,” his voice was rough and he cleared his throat, “yes. There is nothing I can do and there is no immediate danger.” There was a slight emphasis on the word immediate which was not lost upon her.
They cleared away the dishes and returned the leftovers to the fridge. Cindie had started the coffee which was now ready and she decanted it into the thermos. She’d already located two travel mugs which she packed up with the coffee. “Shall we say our goodbyes?”
“I already did.” He replied stiffly.
Cindie
MA -- somemore Welsh for you.
Looks like Cindie is a klepto., - Thursday, May 31, 2001 at 16:33:26 (PDT)
Miranda woke up without opening her eyes so Metatron wouldnt know, becuase she knew that he was watching her sleep. She just couldn't keep quiet anymore so she said, "Metatron I just realized something. How is it possible for us to get married when you and especially God knows that angels are ill-equiped and that it's immposible for us to..you know."
"Good point. I dont know. I never thought about what God told me after he did." Metatron told Miranda and looked alittle dicouraged that maybe God was playing a joke on him. "Miranda maybe you should go find Vanessa and Tina, I have to go ask God something." So Metatron got up and went off to find God. Im not so sure that Vanessa and Tina will want to talk to me after I blew them off this morning! Miranda thought to herself right before she was about to exit the room. Oh I will go! She left the room sure that Vanessa and Tina were at Anthony and Christians house since she told them to go there and yesterday they told her they were going.
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
no this is not the plan!, - Thursday, May 31, 2001 at 04:47:14 (PDT)
Woo-HOO!
Cindie
I'm glad you're back., - Wednesday, May 30, 2001 at 19:00:46 (PDT)
We missed both of you.
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, May 30, 2001 at 17:30:11 (PDT)
Summary of an Official Document Pertaining to the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart, Presented at the Trial of the Defeated Malefactors
The harvest was in and the men were celebrating. From farms as far as two miles away they came to the hedge tavern to wear out their elbows hoisting ales. The host and his wife were kept on the run, fetching tankards from the great barrels in the back room and slapping them down on the rickety board laid across two trestles that served as the counter. The shabbiness of their surroundings did not bother the celebrants; as long as they had the joint conviviality of friendship and strong ale, they were prepared to overlook the atmosphere.
It did not seem to bother the two strangers in the far corner of the room either. Despite the large fire roaring in the hearth beside them, they sat with their cloaks pulled close and hunched their shoulders at the crowd. Two cups stood half-full and ignored in front of them.
Whenever the door opened to admit another customer, the younger man twisted around in his chair to scan the newcomer with a distracted eye. Invariably the sight failed to please him and he returned to his companion with annoyance. The thin, bony fingers of both hands grasped his drink tightly. The older man sat motionless except for his gaze that swept back and forth over the room's occupants. To even the most befuddled observer, his quick examination was more thorough than the other's. Fortunately, no one challenged him or returned the stare. The outline of a sword under his cloak was unmistakable.
"How much longer, dammit?" The younger man threw a cursory glance over his shoulder as the door opened again, letting in another thirsty farmer. "You said it wouldn't take long."
"Patience." The older man's voice rumbled up from a deep cavern. "What have I told you from the beginning? Slow and steady wins the race. And stop looking over your shoulder like a purse-snatcher. You'll attract notice."
"I can't help it." An outburst of laughter from the direction of the counter caught his attention for a moment. He returned to his companion, his mouth turned down sulkily. "So close we can almost touch it and we're sitting here in this hovel like a couple of serfs. I thought you had a plan."
"I do. But killing is serious work." He paused to quaff some of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I'm not going to let some spoiled rich boy ruin it for me. Understand?" His voice turned cold and deadly.
"Yes, yes, I understand. Sorry." The younger man cringed back in his chair. "But you haven't told me anything yet. I don't even know why we're here. You can't expect me to just traipse along after you like a puppy without some idea of what the plan is."
The older man seemed to weigh this comment with deliberation. He was silent for some moments. "Very well. But not here. We'll find some lodging and I'll tell you then. Take these," He dug into his purse and shoved some coins across the table. "And pay the reckoning. I'll meet you outside."
The younger man swept the coins into his hand and marched over to the counter. The older man watched his progress, then placed both hands on the table and stood up.
Silence fell like the blow of an axe on the assembled celebrants. They stared open-mouthed as the hulking giant of a man in the corner adjusted his cloak and stepped around the table. Men who were large and strong enough to wield a scythe from dawn to sunset staggered back like boys as he progressed to the door. Ducking his head to clear the lintel, he walked outside without a backward glance, followed hastily by his younger, slighter companion. The door slammed shut behind them.
After a stunned moment the silence was broken by a rising buzz of conversation as the local men speculated about what they'd just seen. No less amazed, the host of the tavern walked over to collect the abandoned cups from the corner table. He had just gathered them up, slapped at the stained wood table with a dirty rag and turned back to the counter when he caught sight of something under one of the chairs. He stooped with a grunt and rescued a scrap of parchment. With furrowed brow he examined it, regretting that he had never learned to read or write more than his name and tossed it into the hearth.
As he went back to his customers, the parchment caught fire. Flames raced over the words and devoured them hungrily. Soon only a single line at the bottom of the page remained. "George, Lord Nottingham and Lord High Sheriff" was briefly visible, then it shimmered in the heat and dissolved into ash.
Magda
Did you miss him?, - Wednesday, May 30, 2001 at 17:18:45 (PDT)
ok I changed my email adress. I didn't like the old one much!
Miranda <ab234rth>
ok rth=Remember the Holocaust, - Wednesday, May 30, 2001 at 05:03:48 (PDT)
Mistral Manor:
Once back, Mistral immediately went up to check on his mother. Cindie, after a detour to the bathroom, sat in the window seat and picked up a copy of Jane Eyre she’d taken from the library. Mistral turned up after a bit. He did not report her condition but instead suggested they stroll through the house together. So it was that they came to one of the bedrooms, Cindie exclaiming as she tugged him forward into the room, “Here it is. Isn’t it the most unusual chair you’ve ever seen.?”
An eyebrow arched as he looked from her to the chair and back again. “Do you know what it is?” the query came out in a drawl.
“No, it seems very old…”
“It is. It’s a bordello chair.” Each syllable was carefully enunciated for maximum effect.
“A what?” She approached closer to the chair, she hadn’t really studied it, just noted it in passing when she’d gone through the house yesterday. Looking closer, she realized that rather than arms it had handles rising from its side. When she saw the stirrups mounted in its elaborately carved frame she flushed a red almost as deep as the velvet covering it.
Mistral watched as realization slowly dawned on her face. As the colour scorched her cheeks he did not suppress his laughter. That this woman who stirred his passions and delighted his soul, this woman who responded to him… whom he knew would respond to him… was also capable of such embarrassment was a wonder to him. Tearing her eyes from the chair she looked at him now and began to laugh herself. She looked so sheepish he laughed even harder, she in turn, seeing his response, did the same. Tears streaming down their cheeks they held on to each other as they left the bedroom and the chair behind.
Having paused to compose herself and wipe her eyes, Cindie remarked accusingly, “you could have warned me! I’d no idea!” “Only because you allow me the privilege of seeing it, and do me the honour of not trying to pretend you’re not.” “You delight in the oddest things.” “Do I?” “Yes.” She slipped her arm through his again, “It’s a good thing I have peculiar taste in men.” “Oh,” he asked idly, “what taste is that?” He smiled as he saw the telltale flush. But of course the plan won't work itself in for awhile so just wait and you'll see it's good! I know that but I have a plan. ummm... Miranda--Metatron may have to cut off his wings-he's ill equipped in the marriage department. Maybe you should change his name to Ken for now. Miranda woke the net morning refreshed but for a moment she forgot where she was. Oh yeah I'm in Metatron's room, but wait, where is Metatron? Miranda thought to herself and she felt hurt that he had left without waking her to tell where he was going or at least good morning. She got up and proceded to walk to her room when she heard someone opening the door. She jumped back on the bed and covered herself up so she could pretend to be asleep. She peeked out from under the blanket just so she could see who it was but they couldn't see her. The mystery person continued to open the door slowly as if they knew that someone was sleeping in the room. Of course the mystery person was Metatron. Miranda couldn't help keeping quiet so she asked, "Where were you?" Metatron looked at the bed and saw her peeking out from the blankets. "Oh there was a emergency and I had to go, I'm sorry. How long have you been awake?" He asked her and sat next to where she was laying on the bed. "Only for about five minutes or so. Why didn't you wake me up before you left? I was worried sick!" Miranda told him and of course was exaggerating about the worried sick part. "Well because I know the mood you get in when someone wakes you up. I don't want you in that mood today. "Metatron told her and winced at the thought of Miranda in her 'mood'. "Why?" Miranda asked and uncovered her head. "Because I want today to be a day just for us to be together. No Vanessa and Tina just us. Would you like that?" He asked curious what Miranda would think about his plan for the day. "I would love that. "Miranda told him and leaned up to kiss him. "I'm going to go get my clothes, take a shower, brush my teeth, and then brush my hair first ok." "Yeah go ahead. "Metatron said. So Miranda went to her room and did everything she said she was going to quickly so she and Metatron could have all the time in the world today. Once done she went over to her mirror and made sure she didnt look like yesterday and once satisfied she went over to her door. She opened it and standing right there was Vanessa and Tina. "Hello Miranda. Are you busy?" Vanessa asked. "Actually yeah I am. Me and Metatron are spending the day together. Why don't ou guys go occupy yourselves with Anthony and Christian." Miranda said in kindof a sarcastic tone. "Ok fine we will see you tomorrow." Tina said. "Ok I guess I will." Miranda walked right past them and walked towards Metatrons room. When she got there she went in and saw Metatron just laying on the bed staring up at the roof. She went over to the bed and sat down. She put her hand on his cheek and began to lightly stroke it. He turned his head to look at her and then took her hand. He put it to his lips and kissed it and then gave it back to her. She leaned down to kiss him and then layed down next to him. He rolled on top of her and kissed her neck. "Metatron! You know that we cant do that. "Miranda said and tried to get up. "Yeah I know which makes it even better." Miranda finally got him off her and jumped up and leaned against the wall. "Well God might give us a chance to do that once we are married, can't you wait?" Miranda asked him and sighed. "Look I'm sorry OK. I didn't know that you wanted to wait. But now that I know I won't do that again. "Metatron told Miranda and got off the bed to go stand next to her. "I guess I overreacted alittle. "Miranda told him and put her arms around him and put her head on his chest. "That's ok. So what do you want to do now?" Metatron asked her. "Take a nap." Miranda told him and laughed. "A nap? Already?" Metatron asked alittle confused at her decision. "Yeah a nap. I'm tired." Miranda told him and took her srms from around him. She then jumped on the bed and covered up. Metatron followed and the out of the two only Miranda fell asleep but Metatron enjoyed watching her sleep. Shes so small, so fragile, why did I make a move on her? Oh I know beause I wasn't thinking. Metatron thought to himself and hit himself in the head as Miranda often does. If only you could understand how I feel. Wales: Rather than turning back the way they had come, Mistral proceeded in giving her a tour of the area. He took her around all the back roads until Cindie completely lost her bearings. It was all so lovely she wasn’t bothered by this in the slightest. He pulled over briefly and showed her the local castle ruins. A side trip for another day, he said, with a local legend to go with the ruins. Mistral had forgotten the thermos so they didn’t have coffee after their meal. When they reached the nearest town he parked the car and led her to a café in order to rectify this oversight. What interested her even more than the charm and beauty of the town, which was considerable, was the way that the people reacted to their presence. At first she’d simply chalked it up to Welsh hospitality and the friendliness of the townspeople. As they left the car and walked to the café she realized that along with the nods of hello, the greetings, more often than not, were by name. His of course. He in turn greeted many of the townspeople by their names and when they reached the café, it was clear by the demeanor of their host, that Mistral was known. Of course, it occurred to Cindie, he’s a local celebrity. But the realization changed as it became clear that these weren’t star struck fans but people proud of their local boy made good. Mistral for his part was polite and friendly. He seemed comfortable in these surroundings in a way she had never seen him. Always self possessed, his manner now held a different ease which was subtle but definite. The coffee was, not surprisingly, excellent, and they lingered over it. People came and went, most nodding their greetings, but no one came over to the table. They spoke quietly together of unimportant things. It seemed as if their coffee cups were magical as they appeared to be ever-filling as their unobtrusive host kept them well plied with caffeine. Mistral put out both of his hand in invitation and Cindie slid hers into them. “We should go back to the house now.” Cindie nodded. “We never talked about it but I thought we ought to leave right after dinner. We’ll eat early, a light supper, and then I’ll take you back to your flat.” Her exhalation came out as a sigh, “I hate to leave here. Everything is so beautiful and I feel as though I haven’t had a chance to really see much at all.” “We can come again.” “Yes, I suppose we can.” She paused, framing her question, “Is it always hard to leave? “Yes.” “You could take a leave of absence. I’m sure the Director. . .” His response cut across her, “Yes, he would. But. . .” “Then you’d feel helpless seven days out of the week instead of two.” She finished for him. Stupid of her to have mentioned it. He needed to immerse himself in his work, it probably was an anchor for him at a time like this. “Let’s go.” He left the money for their coffee and they returned to the car. Little was said for most of the return drive. Cindie felt like an idiot for even suggesting that he might want to stay here until …. Until what? Until his mother passed away. Could you be any more thoughtless? She mentally castigated herself as the countryside whipped by her window. “It is fine you know.” Mistral was addressing her. “What?” As soon as the word left her lips, she realized to what he was referring. “I want you to tell me whatever you need to, whatever is on your mind. I …need that from you …of all people.” Though she would never have described him as predictable, this truly caught her by surprise. It did not seem in keeping with his normally self assured manner to need to hear anything from anybody. She ached for him. “Be careful what you ask for…” she tried to keep her tone light, “you’re liable to get it. I’m afraid I’ve been known to have a rather over developed sense of candor.” “There are worse flaws,” was all he said as they sped back to the house. Delaford. Mary Anne’s chamber: "—some very fine hand-sewing that you said you wouldn’t trust to anyone else. So I thought you might be able to do this. But only if you wish," adds Mary Anne. "There’s a great deal to do, and I won’t burden you with it if it hinders your regular duties—" "Dinna fash, Missus," replies Moire MacLeod, eyeing the task set before her. "It’s nae trouble, hardly an hour’s work for sharp scissors and a quick needle. Ye need no’ gie it another thought . . ." A delicate pause. "If ye’re sartain ye wish t’do this—" "I’m certain," answers Mary Anne, firmly. "If I must go to the Palace . . ." If I must go, I won’t go looking like some ignorant provincial. If people are going to stare at me, I’ll give them something to stare at. Naturally, she does not speak one word of this to Miss M, who is watching her shrewdly but sympathetically, her manner that perfect balance, as always, of decorum and friendly support. "Will there be anythin’ else, Missus Brandon?" "Yes. You can come back to work on this here; that way, when you’ve done, it will be ready to pack. But first, if you please, go and find Miss Therese. I’m not sure she’s ready to be up and about, but if she is, tell her I’d be pleased if she’d have mid-morning tea with me. It might do her good, but I don’t think she should be with too many people just yet." "Aye, puir wee lass." MacLeod’s golden-red brows draw together. "If ye’ll no’ take it amiss, ma’am, I hope—we all hope—as ye can help send that murtherin’ divvil where HE belongs." "I’ll certainly try." She does not bother to ask how much MacLeod might know; the woman seems to absorb knowledge by osmosis. "Oh, and if you should happen to see the Colonel, tell him where I’ll be. I don’t know if he’ll be about the house mid-morning, but if he wishes to join us for tea, send him along. I’ll ring for you if he comes." "Aye, ma’am, and where should I tell Miss Therese ye’ll be?" "The rose conservatory. But if she doesn’t feel well enough to come, send word to me and I’ll still have my tea there." A sigh. A few minutes’ peace . . . "Aye, ma’am. Would there be anythin’ else?" "Not for now. Go to Miss Therese, and I’ll speak more with you about this other work later." "Very good, ma’am." When MacLeod has gone, Mary Anne spends some time dispiritedly in the chambers she shares with Brandon, making an attempt to pack but hardly knowing what she will need, nor for how long, and she finally gives it up as a bad job--I really need to talk more with Christopher before I finish this--and sits down for a moment on the end of the bed to rest her ankle. McCoy’s prediction had been correct; it is still sore but much improved. It won’t keep me from travelling, that’s for certain. And I wonder how we’ll travel? Surely they’d want to get us there as quickly as possible . . . It is a little while before Mary Anne realizes that she is distracting her mind with small details in an effort to ward off the thought of HIM. The great question and the great dread: what will it be like for her to see The Interrogator again? Since the time she had shared HIS mind, Mary Anne had developed the means of keeping The Interrogator’s memories at bay. Difficult at first, the process had become easier with practice, though she cannot help wondering what it will do to both of them when they meet again, face to face. If The Doctor was right about that feedback from the transfer, HE’s still suffering from it. I wonder if proximity affects it? The Doctor helped me . . . but what will happen with HIM? HE may already be unstable . . . Mary Anne grimaces and shakes her head. It doesn’t do to think of such things. Whatever happens will simply happen, though she is filled with a dismal sense of isolation; what is between her and The Interrogator is between them alone, their experience indescribable to most of the human race. Brandon protects her, of course, with his love and strength and sound judgment, but only so far as he can protect her. She has been where he cannot follow. This is ridiculous. Just go and get it over with. But before you go, there are things to do here, and Christopher needs you at your best in this, just as you need him. At least tryto live up to that. Now, suck up your gut . . . Her gut—such as it is—adequately sucked up for the time being, Mary Anne sets about the tasks in the chamber with renewed vigour and actually accomplishes some substantial packing, together with a list for Miss MacLeod and the housemaids . . . Suddenly, she stops. I almost forgot. I should have told Miss M while she was here. While in the library with Commander Hudson, Mary Anne had noticed a pile of glass fragments to one side of the fireplace. Looks like one of the snifters was broken. I wonder how? They were fine when Christopher and I were there. Mary Anne adds "broken glass by library fireplace" to her list. She leaves it where Miss M will see it when she returns to attend to the sewing, and glances at the clock. Good heavens, is it that time already? Therese will be wondering where on earth . . . A quick check in the mirror, and then a grin at her own self-consciousness. Therese isn’t likely to care whether Mary Anne’s hair is especially tidy, nor whether the velvet collar on her gown lies smooth and neat. But still, it’s only polite. She’s a friend by now, certainly more than a "guest," but a friend deserves better than to see me looking like I’d been in a thunderstorm, now, doesn’t she? Don’t want to scare the poor thing all over again. And with a little laugh at her own mental twists and turns, Mary Anne hurries away to the rose conservatory and her mid-morning tea . . . After the movie they all went outside the theater and sat down on a bench just to rest and get one last glince of Earth before they had to go back to Heaven and Hell. During the movie Miranda just couldn't concentrate on what was happening and thinking about what Metatron had said. Imagaine that I was wrong all along, Miranda thought to herself and smiled. Miranda looked at Vanessa and Tina now without jealousy but regret because she knew that as soon as this mission, test, whatever was over that they would have to leave Anthony and Christian behind and that they would get really mean towards Miranda since she still had her love with her. Miranda forgot about them for a moment and looked at Metatron. He was staring at something or someone in the distance and Miranda was curious as to what so she asked, "Metatron what are you staring at?" It seemed as if he wasn't paying attention because she said it again and this time he answered. "Oh sorry, I'm looking at that couple over there they look so happy so content. Are we like that?" "Kindof we haven't been in love that long to be like them. We have only been in love since I started my training 1, no, 2 weeks ago. "Miranda said remembering the first time Metatron kissed her and the shock she had been in. It seems like only yesterday, Miranda thought to herself. "You're right and you know what that also means your first mission is over. "Metatron said and smiled at her. "It is, already, what's planned for me next?" Miranda asked curious as to find out what she was going to be assigned next. "Um,/I think you're going to be, Oh I don't know." Metatron told her. "You don't know? I thought you knew everything that was planned out for me." Miranda said with great frustration on her part. "Well you thought wrong. "He told her and laughed. She hit him playfully on the back and said, "Hey that's not funny." "Yes it is. "Metatron said and continued to laugh. "Fine be that way. "Miranda said and she stuck her nose in the air with her arms crossed at ther chest. "Oh, look your using your little miss prissy attitude. You know I don't like that." Metatron said with a little bit of a mean tone. "Yeah I know that's why I'm doing it." Miranda said and had her share of the laughing. She kept laughing at him until she heard the beeping of his watch and stopped. "Why did it do that?" Miranda asked. "Because it's time for us to go."/Metatron said and made the watch stop beeping. "Bye guys." Miranda said to Vanessa, Tina, Anthony, and Chritian. Metatron then grabbed Miranda's hand and pulled her to a safe place where they could get back to Heaven without being caught. They arrived in Metatron s room and he asked Miranda, "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?" "J'aimerais cela."Miranda answered and gave him a kiss. "First let me go get ready for bed, OK." Miranda told Metatron and gave him another kiss. "OK go ahead. "Metatron answered back. So Miranda went off to her room and got on her PJs, brushed her teeth, and brushed her hair. She ran all the way to his room threw the door open closed it behind her and jumped in the bed right on top of Metatron. "Watch it Miranda." He said and she rolled off of him. He wrapped his arms around her in a silent embrace and they fell asleep shortly after. Of course having pleasent dreams about each other. Wales: She finally collected herself and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, its just…” “I know. Hush now.” He continued to press her close and laid his cheek on her head, knowing that some of those tears were for him, turned his face towards her hair. He made no move to let her go so she simply put her arms around him, hugged him and said in what she hoped was a steady voice, “It’s alright,” unaware her words echoed his, “shall we walk on?” They proceeded along the path, saying little, until it ended in what looked like a theatre made of earth and grass and rock. “What’s this?” she asked him. “It’s Roman. An outdoor amphitheatre.” “It’s certainly impressive.” He placed the basket on the ground and they walked around the expansive lawn. She ran her hand over moss covered stones, wondering at how something so ancient had endured, in its own way, to this day. “Lunch time,” he announced. There weren’t any trees here but they found a nice spot protected by a large grouping of stones. Mistral spread the blanket and Cindie sat down to investigate what he had put together for this picnic. She set out the plates, stone wear. Pulled out glasses, a bottle of wine, sandwiches, the leftover fruit from breakfast, and some other assorted containers. That basket must’ve weighed a ton and he’d carried it like it had held feathers. He joined her on the blanket which was thick and soft. Though a beautiful day it was chilly and they sat close together. They ate, and Cindie enjoyed her dessert, but it was too cold to linger after they’d finished. They gathered up the remnants of their repast and stuffed everything back in the basket and made their way back to the car. Yup, you forgot the slash (/) on your closing italics tags. It's all fixed now, no problem. YEA I realized what I have been doing wrong I have been ending the italics thing wrong I realized this while listening to my redio! I'M such a dummy! And yet again im sorry for messing it up! OK Im about to be sick because alas I did it AGAIN!! I'm so sorry! I better go hide so noone can hurt me for doing it 3 times! Brandon AMC: Miranda, Vanessa, and Tina arrived just in time because Christian and Anthony were about to leave. "Where were you guys we have been waiting for over an hour now!" Christian said loud enough to turn a few passerbys heads. Loser Miranda thought and laughed to herself. "Sorry Chris we where stuck in Heaven because Miranda wouldnt get up and then she came out looking like she just woke up so we had to go and do her make-up and stuff ourselves." Vanessa said and shot a cruel look at Miranda. Miranda smiled sarcastically and asked, "So what movie are we going to see?" "Um, I think we will see The Mummy Returns. That's the new movie with the Rock in it. "Anthony said. Miranda was at that point envious of Vanessa and Tina. Both the boys had thier arms around them and they looked happy. Why did I have to say all that stuff to Metatron? Our love was strong but now it's shattered in millions of pieces, Miranda though to herself and frowned. But at that moment Metatron appeared behind Miranda and put his arms around her waist. He then moved his hands to her eyes and whispered softly in her ear, "Guess who?" She whirled around and put her arms around him giving him a hug and a kiss. She didn't have to worry because this time Metatron was visible to the public. She put her head on his chest and began to cry. "I'm so sorry about this morning. Will you ever forgive me?" Miranda sobbed. "Of course! How can I ever not forgive you." Metatron said and kissed the top of her head. "Ok time to end this period of romance Miranda. Heres you guys tickets." Vanessa said and handed them the tickets. They walked in and handed the person at the front their tickets he looked at Miranda funny, yes the hair, and directed them to the theater where the movie they where to see would be playing. The group then walked over to the snack counter and bough a couple things. Miranda bought a bag of popcorn and a Cherry Coke for her and Metatron to share. Once in the theater they sat in the back and waited for the movie to start. Metatron then remebered the conversation he and God had had. Should I tell her? I think she's ready, especially since she asked for forgiveness in tears. "Um, Miranda I have something to tell you." Metatron said and faced Miranda hoping she would take this well. "Yes what is it?" She asked in a pleasent tone. "Well after you walked away this morning I went and talked to God and he said that, well, I will not be turning into a moratl once your training is over but I will be staying in Heaven with you and if our relationship is still sturdy we will be able to get married." Metatron said nervously. Miranda squeled and jumped up and onto Metatrons lap. "You're not kidding right?" Miranda asked. "Of course not this isn't a subject to kid about." Metatron told Miranda pleased that she had taken it the right way. "OHMIGOD this is great I can't wait!" She said and kissed Metatron. Out of all the excitement the two didn't even realize that the movie had started. "Hey you two lovebirds be quiet the movie has started." Vanessa said and turned back around to watch the movie. Miranda gave Metatron one last kiss and sat back down in her own seat and began to watch the movie. Italics fixed... again. OOPS I DID IT AGAIN! OK Im dangerous how could I do that again after being humiliated from doing it the first time! OI VAYE!! Metatron felt awkward(?) about what just happened between Miranda and him. Shes losing it. If only I would have kept my big mouth shut maybe she would be the normal person she used to be, before... Last night had been innapropriate as Miranda had said. But Metatron just couldn't fight the urge anymore. Wait I know what I can do in a situation like this. How bout I drink some tequila. No I swore to myself I would stop! Metatron said and frowned. Metatron kept walking around and then finally saw the person who he needed to talk to the most, God of course. Metatron walked over to him (as Metatron thinks God is but Miranda thinks God is a woman!). "Hello Metatron. I sense something is troubling you what is it my dear friend?" God asked and put a hand on Metatrons shoulder and they began to walk. "Well it's Miranda." Metatron said looking sad. "Oh yes. You've gotten yourself in a bit of trouble with her. But of course if this relationship is keeping you both happy and at the same time Mirandas able to complete her training successfully I'll allow it to continue. But I have a secret to tell you." God told Metatron. "And what is that?" Metatron asked curious to find out what this 'secret' was. "Well when Mirandas training is all complete you will not be turning into a mortal." God said and looked at the expression of confussion that came onto Metatrons face. "Excuse me?" Metatron asked God keeping the same expression locked on his face. "Well I've decided that if this relationship succedes that I'm going to allow you to stay in Heaven with Miranda and you guys can get married." God said and smiled as a look of joy passed over Metatrons face but then the same look of confussion came back when God mentioned Miranda and Metatron getting married. Is that even possible? Metatron asked himself and of course since God can read minds he said, "Yes it is Metatron. You see its happened before but that was before I declared that angels can't drink so you can't remember one bit of it." God said and laughed. "Oh, yes I vagely remeber the weddings but now that I know that me and Miranda can get married I'm happier then ever!" Metatron said and smiled. "Thats the spirit. Now you musn't tell Miranda until you know that she is ready, OK." God said and gave Metatron a stern look, the same that Metatron had givin Miranda a little earlier. "I will, don't worry." Metatron said and he and God talked for alittle while longer. Jump to: Mirandas room "Miranda, hold still youre squiggling like a worm!" Vanessa said as she tried to apply make-up to squiggling Miranda, so as you can tell she dosn't want them to. "Never! Do I have to always wear make-up it's not like I'm inpressing anyone?" Miranda said and stopped squiggling so they could answer. "Sure Miranda you want to impress Metatron because you think he the hottest thing since, well, Hell" Tina said and then Vanessa and Tina laughed at the joke while Miranda screamed in a high pitched voice, "I DO NOT!" "Yes you do Miranda face it. I'm done." Vanessa said and gave Miranda a mirror. Miranda looked at herself and she looked normal again. "Comeon you guys! We're more then an hour late and we told Christian and Anthony to wait for us at the movie theater!" Tina said and pointed to the watch on her wrist. So off the three went to meet the two 'mortals' at the movies. Italics fixed. All is being taken care of. OHMIGOD look what I have done. Jeez I knew I did something wrong! Oh I fell horrible. Can somebody fix this? Miranda woke that morning with a huge headache. She could remember all about last night and she felt, horrible, yes thats the best word to describe how she felt right then. She heard someone knock on her door so she said, "come in!" and in came Vanessa and Tina with aggravated looks on thier faces. "You were supposed to meet us at the movies Miranda, and that was one hour ago." Vanessa said and scowled. "OHMIGOD, I'm so sorry I totally forgot!" Miranda said and hit herself in the head. "Well we will be waiting outside. You have 10 minutes!" Tina said and then walked out the door with Vanessa close behind. After they had left, Miranda got up and walked over to her mirror. Uh, look at this hair I really need to do something about it! She picked up her brush and began to brush her hair. Once most off the knots were out of it she put the brush down and put on her clothes. She walked over to her door and stopped. Should I really go, I have a whole weekend. Oh, I'll go! She walked out with her eyes on the floor and she looked up only to see where Vanessa and Tina were. She looked down to the floor again and quickened her pace. She was almost to where thy were standing when she ran right into, Metatron. "Oh, I'm so sorry I wasnt looking where I was going." Miranda said keeping her eyes to the floor. "Miranda what is the matter?" Metatron asked and put his hand to her cheek. She reached up to where his hand was, squeezed it and then let go off it. "Oh nothing I'm just fine." Miranda looked up to face him said this and then gave him a kiss. "Miranda, thats not appropriate and you know it." Metatron said and gave Miranda a stern look. "Well then Metatron what was last night? That surely wasnt appropriate!" Miranda screamed at him. "Miranda, calm down. You dont need to be acting like this, especially in the state your in!" Metatron said and put his hands on Mirandas shoulders to try and calm her down. "No Metatron I'm not going to calm down! And what do you mean the state that I'm in?!" Miranda screamed once again. "Miranda you look horrible thats what I mean." Metatron said in a calm tone. Miranda slapped him and said, "Well I guess that means that you don't love me anymore." Miranda said and walked over to where Vanessa and Tina stood in shock. "Miranda you're really out of it today. Do you see what pain Metatron is in right now, you hurt his fellings." Tina said and gestured to where Metatron had stood just moments before. "And he's right Miranda you do look horrible. WHAT? NO MAKE-UP just what were you thinking?!" Vanessa screamed. So Vanessa and Tina grabbed Mirandas arm and begand to pull her towards her room. "No stop! I look just fine!" Miranda scremed and tried to pull away. Wales: As he drove Mistral kept glancing at his companion. She hadn’t said much since they left the house and appeared to be content looking out the window and tossing an occasional comment to him about what they saw. He didn’t mind this in the least. His frame of mind was hardly expansive. In just the week since he’d seen her last his mother’s condition had worsened dramatically. Perhaps he ought to take a leave of absence to stay with her more. The Director would allow it, he’d said as much. But then, there was so little he could do. He knew his mother liked to see him, but lately she couldn’t even make it past an hour or so…. He’d give it another week. When he returned next weekend he’d reassess the situation. He knew in his heart that things could not go on as they were much longer. He looked over at Cindie again. Had he been right to bring her here? Was it a selfish act, exposing her to this? He so wanted her to understand. The grip of his hands tightened on the steering wheel. There was so much to tell her, before…. He knew that he would be able to tell her all too soon. Then who knew what would happen. Spying the spot he’d had in mind he pulled the car over and parked. At her squeal of delight a bolt of pleasure shot through him. He knew it was all worth it. Exiting the car he reached back for the covered basket and joined her in admiring the view. The sweeping countryside unfolded before them like a landscape painted just for them. The few clouds that remained in the sky were picturesque rather than threatening. “Walk with me?” he invited, holding out his hand. She took his hand and nodded, smiling at him as he led them to the walking path. The path he’d chosen was gentle and sloping and for the most part they could walk hand in hand. Occasionally they would have to go single file and Mistral set down the basket and assisted her over the rough spots. He was not at all sure she needed his assistance, but he enjoyed giving it and the lady did not object in the slightest. The walk had various spots carved out in order for one to pause and take in the view. At one of these he paused to do just that. Not the one intended by the planners, but one that caught at his heart even more than this land to which he had been born. Realizing she was the object of scrutiny, she looked back at him, but did not move to touch him. As she stood there, he realized that her eyes were beginning to fill with tears. He moved to her and put his arms around her. As he did, he could feel her quiet sobs and he pulled her to his chest. Holding her tight he murmured, “Fy annwyl. My dear, its alright.” He felt his own throat tighten as he held her close. Barbara--oh, my! *blushing* Phil's very welcome, I'm sure. And no doubt . . . no doubt . . . Brandon would say the same. Wales: When they left the room Cindie was ashamed at how relieved she felt. Those two had talked about the past for the better part of an hour. His mother would occasionally become confused or simply drift off. Cindie would’ve thought she’d have enjoyed hearing about Mistral’s childhood and gleaning a hint of the man he had become. Instead it had been tortuous in the stuffy room listening to them talk of trivialities as the woman seemed to waste away before her eyes. She knew it was wrong to feel this way but she couldn’t help it. She’d lived through this before, and knew it wouldn’t be long. Did Patrick realize? He must. The calm demeanor was costing him, she was sure of that. Yet, when together, the family of two retreated from the present into what should have been the safety of the past. But even that seemed as riddled as a minefield. “Let’s go for a drive.” He said resolutely as they walked down the hall. She nodded her assent. Half an hour later they were in the car. Despite the early rain the sun was now out and it looked to be a beautiful day. Mistral had packed them a basket and they set out. FOF set. Cafeteria. "If meeting Brandon, tell him I've always thought him a dish." Shelley'd said that, near the end. "Did she now?" Barbara asked, her eyes alight over the rim of the waterglass. "Will you tell him that?" If Phil did, Barbara wanted to be there. Brandon, unlike Mistral, could still blush. And did. Phil shrugged, hunched over his mug of hot tea, both hands wrapped around the white porcelain like a bathrobe. "Not likely. I'll not be repeating that, belike. But I'll be needing to thank both Brandon and Mary Anne for what they'd done, all unknowing, for Shelley." Barbara put her glass down on the table with delicate precision. She gave him that level, amused look he'd come to dread--and appreciate. "Oh?" she asked. "I'd come in one afternoon. The pair of them, Shelley and Sandra, up on the sofa like a litter of kittens. Watching." Watching FoF. He'd never watched it, but apparently the pair of them were addicts. He'd laughed at them until they shushed him, glued to the details of Renie's wedding and the events on Egdon Heath. He'd been utterly confused by the interactions and shared histories, convoluted as they were, but he'd been slowly brought up to speed. Despite himself, he'd enjoyed it. Barbara nodded. Phil didn't often open up like this. He'd forgotten how. He'd forgotten a lot of things, like how to laugh alound, in those ten years in Keighley. Amused sneers had been about all he'd been able to generate. Joy had been a stranger to him. Barbara had come to visit Shelley off and on during the last year, when it was really bad. It hurt to see her old school chum looking so hollow. Illuminated one moment, cold and dark the next. Like a house people were packing to move out of. "Oh, yes, I remember," she said, pulling the toothpick from her sandwich. "I came in on them once in the hospital, rolling around on the bed and laughing like hyenas. I think it was something about Mary Anne's birthday at the aniiversary party. I asked some of the cast about it but everyone just blushed. Except Mistral, of course. Even the Director blushed. But no one will discuss it." She took a bite, her white teeth into the dark rye. "Ah." Phil avoided Barbara's eyes, though he could feel them on him. Abruptly, he wondered if she would go--no, she was Shelley and Sandra's friend. She was probably...not interested in blokes. "Tried not to be angry around Shelley. No help to her, being." He glance up to Barbara's face, to see her watching him with concerned eyes, her long fingers making dimples int he soft, dark bread. She nodded at him, encouragingly. She was always encouraging. Barbara had watched Phil fight his way out of the habitual dour mood he'd fallen into, in Heighley. She'd teased him, unmercifully, the way she teased Shelley, to make her laugh. Teasing Sandra had been more difficult, more delicate, though rewarding. But teasing Phil had been a joy; one which Shelley had been wickedly happy to help her do well. Phil had learned to accept the teasing; first, to bring increasingly rare smiles to Shelley's face and, later, to acknowledge the growing friendship. "Angry was easy?" she asked. "Too easy. Habit somewhat. So I'll be finding Brandon, and Mary Anne, sometime. Tell them 'bout it all. Thank them for what they'd been doing for Shelley," Phil said. "And what they'd done for you?" she asked. "Or will you neglect to mention that?" He looked at her with some startlement. She paused and released a little grin. "Schlafly, I'm shocked." Phil cocked an eyebrow and drank his tea. Mistral Manor: They both sat on one side of the hospital bed which had been set up in his mother’s room. The rest of the furnishings were an eclectic blend of very old and more modern pieces. There was a photograph on the dresser of her as a young woman holding a baby, presumably Mistral, but no other pictures. There was another room which Cindie could glimpse that appeared to have certificates or diplomas on the wall and a large desk. It must have been her office. She was only half listening as mother and son reminisced about the summer of the pony. When they’d come into the room Sybill got up and excused herself. Cindie wondered how she managed essentially by herself caring for this woman. Then she supposed arrangements were made to have someone come in and relieve her from time to time. The graceless hospital bed made Mistral’s mother appear even smaller. It was probably a necessity for comfort and safety but it jarred the senses. When she saw Cindie she gave a tight little smile “Oh, the writer girl. Come in and sit down.” Cindie had not bothered to correct her. This morning there was in IV in place and the woman occasionally hit a button on the IV cart. Pain killers. Cindie thought to herself. The drug seemed to be released on demand and Cindie shuddered as she realized there was no concern about addiction. Her attention returned to the description of the fat little creature that had seemed so daunting to Mistral at age six. “I took him down the road, dead center the whole way. I was convinced that I’d end up in a ditch if I let him get too near the edge. His forelock was so long I didn’t think he could see anything.” His mother chuckled, “But you were riding him like you were born to it by August.” Mistral smiled at the memory. “Yes. I did enjoy that.” “What happened to him?” Cindie asked. They both stared at her. “Sold,” was Mistral’s only response. LOL, Therese!! Poor, poor Dev. He just can't seem to catch a break, can he? And it's good to see that Joanna McCoy is keeping up the tradition of walking in at the worst possible time. ;-) Maybe everyone should just calm down and have a diversion-maybe watch Bambi? Delaford. Dev's Quarters: Mary Anne? Therese looked up into Dev's face, his eyes so close to her own, the weight of his body across hers, the despair so evident in every nuance of his body and face. "Mary Anne?" Therese said aloud this time, her voice showing her confusion. "How could someone like that possibly be involved with someone like. . .HIM? You've been upset lately, Eamon--we've all been under far too much strain. You must have misunderstood." She brushed the stray locks of hair from his forehead, her touch gentle. Dev shook his head slowly, his expression grim. "If only that were true, but the discussion I heard was between Brandon and Mary Anne themselves--I have it from her own tongue that she not only helped HIM to escape, but she was as HE was, very nearly a part of HIM." Therese shook her head, negating Eamon's words, simply unable to comprehend what he told her. "But that makes no sense, 'Nearly a part of HIM'? Eamon, how can that be? She could not have aided HIS escape, I simply cannot believe it of her. It's just not true." Therese's large brown eyes clearly showed the depth of her tormnet, and she blinked furiously at her tears. Mary Anne helped HIM to escape? She allowed HIM freedome so that HE was able to take me on what was to have been my wedding day? It can't be true--no one would have helped HIM, no one who knew of HIS evil would ever come to HIS aid. . . Eamon rolled over to one side, and drew Therese to his chest. "I know, it's hard to believe," he said, placing his hand underneath her chin and gently tipping her gaze up toward his own, "but I heard her myself. I don't pretend to understand it, but both she and Brandon said it just the same." "No!" Therese cried out her disbelief shakily. "I simply cannot believe that. . .that if not for Mary Anne then neither you or I would have--well that we would have had to live through the past several days. That if she hadn't helped HIM to escape that none of this would have happend." She wrenched herself from Eamon's grasp, and jumped up from the bed, her legs shaking crazily beneath her. "Just what do you think you're doing?" Dev demanded, quickly moving to her side and placing a steadying hand along her waist. "This, Eamon, is just too much to deal with, I'll simply not think of it until I can to make sense of this absurd tale." He considered her for a long moment, one eyebrow raised, both hands now placed firmly on her hips, no longer steadying, but now holding her possessively. "And just how, pray, do you anticipate being able to make any sense of it?" he asked, knowing and fearing her answer at the same time. "Well I should think that would be obvious," Therese sighed, "I'm going to find Mary Anne and ask her what this nonsense is all about." Eamon's eyes closed for a long moment as if seeking strength, but more likely grasping for patience as his hands tightened about Therese. "In your condition?" he finally managed, "I think not." "Oh, I think so," Therese replied hotly as she lifted a foot to step away from Dev. That limb never managed to touch the ground as she was immediately lifted into Eamon's arms, and returned to the bed. When she would have begun a volatle protest, he covered her again with his body, gently pinning her beneath himself, and propping the majority of his weight on his elbows as he looked down into her eyes. The trauma of his news was evident there, and she looked completely shell shocked by the information. There was little doubt in Eamon's mind that Therese would have told him very specifically her opinions of his high handed approach, and how she regarded his tendency, once again, to use force against her when she wished to defy him. There was no doubt she would have said much to him, had she not been interruptd by the sound of the door swinging open, and a startled female gasp at the sight of Eamon lying fully across Therese, her arms pinned beneath him on the bed. "For God's sake, have I not told you to leave the poor woman alone!?" Dev sighed as Joanna McCoy's voice, hot with indignation, rang across the room. Claudia felt the coldness from the stone floor creeping through the soles of her boots, and up her body. She shivered. HIS voice continued to probe her other self, on the video tape. “You left me alone.” “You don’t have feelings. All you know is how to hurt others.” “What’s going on? Bring it back!” Yelled Claudia, a little too loudly, and her voice trailing off into a high pitched squeak. She wondered how the Interrogator, through the thin mirror could possibly not have heard her. She turned briefly to look through the mirror, but HE was unmoved, still lying on his bed, and reading a book. As she moved towards Rupert, his stick came up and poked her in the chest, keeping her safe distance from him. “There in lies the problem,” he said. “that is where the recording ends… or rather, was interrupted.” “What…?” His stick moved from her chest, trailed down her side, then tapped against her thigh. “The implant in your leg, the one the Doctor couldn’t remove, in case it was booby trapped. So much had happened since then, the implant had slipped her mind, until now. “The implant suddenly changed its signal. The Doctor has been monitoring it, and came to us immediately. The change in signal coincided with the recording equipment failure.” “But I don’t even know what it does.” “Whatever it does, we now have a problem. The Interrogator obviously has some control over you. He could have programmed you to kill the Empress, and you wouldn’t know it. And WE wouldn’t know it, because we don’t have the tape.” “But I’m on your side!” Claudia sat back down hard on the chair. She hated not to be in control. Now, not only has she found some missing time, but the possibility she could be programmed by HIM, to do HIS bidding. How did she know that isn’t what happened before, when she’d gone on a mission to swap some test results in a hospital, far away. Was HIS power over her hypnotic or electronic? The Interrogator’s cell: With brisk, regular steps, HE paces the boundaries of the cell. This has become a constant practice with HIM—and if any observers read in it the signs of an obsessive behaviour, so much the better. Let them mistake this ritual for a means to stave off boredom or to prevent the atrophy of muscle. Let them see it for anything save what it is: careful scrutiny of that particular wall through which The Empress had entered the cell. Under the cover of those walks around and around the walls, The Interrogator has observed that one wall so intently that the outlines of a door are almost visible to the naked eye. To my eye. To any eye that knows what to seek. HIS patience and care are paying other dividends as well. The guards in the corridor have imperceptibly relaxed their once-constant vigilance; imperceptibly, that is, to any common observer. But HE has noticed. That, and several other things: HE is developing a hyperacute awareness of every sound, every motion, and even a sense of when someone might be watching HIM from the other side of the mirror. At first he could not think how he sensed this, until he had noticed that the lights would occasionally dim or flicker for a mere fraction of a second—in the same manner, he had noted, as when a nearby power source on the same line is activated. Another set of lights, perhaps? A camera? A re-boot on a computer? A small detail, but a telling one. HE might be tempted to dismiss this as a long guess, had he not since discovered listening devices in his cell. HE thinks of how Claudia had discovered the bugs he had placed in her room when she had appeared with her claim that she wished to offer her services as assistant, and smiles that thin, cruel smile that might make any hidden observer think twice about continuing to watch. Yes, her . . . services . . . proved most enjoyable. And instructive. She may yet be of use . . . HE recollects that she had found the more carefully-hidden device, but missed the obvious one. In this cell, he has discovered two devices and had the shrewdness to leave them strictly alone; no point in giving the game away by indicating that he has found them. If, he wonders uneasily, they are what they appear to be. I would not put it past her to plant false ones . . . He shakes off the thought. Better to assume that the bugs are what they appear to be, and not drive himself insane with second-guessing. But he has noted that from one of the devices near the head of his bed, there is sometimes a telltale crackle of static that coincides with the flicker of the lights. A mere whisper of sound, but still, occurring when it does . . . it could be a sign of activity. An indication that someone is there, watching. Coming into some room behind the mirror, perhaps, and activating surveillance equipment. The Interrogator’s eyes narrow as HE leaves his circling of the cell and draws close to the mirror, affecting to examine himself in it. After some moments, his reflection truly does catch his eye and he looks carefully at his own image. Some prison pallor: yes, that is to be expected. But without making a show of it before the mirror, he can see that his body retains its strength and flexibility; the walks around the cell have served more than one good purpose. Still moving with that casual deliberation, HE leaves the mirror and returns to the bed, selects one of the books sent down from the Palace library, and affects to read—and even remembers to turn pages at regular intervals, though his mind is far from the text. They have me, but they will not keep me long. A chilly smile. Those small clues his captors had overlooked: the lights, that little buzz of static—they have done a respectable job of confining him, considering the circumstances. But to allow a prisoner any clue as to when he is being scrutinized . . . well, a respectable job is not the same as the thoroughly professional service HE would render. The Empress and her subordinates are, in the last analysis, too hampered by a sense of ethics to carry out such a task in all of its fine details. My people would never have made such mistakes, and I certainly would not. If they are indeed mistakes. If he has not read extraordinary significance into misbehaving electrical circuitry. If The Empress, formidable adversary that she has shown herself, is not toying with HIM even now, before moving in for the kill. The Interrogator is under no illusions about what awaits HIM. Soon, they will come for him—once again, a courtroom and the apparatus of a trial, and . . . With a small tremor that even HE cannot quite suppress, The Interrogator turns his attention once more to the pages in his hands. Per me si va nella citta dolente, Very well, Mister I, if you insist . . . but meet me in an alternate timeline. What we have in mind would certainly never be allowed in this one. MA, I think SHE and I compliment each other rather well. Sorry I havnt posted my real story in so long. But I just had to say this. Last night I was watching a new movie on some cable channel called Anne Frank and well it came on for two hours on Sunday and two hours last night (it lasted 4 hours) but the one last night Anne was found hiding and taken by the Nazis and she went into like many camps (death camps, work camps, concentration camp) I just couldn't take it anymore when she was in the concentration camp I started crying and I didnt stop until an hour after it was over and by that time it was 12:00! It was very very sad. Re: rather handsome. Mister I, if you remember who said that to you . . . well, I don't think you want any more compliments from the likes of HER, do you? Mistral Manor: Cindie awoke slowly, drinking in her surroundings and relishing in the warmth of the quilts in which she lay curled. There was no sense of disorientation, she knew exactly where she was. The sound of a soft rain could be heard. It seemed to rain quite a lot here. Stretching, she wondered what time it was but didn’t bother to check just yet. She lay in the daze of half sleep and heard the sounds of doors opening and closing down the hall. After Patrick had said goodnight, for the second time, she fell asleep almost immediately and slept soundly for the remainder of the night. She hoped he’d done the same. She didn’t see or hear anyone on her trek down the hall and back. Dressed and feeling well rested she made her way downstairs. On impulse she’d chosen to take the back stairs and make her way to the kitchen. Her hunch had been right and was rewarded with the sight of Mistral, seated at the table where they’d lunched yesterday, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the paper. He raised an eyebrow at her in greeting and they said their good mornings. “What’s for breakfast? I’m starved,” she asked, seeing the table devoid of plastic wrapped goodies. “I’m glad you turned up. I was beginning to think I’d have to bring breakfast to your bed.” That flash in his eyes. He stood up and stretched. He was wearing a casual men’s shirt the colour of cinnamon and chinos. The silk of his shirt rippled as he stretched. Without another word he went over to the business end of the kitchen and set to work. Cindie checked out the stainless steel refrigerator and located the milk for her coffee. As she spotted the coffee pot and headed towards it, Mistral paused in his preparations and opened the cupboard above it, displaying the coffee cups. Cindie selected one, added milk first and poured the coffee. She watched him pop bread in the toaster and stir a sauce on the stove. It was all so regular and domestic and pleasant. “Something smells good. What are we having?” she asked as he pulled down plates and set two pieces of toast on each. “This is Wales, my dear. We’re having cheese on toast.” “Is that a rule? I didn’t know.” She found the juice glasses above the coffee cups and brought them to the table along with orange juice. Mistral followed with the plates, set them down and went to the refrigerator where he pulled out a platter of fresh fruit, and they sat down to breakfast. Mistral watched as she tried his cooking. Based upon the eye rolling and little mewing sounds she was making he judged that it was to her liking. This pleased him a bit more than he thought it probably ought. “So what is the agenda today?” She asked him, as she mopped up the last bit of cheese sauce. Thoughts of literally licking the platter clean had crossed her mind but she resisted the temptation. There really wasn’t anything left to lick anyway. He sat back in his chair and took a sip of coffee. “When mother wakes we can go sit with her and visit for as long as she is …able.” Pausing for another sip he continued, “Then we can do whatever you’d like.” He placed the cup on the table and ticked the items off his fingers, “We could go for a drive, I could accompany you on a *guided* tour through the house,” he beamed at her, “we could go hiking or fish.” “Fish?” Her tone was incredulous. “Yes. Fish. Although I must admit that wouldn’t be my first choice today.” “Shall we wait and see what the weather is doing later?” “Certainly.” He began to clear the table. “I thought Mary did the cooking and clean-up.” “Not on Sundays. A cleaning crew comes in weekly and Mary is here all day Saturday and on the weekday evenings, but other than that we manage for ourselves. I can handle a few dishes you know.” “I know. It’s just surprising somehow. It seems so normal.” He knew what she meant, but he certainly wasn’t going to let her off that easily. Assuming a pained expression he replied, “What do you mean? You don’t think I’m normal?” She flushed, “I’m sorry Patrick. No, I didn’t mean that at all. . . “ Then she saw that tell tale glint in his eyes. “Ohhhhhh,” the colour ran up her cheeks. Chuckling he took the dishes over the sink and began to run the water. Smiling to herself at the somewhat incongruous sight, Cindie located a tea-towel and began drying operations. Mistral finished the last of the dishes and paused to dry his hands on the towel tucked in at his waist. As he did this he watched Cindie replace a dish on the top shelf of the cupboard, standing on her tip toes. “Here, let me help,” she heard in her ear as Mistral easily reached the shelf and helped her settle the dish on the stack in the cupboard. He was behind her with his left hand on her waist and his right arm stretched up along side hers. A small noise escaped her throat and she froze in mid motion. He let go of the dish and took her hand, bringing it down as this arm too encircled her waist. She closed her eyes and leaned back into him, feeling the muscles of his arms and chest. “You haven’t been scared away. Have you?” Turning in his arms enough to look into his eyes, she replied with some surprise, “What do you mean? Of course not.” “Well, I hadn’t planned to have you locked in a scary basement …quite so soon.” “Saving that for another visit, were you? You’ll have to do better if you want to scare me away.” Smiling, he released her, only to whirl her around to face him and capture her quite neatly with the tea towel. He had it around her backside with the ends in each of his hands. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked. Using the towel, he pulled her in closer. That may be. I have no desire to be close enough to you to see for myself. Hamlet woke with the sun in his eyes. It was still low on the horizon, so he understood it was early yet. He discovered that Chris was nestled in his arms again, although he could not remember even being close to her when they had gone to bed. He wondered which one of them had moved in the night. He gazed down upon the sleeping form hugging him close. She looked so peaceful, without the slightly hunted look he realised she usually bore. He had not been aware of it before, but the transformation in sleep was dramatic. She looked almost serene. Hamlet decided not to disturb her, and made certain he did not move as he let his thoughts wander. The sunshine was nice, he decided, and it made him feel more relaxed. It was such a change, to be able to feel the sun’s rays without worrying about radiation or pollution. He discovered that during the past two days, he had not thought about his home once. He had been terribly home-sick in the block, and even when he’d started at the farm, although he had been forced to concentrate on what he was doing. Then his mind wandered to Chris again, and he thought about what was happening between them. He was undeniably attracted to her, and she was showing signs of reciprocating. It had been a long time since he’d had a woman, but he found that he was now feeling interested again. It had been more than 5 years since Kari died, after all. Perhaps it was time to start getting on with his life. He remembered calling Chris ‘petal’ the night before. That had been a pet name his father had used when he spoke to Hamlet’s mother. Hamlet had unconsciously used it in a similar situation as the last time he’d heard his father use it, effectively a council of war. Hamlet found he had tears in his eyes, and hurriedly dried them with his free hand. As it turned out, it was just in time, as Chris started to stir shortly afterwards. She opened her eyes, gazing up at him with a smile. In those few seconds as she was half awake, the peacefulness remained in her face, before being replaced with the slightly harder lines she usually wore. Chris hugged him close, smiling again. Hamlet found that he rather enjoyed it, and hugged her back, before they both got up. They walked together down to a stream, noticing that several unicorns were grazing nearby. Chris looked at the stream, looked at Hamlet, and then suggested having a bath. She gingerly tested the water, and found it cool, but not unpleasant. “Ki’li, is it okay to bathe in water?” she sent, knowing the unicorn would hear her wherever she was within a certain distance. “Yes, but come down-stream a little, there is a more appropriate area, with a wide beach,” came the response. So, they wandered down a little further, stopping to have a drink of the cool, clear water on the way. Soon they found the spot, and Ki’li was waiting there for them. The stream was wider here, and flowed slowly. The beach was sheltered by a few trees and bushes, and Chris realised that they could not be seen by anyone unless they were very close. “Right, now how are we going to do this?” Chris asked Hamlet. “I’m not hugely shy, and we are the only two humans around, so if you are amenable, I say we both strip off and help each other get clean! This isn’t exactly a sonic shower, you know.” Hamlet nodded, and started to take his tunic off. Chris couldn’t help glancing over at him while she did the same, seeing his chest for the first time and marvelling that what was a fairly slim build could be so muscled. Ki’li showed them some soap-root, a particular plant that if crushed and rubbed between the hands lathers and is very useful as soap. Hamlet was fascinated. Within minutes, they were both in the water, and started soaping their bodies. Hamlet helped Chris get thoroughly soaped, scrubbing her back for her, and Chris soon returned the favour. Then Chris accidentally squirted Hamlet with some of the clear water, and he roared, laughed and launched himself towards her. Soon they were squirting each other, laughing and splashing water everywhere. The unicorns nearby heard the commotion, and came over to the beach to watch. After a time, a couple of the younger ones gingerly stepped into the water and joined in, stamping their feet and blowing bubbles to make splashes. Then one particularly lovely iridescent mare with a pure black horn and hooves discovered that wetting her tail and swishing it made a very good ‘weapon’. There was much screaming, neighing and general merriment. Eventually, they all got out of the water. Chris and Hamlet settled down on the grass to dry off a bit before getting dressed again, and the unicorns went down to a particular spot and all had a good roll, before resuming their grazing, drying in the sun. As they lay in the grass, Hamlet eyed Chris appreciatively. She had a good body, her eyes sparkled and her face was a little flushed from the water fight. She saw him looking and smiled, catching his eyes. They stared at each other for a moment. That moment seemed to stretch and become infinite, as they both felt a warmth rising through them. Chris broke the gaze first, blushing and looking down. She knew she liked him, but she still felt ashamed about revealing her innermost secrets yesterday. That issue was her private nightmare, and one she had sworn never to share with anyone. How could he not hate her, knowing what she had been? How could he possibly want her as anything more than a mirror image of that person? Men liked sex without commitment, she knew. Maybe that was all he wanted. But he wasn’t acting like it! She sat, uncommunicative for a few minutes, searching deep inside herself. Hamlet did not know what was going through her mind. She was beginning to shield more naturally, and in this instance, her shields were locked down tightly. He sat, confused, looking at her. He had felt her joy and the beginnings of that mutual feeling known as love, as they sat and gazed at each other. Now, suddenly, all he got from her was a cold feeling. He couldn’t understand what had happened. She’s leading me on, he thought to himself. She’s not interested in me, she just wants to tease me. I’d heard of this happening, but never thought it was for real. I knew it, Chris thought as she watched him leave. I knew he didn’t really want me. He’s walking off in disgust! She started to cry, and ran off in the opposite direction. An hour or so later, Ki’li found Hamlet a few hundred yards down the stream, throwing stones in the water as he stared off into the distance. “Where is Chris,” she asked the man. “I can’t seem to contact her by thought!” At Hamlet’s nonplussed gaze, Ki’li became more worried. “She went off in that direction, I think” the man said, after thinking for a moment. He really hadn’t paid much attention to her after he’d walked off in a huff. Ki’li was getting more worried, and told Hamlet to get on and they’d go find her. Within moments, they were at the end of the clearing, and Hamlet got off again to check the trees for any signs of a human passing. Finally, he found a footprint, which was too small to be his own. They entered the forest together, and Hamlet continued to scout for signs. They made slow going, but continued to follow. Eventually, they reached a track, and decided to follow it. Hamlet got back on Ki’li so that they could make better time. As she trotted swiftly forward, they kept silent, trying regularly to stretch out their minds to find Chris. Hamlet was becoming increasingly worried as they went deeper and deeper into the forest. He thought about what might happen. What if there were wild predators or something? Ki’li confirmed his worst fear when she told him that they needed to find Chris before nightfall, as the wolves tended to hunt more then. Finally, they came to the end of the track. There was a huge lake in front of them, and sitting off to one side on a small stone outcropping was Chris. Ki’li snorted in relief, and Chris looked up. She had clearly been crying, and was quite dishevelled. She looked at Ki’li in relief, and ran up to hug the unicorn, and then noticed Hamlet. She stopped, looked at him, and then turned and walked off again. She sat down where she’d been, and this time she opened up her mind to Ki’li so she could read what was going on. Ki’li gave a snort of disgust, and asked Hamlet in a tight loop what he thought he’d been doing, walking off like that. “What do you mean, like that? She was teasing me, leading me on and then going off me again. I walked off to go calm down,” he answered hurriedly, a frown on his face. Ki’li snorted and bucked violently and suddenly. Hamlet went sailing over her head in a beautiful arc, landing in the water with a splash, legs and arms akimbo. “You complete IDIOT!” she shouted into his mind. “What, what did I do?” Hamlet asked plaintively as he picked himself out of the water. Chris was watching from the shore as he scrambled up onto dry land. “You actually thought I was leading you on, playing games with you?” she demanded, moving to block his way. “You must be the biggest egotistical blockhead I’ve ever met!” She shouted at him, continuing to block his way so he couldn’t get completely out of the water. Hamlet, still nonplussed, finally asked “Okay, so what WERE you doing, suddenly blocking me out and going cold on me?” Chris burst into tears again, turned around and walked away, finally allowing Hamlet to get out of the water. Ki’li blasted him with the thoughts and emotions she had gleaned from Chris a few minutes earlier, and he blanched. At the same time, she started a conversation with Chris, reminding her that he did not understand how deeply she had been hurt, how much it still worried her. Eventually, the two humans agreed to an uneasy truce, and they started travelling back to the camp. They started off alternating riding and walking, but soon got talking and both walked, giving Ki’li a well-earned rest. Finally, Hamlet broached the subject that caused all this strife again. “I…I’m sorry I hurt your feelings Chris, I did not realise how much you were hurting,” he started off, feeling completely inadequate. Chris sighed in response, and after a few moments answered “That’s ok, I don’t think I realised how much I was hurting myself. I’m actually quite insecure, and tend to take things too much to heart. I guess this was one of those times. I also hurt your feelings, and that was not intentional either. I therefore apologise too.” At this admission, Hamlet took her hand into his, and they walked on, feeling a little bit happier. The damage would not heal immediately, but at least both now knew that the other had not intentionally hurt them. *raised eyebrow* Just plain? But only some of those affected are special. Cindie: some of us consider those "effects" very special. MA, Would those be special effects? Delaford. The library: "—would be a violation of protocol to wear a gown in either pure black or pure white; those colours are reserved for The Empress. If you wore a black gown, you would have to relieve it with some other colour: a red sash, let us say, or—" Mary Anne nods and makes a note on the sheet of paper before her as she listens to Commander Hudson explain the fine points of Imperial etiquette. Definitely a crash course, she thinks, her lips curving into a wry smile of appreciation at Hudson’s memory for detail and her skill at imparting information. I wonder how many other times she has had to do this . . . "—one of the chief Imperial symbols is the gladiolus: the sword lily, representing both the beauty and the power of justice—" Mary Anne concentrates with one half of her mind, jotting down such points as she must remember for her presentation at the Palace; however, she cannot keep the other half of her mind from wandering to other matters. Her ankle, for instance, which is much improved but still aching. Housekeeping matters to be reviewed with Miss MacLeod—a formality only, of that she is certain. Miss M needs no instruction from anyone in running the household, but there must be some sense of Mrs. Brandon as the Mistress of Delaford . . . Mary Anne stirs fretfully in her chair, shifting her weight to ease her sore foot. How good it would be if life would settle down long enough for me to really have some part in things here. For Christopher to be able to take me over the estate and around the village, so that I could truly be a help to him . . . But it is not to be. Not yet. The thought of Brandon brings another fleeting smile to Mary Anne’s lips. It is common for him to be first to awaken; years of military experience have made the Colonel a light sleeper. But ah, the ways in which he contrives to awaken her . . . Mary Anne’s thoughts stray to the morning after her wedding, when Brandon had roused her by gently rubbing her back. Or what is more common: to awaken, and see him lying beside her, propped on one elbow and watching her with a smile . . . or, even before she fully emerges from sleep, to feel him there beside her, the warmth and solidity of him . . . or this morning. Strange, to be kissed in your sleep and know it is not a dream. A tiny grin, as Mary Anne bends her head lower over her writing to conceal her crimson cheeks. Yes, Brandon had set about his duties quite early this morning. Mary Anne’ smile fades as she recalls what Brandon had mentioned to her, that perhaps he would ask Mister de Valera to remain present as acting head of Delaford. Smart move, that. Dev won’t leave Therese, and I doubt seriously she could make the trip to the Palace, even if she had been summoned. And if HE is in the Palace, then that is certainly no place for Dev—or else The Empress would have another case to try, and this one would be open and shut. She sighs, knowing that she is in no position to lecture Eamon de Valera on the morality of violence. What could I possibly say to him? That murdering The Interrogator wouldn’t undo what happened to Therese? That wouldn’t matter to him, not at all . . . Nor can she pretend that she would be sorry to see the last of The Interrogator—but seeing that man again, that prospect is what makes her stomach clench. Just as well that Therese wasn’t summoned; seeing HIM again would be more than she could stand right now . . . "—know Her Majesty attended your wedding, but you’ll be formally presented at the Palace for the first time, and there is a greeting ritual. The Colonel will be able to advise you on this—" Mary Anne gives herself a mental shake and dutifully nods, hoping that Hudson has not noticed her distraction. Who do you think you’re fooling, hmmmm? She’s an Alliance Commander; she notices everything. She’s doing her best to help you, and the least you could do is pay attention. But Mary Anne cannot help giving one last thought to Therese—who, she hopes, will now begin to recover. At least she talked to me about it, a little. I hope she and Dev can talk things out; that won’t make it go away, but maybe it will ease her heart. If she feels up to it, maybe she’ll have tea with me later this morning. Miss M can look in on her and check—Therese might like to sit with me in the conservatory and talk. Do her good to get out of that room . . . Then, rebuking herself once more for her lack of concentration, Mary Anne settles her full attention on Commander Hudson and the "crash course" in Palace manners . . . Mistral Manor: Although she’d been tired enough to fall asleep in the overly warm library, she now was wide awake. Gathering up her bathrobe she proceeded down the hall for a hot bath in the immense claw foot tub. She laid out her things and prepared the bath. A mini bottle of bubble bath she had from the hotel she’d stayed at before she found her flat came in quite handy. Easing herself into the tub for a good soak she wondered if a cold shower wouldn’t be more appropriate. She knew this wasn’t the time or place ….but that kiss…. a girl could only hold out for so long. After a quick detour to check that his mother was sleeping comfortably Patrick Mistral went to his room and resolutely closed the door behind him. It had been hard to say goodnight. His bedroom had a bath immediately off of it. Originally the only door had been from the outside but it was kept locked the there had been a door placed from his room ages ago. He tossed his shirt in the laundry hamper and ran some cold water into the basin. Splashing his face he looked up as he heard her light muffled footsteps pass his door. He could clearly hear her in the bathroom which was actually next to this one and listened as the bath was drawn. He imagined her stepping out of her robe and into the tub. The temptation to go to her was so strong. He could offer to wash her hair. Shaking his head he splashed more cold water on his face. He thought of taking a shower but since the two bathrooms shared plumbing he didn’t want to disrupt her use of the water. He pulled the t-shirt off over his head and tossed it into the hamper. He finished undressing and washed up in the sink. Laying down on his bed he listened to the sloshing from the bathroom and let the sounds lull him to sleep. The tub was so comfortable, but eventually the water began to cool and Cindie got out. Luxuriating in the immense thirsty towel she dried herself off and got ready for bed. She rehung the towel and tidied the bathroom and headed back to her room. As she left the bathroom she thought she heard voices. Pausing to listen she heard a high pitched voice, “I did it for you Arthur. You know that don’t you. I did it for you.” It must be his mother. She stood immobile, uncertain whether to check on her or to get Patrick. She heard another female voice, soothing and coaxing. Sybill. Cindie teetered on the brink of going to the door and enquiring as to whether she could be of help. At that moment Patrick’s door flew open. He was tying his robe and striding towards his mother’s room. As he brushed past her he said only, “Go to bed. You can’t help.” She stood there and watched as he disappeared into his mother’s room. Feeling suddenly tired again and utterly useless she returned to her room. It was cold. She found a pack of matches and lit the fire which had been laid. It took immediately and she sat down in one of the armchairs. She understood that she couldn’t be of any use right now and that Patrick’s concern was for his mother. But despite the logic she did feel useless, there was nothing she could do for him and it made her feel very empty inside. She stared at the fire, wondering if he’d think to let her know if his mother was alright. She dozed until a soft knock at her door brought her out of her reverie. “Are you up?” Of course it was him. “Yes. Just a minute.” She went over to the door and opened it. He stood there looking as haggard as she’d ever seen him. He ran a hand through his hair and gave her a weak smile. “Is everything o.k.?” “Relatively speaking. Yes, she’s settled.” He noted her mussed hair and looked past her at the still made bed. Returning his gaze to her he thought she had never looked more beautiful. No makeup, but then she never wore much, a simple but elegant nightgown of black which, though made for comfort and not overly revealing, somehow managed to still provoke …his thoughts. Her feet were clad in little black satin slippers with pearls on them. Her robe was laying open on one of the chairs by the fireplace. “I wanted to make sure you were alright, I thought that, …perhaps, you were having trouble sleeping.” His expression was enquiring. “Not at all. I seem to be like Goldie Locks tonight, I’ve managed to sample much of the furniture for its sleepability. At some point I may even make it to the bed.” She quickly glanced away. “Come in and sit down.” She felt his hand, “You’re freezing, come sit by the fire.” His gaze never left her as she turned and walked back to the chair she’d been occupying before he’d knocked on her door. He watched as she slipped into her black silk robe and tied it around her waist. How could seeing a woman put on a robe rouse him so? A silent message to her, I needed to see you. “I didn’t light the fire in my room. Should have, just didn’t think of it at the time.” I’m warm enough for the both of us right now. With his tousled hair and clad, as far as she could tell, only in a silk robe of a deep midnight blue, he was even more compelling that in his finest haberdashery. He sat down in the other chair as she resumed her seat. “Does she often wake like that?” “Not always, there’s a monitor system hooked into the Thomas’ upstairs. Sybill manages quite well without me, but when I’m home I like to do what I can.” “I wish I could help.” It kills me to see you suffer so. He looked at her, long and steady and she understood what he didn’t need to say out loud. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything for your injuries?” Her face betrayed the thoughts which flickered through her head, but she said only, “No, I’m perfectly fine. Thank you.” He’d known the sort of thing she wanted to say. Knew she refrained in order to make it easier for him. But my dear, it only makes me want you more… “I’d better let you get to sleep.” He stood up and walked over to where she sat and kissed the top of her head before moving quickly to the door. “Try the bed though. It is very comfortable …I’m told.” The door closed firmly behind him. She got up and slipped off her robe and under the covers. It was very comfortable. But her feet were cold. She was awakened by a gentle but persistent nudging. Opening her eyes she found Patrick leaning over the arm of the couch, a faint smile on his lips and a hand on her shoulder. She groaned, “Oh, I’ve done it again.” Of course he laughed at her, but it was sweet laughter, as though he was glad of it. “It’s fine. I would have stayed on the couch with you all night but I’m afraid you’ll get a sore neck and there’s a perfectly good room waiting for you upstairs.” Nudging her again he said, “Come on, lets get you to bed.” Holding his shirt in one hand he proffered her the other. Pausing to pick up her shoes, she entwined her arm around his, and rested her head as they moved toward the stairs. They climbed them slowly, both savouring the lingering closeness and proceeded down the hall. When they reached her door , Patrick bent close and kissed her. This was not the kiss on the cheek which he so often employed. His lips were on hers and she reciprocated. The kiss went on and she felt sure her knees would buckle as she leaned back against the door for support. His arm, which had been leaning on the same door, gathered her up. Pulling her to him he said her name. She kissed his cheek as he said her name again and his lips sought hers once more. They shared the embrace of their arms and lips until, slowly, and reluctantly, he released her. “Sleep well,” he said huskily. Now he did kiss her cheek and withdrew. Ok My wings go like inside my body where NOONE can see them!!h Sandy, I meant to also say that it was so sweet of you and Metatron to remeber the tequila. That was when I first stuck by toe in the water. Some asides: Sandy... the most hideous wallpaper ever seen? *g* Oh, good! Thanks for adding me to the story. Cindie... Oh, goodness! *fan, fan, fan* *swoon* *ker-thump* Miranda... where do the wings go? Oh my giddy aunt! Just a few asides: MA -- "charged with tendernes", *heavy sigh*. I expect MA will be rousing soon? Barbara -- Love the paper! So glad Phil has joined the set. Cindie will definitely be in line for a new cut. Since the set is hopping and Cindie and Mistral are still "weekending", please consider the doings at the Manor to be in flashback to the previous weekend. Naturally Mr. I is available on set for any required scenes. Mistral Manor: As the last bars of Night and Day died away he released her, held her at arms length and carefully gauged her expression. As if by mutual consent they returned to the couch. She sat upright on the end Patrick had previously occupied and he stretched out with his head on a pillow in her lap. She stroked his hair and massaged his temples. She had noticed that when he wasn’t working he wore his contacts and wondered if that was to differentiate himself from his character, or just a preference. He reached for her hand and drew it to his lips and kissed it gently. Placing it on his cheek he looked up at her. “You seem to be my personal spa.” His eyes crinkled, “are there other services available?” “Oh yes,” valiantly suppressing a grin, “you’ve just scratched the surface.” Whispering in his ear, “wait until you receive my own brand of massage therapy.” “If I must wait,” his eyes were regaining their sparkle, “then this is an agreeable way to spend the time.” Unable to repress her smile now, Cindie gently stroked his brow. He lay stretched out, one hand tucked back between the side of the couch and Cindie’s side, the other now laying on his chest. Unable to resist, Cindie placed a hand palm down next to his on his chest while tracing the line of one eyebrow with the other hand. “Patrick.” There was no question she had his full attention. “I want to tell you something.” He placed his hand on top of hers. It was warm and the combination of it and the feel of his muscles, slowly relaxing, under her palm was nearly overwhelming. “Tell me then.” Those eyes, somehow reflecting the embers of the fire, looked through her. “You’ve probably already figured it out. But I thought I should say something. I mean, here I am and all.” She was babbling. This had to cease. “Want I want to say is, I like you very much and. . .” He gave her hand a squeeze and she closed her eyes and opened them again before proceeding, “I’m very glad to be here with you.” His lips curled into a smile, “So.” The man was a cat. “You fancy me.” The man was maddening. “Yes. Yes you sphinx, I fancy you. So there you have it.” He now brought her hand to his lips again, “I fancy you too. But you’d probably already figured it out.” “Even if I had, it’s awfully nice to hear.” “Yes. It is.” He returned her hand to his chest but did not let it go. Correction made. *BONK*. Ow! D.o.C., could you please change "and depositing her trash" to "and deposited her trash"? Thank you kindly! FoF caferteria: As soon as Alex, Chris, and Sandy left, Vanessa had another one of her bright ideas. "Hey guys I know what we could do lets play Truth or Dare!" Of course they were whispering so Metatron couldn't ruin there fun, again. "That sounds like a great idea! Who goes first?" Miranda asked with a beaming smile on her face. "Miranda you can go first I have a great dare for you." Vanessa said and poked Miranda in the side. "Well OK but it better not be anything gross!" Miranda said and scrunched up her face in what would be the expression that someone gives when something is gross. "OK I dare you to kiss Metatron on the lips for at least 10 seconds." Vanessa said and laughed evilly. "No way he'll kill me for that! Anyway that's an only-on-the-show thing to do." Miranda said and winced thinking what Metatron would do to her after the kiss. "To bad Miranda, a dare is a dare. You have to do this." Vanessa said and patted Miranda's shoulder. "So just go ahead and do it!" "Well, ok. But if he kills me after this you're the first one to die when I come back from the dead!" Miranda said and laughed. Then she turned around and looked at Metatron. He was all done with his lunch and he was staring at something on the other side of the room. "Hey Metatron." Miranda said and when he looked at her she grabbed his face pulled it towards hers and began kissing him. "10..9..8..7..6..5..4..3..2..1! Ok your done!" Vanessa and Tina said in unison. Then they started to laugh at the event that just happened. "MIRANDA, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOURE DOING!" Metatron yelled and jumped out of his seat. "Jeez Metatron loosen up, it was only a dare!" Miranda told him and made a her little puppy face so he would forgive her. "Miranda why must you always do that face when you're in trouble? You know that I cant teach you dicipline if you always give me that look." He told her and rested his forhead on hers. "Just don't do that again OK even if it is a dare." Then he picked up his lunch tray and trough it away. He turned around waved to the girls and walked off to the set still dazed at what Miranda had done. "That was hilarious Miranda! You should have seen his face! It was priceless, if only I would have had a camera!" Vanessa said and slapped Miranda lightly on the back. "I've never seen Metatron act that way before." Miranda said dreamily. "Earth to Miranda, He is WAY older than you and you think you have a chance with him. In your dreams!" Tina told Miranda trying to drill some since in her. "Exactly in my dreams! So comeon lets go back to the set." Miranda said and laughed. So all the girls picked up there trays, properly disposed them and walked off the set still laughing at what had happened. FOF set (with a brief retcon on Shelley's death being not one, but three years ago. I know, I know...)
Barbara stood in the center of the room, hands on hips. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
The paper she'd chosen was an intense, rich blue, like burning magnesium or new born stars. It eased the eyes and energized the mind. Overlaid slightly with a faint, delicate tracery of warm metallic gold, the color both brightened and soothed.
But it wasn't the paper that completed the room. Oh, no. The blue ended at a hip-high horizon, leaving the lower part of the wall to the honey-gold wainscotting. In the same warm tones of the gold tracery, Barbara'd had Geoff and Sveyn install the wood on three walls. She knew Phil would find the wood's rhythmic lines irresistable to the touch; he'd be running his fingertips along the furrows, from board to board, everytime he worked in this room. She'd learned that much from Shelley.
Barbara smiled knowingly. After the first time he did that, Phil would find himself swamped with... clientele. He'd been alone too long anyway.
The next part, Barbara pondered, was the floor. How to make it comfortable to bare feet. Phil had to have incentive to flaunt that tattoo.... She smirked.
If the Director had seen this smile, he would have called for riot gear. FOF Set, Cafeteria: Sandy glanced down at her watch and grimaced. "Oh brother! I better get back to work before the Director has my head on a platter. Plus, I've got a meeting with the SFX staff at 3." She walked over to the table, grabbed her empty lunch tray and deposited her trash. She walked back over to the table, took the leash handle from Alex, who was holding Oliver for her, made sure that it was securely fastened to his collar and gathered up the rest of her belongings. "You're not the only one who may have their head on a platter. I have to go back to makeup and see Phil so he can cover over this godforsaken mess again," Chris pointed to the middle of her forehead, which was a spectacular display of blue, green, purple and yellow with a ferocious scowl as she rose to her feet. "He was extremely displeased with me when I covered over all his hard work with my riding helmet so I could see what was wrong with that blasted horse." She frowned again as she stared at the remains of her sandwich. "Well, that was completely unsatisfactory fare, but it's better than having a nasty sugar low in the middle of a crucial scene." Metatron smirked at the blonde's remark and Alex chuckled as he also rose to his feet, picking up his lunch tray. "And they say that actors are a temperamental lot. The ones who run hair and makeup are just as bad," he observed, depositing his trash in the nearby receptacle. He turned to the four who were still eating their lunch. "It's been a pleasure meeting you girls, and good to see you again," he acknowleged Metatron with a smile. "Yes. It's been great meeting you as well, but duty calls, as they say," Sandy said with a grin as she joined Chris and Alex, who were waiting for her. "Ready, Ollie?" The poodle wagged his tail happily in response. "Bye guys! It's been a pleasure!" "Bye!" Chris added in, rubbing her wrists absently. "Bye!" the girls called back and immediately started up an animated conversation complete with whispers, nudging each other and giggling, while Metatron attacked the remains of his lunch with gusto. Chris, Alex, Sandy and Oliver departed the lunchroom, heading towards the cubicles. "Are you sure you're okay, Chris? You really don't look all that great," Sandy said with concern in her voice. "I'm fine, really! I guess I had a little too much excitement," Chris reassured her friend with a smile. "Nothing that a couple of aspirin wouldn't fix at the moment - that and a long massage." She arched an eyebrow at Alex. "You know, it would be funny if you were Shaggy," she giggled. Alex rolled his eyes in mock despair as Sandy started giggling too. "I swear, you ARE concussed - or else you've completely lost your marbles," he growled before a reluctant smile crossed his features. "Didn't Sandy tell you? I didn't have to any begin with!" she chortled, sticking out her tongue playfully. Alex's head reared back and he roared with laughter. "Honestly, between the two of you!" he sputtered, wiping the corners of his eyes. "Well, we DO try to amuse," Sandy pointed out and Alex nodded in agreement. "Yes, you do - and you do a pretty good job of it," he admitted as they came to a stop in front of Sandy's cubicle. Sandy knelt down and let Oliver off his leash and Chris knelt down and gave him some well-deserved attention. "I'll stop by later if I'm not shooting too late to visit with you again, you cute little rascal," she said affectionately, laughing as the dog gave her a lick on the hand. She stood up and watched him take a toy bone from a small box containing several items left in the corner, walked over to his bed, where he turned around a few times before settling in and chewing happily. "If you don't make it here before I'm gone for the day, don't worry. I'm bringing Ollie in for the rest of the week," Sandy told her. "Oh good! I'll make sure I stop by tomorrow then for some quality Ollie-time," Chris said excitedly. She started walking towards hair and wardrobe. "See you guys later!" Chris walked about ten paces down the hall but stopped suddenly and turned around to face them as she remembered something, snapping her fingers. "Oh, by the way, have you seen the ladies' cutting room?" Alex and Sandy shook their heads, mystified. "No. What about it?" Alex asked curiously. "It's decorated in the most horrid wallpaper I've ever seen, but I heard it's being replaced. You've just got to stop by and see this monstrosity. Whoever made the color scheme had to have been color-blind, I swear," Chris told them with a chuckle. "Thanks for letting us know. I'll make sure I take a look before I leave today," Sandy replied. "See you later - and take it easy, huh?" Chris nodded and waved before she made her way down the hallway, determination in her stride. "I have to leave too. I'll come by when I'm finished for the day," Alex said softly, reaching out to caress Sandy's cheek affectionately. "Okay. I'll be leaving at five today so I can take Ollie for his run and stuff, but I'll be coming back here afterwards to continue working. See you then," she returned the affectionate gesture and watched him walk away with a fond smile on her face. Delaford. Dev's Quarters: Therese considered Eamon for several long moments, the evidence of his inwards struggle quite apparant. "I can't imagine that there could be anything we couldn't discuss at this point," she said with a tiny, humourless smile. "Out with it, then." "It's sometimes difficult for me, Therese," he began, holding up a hand when he knew she wished to interrupt. "Please, let me say this through." Therese nodded and remained silent, a task she found most difficult, and settled for taking his hand in her own, his fingers automatically intertwining with her own. "It is sometimes difficult. . .it is always difficult for me when I feel your safety is at stake. I know you do not believe me to be responsible for what happened. . ." Eamon's voice faltered at even the thought of HIS name, his fingers tightening involuntarily. He was still torn, unsure of whether to share what he had learned with Therese. He was the protector, it was his duty to shelter her, to make certain that-- "If you even think for one moment further about censoring whatever it is you have to say--" Eamon sighed. Whatever his ability to affect the stoic, indifferent mein with the rest of the human population, it seemed he was destined to be the proverbial 'open book' when in the presence of Therese. "--and you know that you are in no way responsible, in my eyes, or anyone else's." He nodded. "I know, though I wonder if you are too generous in that regard. However, my concern is for something I recently heard, though that information was not necessarily imparted with the knowledge of my presence." Therese frowned, throwing his own words back at him. "'Not necessarily imparted with knowledge of your presence?' You were spying, here at Delaford?" "Not intentionally," he replied, his tone wry. "And how does this information effect me?" "Because it involves HIM." Dev did not have to state to whom he referred, probably could not have brought himself to say the name even had it been necessary, which it most certainly was not. Therese knew full well who he meant, and she paled visably. "Tell me," she said, very simply. "Of anyone, surely I would deserve to know." "It is not so simple a matter," he responded with a sigh, loathe to impart the information he held, yet unable to withhold it from her. "For there is someone else involved, someone you know and have come to regard." Therese considered what he said, then looked up to him calmly. "Tell me." Eamon leaned over toward her, covering her partially with his body, as if he could physically shield her from the blow his words would impart. "It is Mary Anne." OK I just relized something. I can spell all the words right but when I type them out they look horrible because I type them with a wrong letter or something. So from now on I'll try my best not to do this ok. I'm sorry for any types of confussion!! Delaford, early morning: Colonel Brandon lies wakeful, thinking of the day ahead. It is certain to be a busy one. If they are to leave for the Palace as soon as Mary Anne is instructed in protocol and fit to travel, then he will have his fair share of work to do today, that all may be in order for the departure. With his competent staff, surely Delaford can run itself without him for a few days. Please, dear God, may it be only a few days . . . He is far from disdaining Mary Anne’s fear of what lies ahead; he shares it. After what they have both suffered at the hands of The Interrogator, Brandon can fully understand Mary Anne’s dread at being under the same roof with HIM. So distasteful to Brandon is that look into the future that he shies from it and chooses to look into the past, instead—a couple of hours past, and Mary Anne in his arms . . . Brandon turns on one side and raises himself on his elbow, looking down at his wife, who appears to be sleeping peacefully enough. Brandon remains as he is for a while, listening to her quiet breathing, before lying down once more, one arm tucked behind his head and a tiny smile lingering about his lips. That Mary Anne is deeply asleep . . . well, he had certainly tried his best to distract her, earlier, from her worries, and here is the proof of his success. That Mary Anne is his wife is still a source of wonder to Brandon; even in moments of clear-headed reflection such as this, he finds it difficult to believe that she will not vanish if he turns to touch her—he had waited so long, after all, dreamed so many dreams of her, that warmth and softness in his arms . . . and yet she is his, now. Willingly. Completely. And it seems he will never tire of her, cannot have his fill. What a novelty it is, at times, simply to have her near to him! Remembering the many nights when, almost irresistibly drawn to each other, they had resolutely gone their way to separate rooms in the Manor House of Egdon or one of the Safehouses, Brandon feels renewed appreciation for the simple privilege of closeness. Now, for instance: Mary Anne’s proximity is a powerful temptation, yet one that he can resist for the sake of enjoying this calm moment, before the day must begin. Let her sleep, he thinks; the moment she awakens, it must all begin again. And yet . . . his mind strays to their midnight wakefulness, their talk of The Interrogator being drawn to Mary Anne’s goodness, and to their search for reassurance in each other’s arms. Brandon had discovered that Mary Anne still has the power to surprise him. As if this new trouble had called forth yet another facet of her nature—he is continually dazzled by the many faces of the woman he has married—Mary Anne had responded to him with an assertive security that had astonished and charmed him, though it had left him rather breathless in its very audacity; it was as if Mary Anne had crossed some line that night. Her experience in physical matters has been brief, but the woman in his arms could no longer be taken as a "shy bride" waiting to follow her lover’s lead. It occurs to Brandon, though he flushes with shame at the very memory, that this encounter between them had been much the same as the night when Claudia had tricked him into taking The Interrogator’s drug. He swallows hard at the recollection of how he had fallen upon Mary Anne with almost literally devouring passion . . . and yes, how she had responded with such trust in him. Even in the midst of that, she believed I would not harm her. And she was in the right. This had been much the same, only without that drug that had shattered his will and taken his reason prisoner. Intensely physical, yes, but charged with tenderness, even when they had striven with each other as if to satisfy an insatiable appetite. Brandon smiles a little. Amusing, in restrospect, that Mary Anne had surprised even herself and been caught up in a sort of euphoric merriment at one point in the proceedings, even as they teased and frustrated each other as part of the love games. "Whew!" she had exclaimed. "Don’t know my own strength!" (homage) And in that, Brandon could only concur. Wholeheartedly. Yes, they had sought comfort and reassurance in each other, and had found it. Temporarily. This day, and the journey, and the trouble are all still ahead; their enjoyment of each other has taken none of this away. But perhaps that is all we can do at such a time. Perform the task that is given to us, and take the joy that is offered to us—so long as it may be freely taken. Very well, then. To the task . . . The list of preparations is a long one. Even without a houseful of wedding guests, there is much to do in the running of this estate. However, almost all of our guests have departed, except . . . Yes, there is the matter of Therese. She is not fit to travel, and Eamon will not leave her—not that he should. He knows that they are welcome to stay as long as need be. Perhaps I should ask him to look after matters in my absence . . . It seems the best solution. The staff can run things without him; they did so for a long while, after all, when he was travelling about The Realm. But to have a nominal "head of the house" could certainly do no harm. Eamon’s an intelligent man; Delaford could not possibly be in better hands. Having resolved to speak with Mister de Valera at some time during the day, Brandon gives himself over once more to contemplation of his wife, who has turned in her sleep and moved nearer to him as though seeking his warmth. Brandon obligingly removes his arm from behind his head and puts it gently about Mary Anne’s shoulders, drawing her close to him, but still making no move to awaken her. Let her sleep, for now; she can use the rest. And when she begins to rouse herself, then . . . then, he will do what he may to see that her awakening is sweet. Let her remember, afterwards, that there was at least one pleasant episode in this day . . . Once in a safe place Metatron told Alex, Sandy, and Chris to get a safe ditance away so they wouldnt get injured. Once everyone was all set Miranda, Vanessa, Tina, and Metatron started to stretch out there wings. Once done Sandy, Alex, and Chris looked stuned. "So angels wings can be diffrent colors then white!" Sandy said and went over to Miranda. "Purple, red and black, black and red, and white. How interesting." Alex said. "Mind if I touch your wing Miranda?" Sandy asked in a cautious tone. "Sure but its just like petting a bird!" Miranda said and let Sandy examine her wing. "Thats very cool." Chris said and smiled at the four. "Ok Im done." Sandy said and smiled at Miranda. "Lets go finish eating lunch!" Tina said and the four with the wings quickly made them disapear. "Hey there, Sandy, Alex," Chris responded warmly. "Mind if I join you and the ehhh posse?" At Sandy's delighted gesture, Chris took a seat. "Hmm, okay, you I recognise," she said to Metatron as she opened her bottle of Coke. "But who is the rest of the crew?" Laughing, Chris got back up to her seat, and wiped her nose with a serviette. "Cute as ever, isn't he?" she said to Sandy. The others all laughed, and she smiled. "Okay, I can see he's enchanted the entire table! Hey, we could be like Scooby Doo and the gang...all we need is a Mystery Machine!" She settled down, took a big swig of the Coke in the bottle, and stared morosely at the sandwich on her tray. Alex stared at her with a funny look on his face, and asked "And which one of us guys did you have in mind as Shaggy?" Once the laughter died down again, they all got on with eating for a little while. Chris sighed, looked at her sandwich and decided to eat it after all. Sandy looked at her and asked "Are you okay? What's wrong with the sandwich?". "I'm fine, really," Chris said and took another bite as if to prove her point. "I just didn't fancy anything on the menu today, this sandwich included. But it was the best of a bad job, and I had to eat. The head is fine. That silly critter they cast as Ki'li had back-trouble! It's no wonder she was bucking like a bronc!" At the girls' confused look, Chris realised they had no idea what she was talking about. "The storyline I write-and act in, contains horses dressed up to be unicorns. I ride one. Bareback, and with no bridle. It's been...interesting! Particularly as the horse was in pain and kept bucking me off!" Chris rubbed her head ruefully. "Anyhow, what have you girls been up to then?" Correction made. I cant believe what I did!! I spelled Metatron's name wrong! Me and my typing, yeesh! Miranda whispered to Chris, Sandy, and Alex and then started laughing. Chris, Sandy, Alex and the other three looked at her like she was crazy and she stoped." Well sorry I felt like laughing because at least I think it's funny." Miranda said and looked a little sad. "Hey I have an idea lets me, Tina, Miranda, Chris, and Sandy get up on the table and sing the "Lady Marmalade" song!" Vanessa said and saw the look that Metatron gave her. "How 'bout not." He said and went back to eating. "Oh you're fun." Vanessa mumbled and rolled her eyes. Sandy wanting to change the subject from getiing up on the table and singing and dancing asked, "Hey since you guys are angels mind if we take a look at your wings?" Miranda, Vanessa, and Tina looked at Metatron with a questioning look on thier faces. "Sure, Why not." So they all stood up and walked over to a safe place to show them. "Of course its not Chris!" Sandy said and motioned for Chris to sit down. "Chris I would like you to meet Metatron, Miranda, Vanessa, and Tina. They're recent arrivals to the set." Sandy added and smiled at the four of them. "Hello, and welcome." Chris said happily and and offered her hand for them to shake. Then she walked over to a empty seat next to Alex and put down her tray. She then sat down and smiled again at the newcomers. "Wait a second, how old are you three?" Chris asked with a puzzled look on her face to Miranda, Vanessa, and Tina. "Were 13 but in the show were 16 dont tell anyone OK because noone is supposed to know that we're not!" FOF Set, Cafeteria: I've seen her before, but I just can't place it... Metatron's eyes lit up in sudden recognition when he saw Alexander Dane walking towards the table with a puzzled frown on his face and turned back to the petite writer, realizing where he had seen her before. "I must apologize, Sandy! I didn't recognize you at first. You look so...different from when we met last time," he said, motioning at her hair with his left hand. Sandy chuckled softly. "I was wondering when you'd realize who I am. It's been almost a year since we saw each other." She turned to the three girls, Miranda lifting her head up in curiosity, still patting Oliver. I've never seen hair quite that particular shade of purple, Sandy thought, her left eyebrow rising. Well, at least it matches the outfit she's wearing. "We actually met at last year's FOF anniversary party and my hairstyle was completely different than from what it is now. I've been growing my hair out for the past 6 months," she explained to the girls, who nodded. She turned back to Metatron and grinned. "Did you enjoy that tequila Cindie gave you for a present?" Sandy asked. He returned the grin, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Still have it. I'm saaaaavoring every last bit," he drawled out, his Cockney accent heavier than usual in his enthusiasm at the mention of his favorite beverage. "Even bought new shot glasses for it." Sandy was about to ask Metatron a question when Alex arrived, his face set in a mighty scowl as he placed his tray on the table with a loud plunk. "Sandy, may I have a word with you - in private?" he asked, eyes narrowed as he emphasized the final word. Uh oh. "Sure. Would you excuse me for a moment?" Sandy turned to the others with a bright smile that she hoped didn't appear fake. The four nodded, Metatron looking more than slightly amused, while the three girls became nervous and started whispering to each other, never taking their eyes off the new arrival. Oliver sat down next to Sandy's empty seat and watched the proceedings with interest. The two walked a short distance away from the table and Alex shot a withering glance back at the group. Metatron saw it and just managed to keep a straight face. "All right, who the heck are those kids?!" he demanded in a low voice, hands on hips as he scowled down at Sandy. "Take it easy, Alex! They're apparently new on the set and only know Metatron. They were looking for somebody to sit with and they came over. I said it was okay for them to eat lunch with us. They seem like they're a nice bunch and Ollie liked them immediately," Sandy replied just as quietly, waving her arms in the air animatedly as she spoke. Alex sighed, his lips turned downward and rolled his eyes, still aggravated. "Oh, all right. I suppose it's okay." He paused for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just hoping to have a little quiet time with you before screaming like a lunatic during this afternoon's run-through," he admitted. "And Oliver," Sandy reminded him, winking. Alex rewarded her with a quick grin. "And Oliver, of course." He sighed and ran his fingers wearily through his hair as he gazed over at the table. "Right. But I'm telling you now, if any one of them says... that... that... well... ugh... "By... He shuddered visibly before he continued. "You-know-what..." I'm leaving," he warned her, folding his arms over his chest. Sandy nodded in understanding. "Fair enough. I can deal with that. Just be nice to them, huh?! They look like a bunch of scared rabbits, for crying out loud." She leaned close to him and murmured, "Listen, why don't we meet up after work and go out to dinner?" Her lips curved up wickedly. "Someplace quiet, where we're not likely to be bothered..." "Mmm. I like that already," Alex purred, returning the grin and wiggling his eyebrows, making her giggle. He lifted his head and smiled at the three staring at him. They returned the smile weakly, still unsure about what to make of him. "Right. I'm starving anyway." The two walked back over to the table and Alex graciously nodded to Metatron. "It's been a while," he said as he took his seat next to Sandy. Metatron merely raised a dark eyebrow in response and continued eating his lunch, still trying not to laugh at the Shakespearean actor's predicament. "Umm, Alex. I'd like you to meet Miranda, Vanessa and Tina. They're recent arrivals on the set and are working with Metatron," Sandy introduced the girls with a warm smile. "This is Alexander Dane. I write his storyline." "Hello," Alexander said to them, reaching out to shake each girl's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." Miranda's eyes grew wide. "You're Alexander Dane? THE Alexander Dane?!" she gasped. "Doctor Lazarus from "Galaxy Quest"?!" Alex's face immediately grew wary, his eyes hooded. "Yeessss...." he said, his voice lowering suspiciously. Beside him, Sandy started making frantic signals in the trio's direction and shaking her head as she mouthed, DON'T! Metatron bit his lip, his pale cheeks turning pink while Vanessa and Tina stared at the writer, completely mystified by her strange behavior. "Oh, WOW! That is like SOOO cool! He's my favorite character on the show!" Miranda said breezily. "I always liked him much better than Captain Taggart," she confided as she nodded her head enthusiastically, her purple hair flying about. "Really," Alex said dryly, eyebrows furrowed together. His left leg was strategically moved over to the side as he prepared to make a hasty exit. "Uh huh! He always keeps his cool in a bad situation - plus he's really smart too!" Miranda nodded again. "But I always thought that saying that he said, well, what you said, was kinda dopey," she rushed on. Sandy stopped her frantic movements, eyes wide. Alex blinked several times in surprise. "You didn't like it?" "Nope, never did," Miranda replied, picking up a steaming hot French fry, dipping it in ketchup and popping it in her mouth. Alex smiled warmly and Sandy sagged back in her seat, shut her eyes and let out her breath in a silent whoosh, visibly relieved. "Hey Sandy, is this a private party or can anybody join?" a voice filled with laughter broke in. The others turned around to see a tall blonde woman standing just behind Alex with a rather nasty-looking lump on her forehead carrying a lunch tray. ...although personally I find your ads charming. Li’a walked into the room she used for speaking to others on a one-to-one basis. She wanted to jump for joy, to gallop across the field outside, to do something to show her joy and relief. But she was in charge now, and could not be doing with such frivolities. They had much to do, and in many ways all the more so because she had won. They did not have an army as such, only Royal Guards, but all unicorns knew how to fight, and fight well. They had all been drilled in how to beat the Sh’rin if they ever came back, as had their forefathers and their forefathers before them. Although most unicorns lived to the age of 200, it had been many generations since the battles for the original home world had occurred, but they did not want to take any risks. So the knowledge had been handed down carefully through the ages, from generation to generation. It was, however, not a solution-their ancestors had lost, and only just got away with their lives. They had lost the home planet. They needed to find new ways, and maybe the humans could help. Li’a knew that this was a novel thought for the unicorns, for they were so used to considering themselves above everyone else, but they needed some serious trouble-shooting, and what she had seen of the humans had shown her that they could just be the answer. After a few minutes to compose her thoughts, she turned to one of the guards that constantly flanked her. “Please ask Ki’li, Zi’el and the two humans to join me.” When the guard seemed to hesitate, she frowned. “Now, if you please!” The guard trotted off smartly, and she wondered whether she was just being paranoid. She seemed to find little problems and potential threats everywhere. Still, she ought to know better than to question the guards. They were loyal to the Crown only. Chris and Hamlet were awakened gently by Ki’li, who had heard the mind of the guard nearing them. “Ok, you two, time to wake up again. I know you probably want to sleep for a week, but Princess Li’a wants to meet us all. There are important things to discuss. Oh, and your speeches seemed to have done the trick. It was all put to the vote a while ago, and we won. The unicorns will be fighting to save Earth. Zor’ar was not pleased. We need to watch him.” The information only took a few seconds to share, and Chris and Hamlet started to get up, tidying themselves up as best they could. “I wish I could have a mirror and a comb,” Chris grumbled good-naturedly. “I just know I look like I’ve travelled every mile we did, and with meeting royalty and everything!” Hamlet gazed at her for a minute, then said in his soft voice “You look lovely, Chris. You’re the most beautiful human here!” At this Chris started to point out that she was only one of two humans in the entire complex, then realised he was pulling her leg and laughed. She ran her fingers through her hair quickly, thankful that it was short and easily maintained. It did need a wash though. She grimaced, but decided that the Princess would just have to survive greasy hair and anything else that might be detrimental to their looks. That decision notwithstanding, she had just enough time to dust off Hamlet’s tunic before the guard arrived. They were taken to a room only a couple of doors down the little corridor. Zi’el, who had not been with them during the speech or their rest, joined them in the corridor between the two rooms. They entered the room with not a little trepidation. Princess Li’a was a formidable mare, and it was clear that the unicorns were in as much awe of her as the humans. Although still quite small for 5 unicorns and two humans, the room was a good bit bigger than the one they had just left. The walls were a lovely sky blue, and there were 2 round windows, which let in the sunshine from outside. Li’a was over in the far corner, and smiled when the group entered the room. Chris started a little, suddenly realising that this unicorn was, in fact, smiling. It reached the eyes, and looked for all the world like a genuine, ‘human’ smile. Li’a’s laughter flowed through their minds. “Yes, we do know how to smile. It appears to be a trait of the more sapient species. The human specimens we met many generations ago did not smile, but later editions did. We have other ways of communicating fear and distrust, we do not need the grimace, so it has developed as a sign of pleasure.” Chris and Hamlet smiled back. “We appreciate the explanation,” Hamlet began. “We do not know any other species that uses the smile, but it is so natural to us that we did not even think about it before! Sadly, it is something that is seen less and less among the humans, as they fall deeper and deeper into the hole they have created for themselves. I am not a happy man by nature, melancholy runs in the family from generations ago, but it saddens me further to see so many unhappy faces in my midst.” Chris looked at him in surprise, for he did not seem to be a melancholy sort. She took his hand, and he smiled gently. “I know this comes as a bit of a surprise to you, petal, but it’s true. I have even been medicated for a short while-as I was a farm-owner, They were willing to allow me the luxury of some of the expensive tablets!” Petal. The word flowed through her senses. She felt warmed by his presence, and especially by that little pet name, apparently so carelessly used, yet so special. She had to refocus, as Li’a started to speak. This was NOT the time or place to start melting into his arms, no matter how much she wanted to! Soon, they were in deep conversation with Princess Li’a, explaining the slightest detail of their flight and the nature of the riot that had started all this. Chris marvelled at all that had happened since that speech, less than two days ago. The Princess shared what she knew of the Sh’rin as well, explaining that they did indeed use the fear as a weapon. It appeared that they used a low frequency of brain wave to emanate a feeling of complete hostility, which put fear into most creatures. There were ways of blocking it, which the unicorns were happy to teach them. The fact that Chris was already naturally skilled at shielding meant that she would quite likely pick it up quickly as it was very much the same principle. Eventually, Chris and Hamlet started to yawn uncontrollably, and when they looked at the window, they discovered it was black outside. "Oh my, I had not realised it was quite so late,” Li’a admitted as she caught the humans’ gaze. “We will continue this conversation tomorrow, now, go and rest. First thing tomorrow I will make sure you are set up with someone to help you learn the Sh’rin shielding. One of our Teachers should be available.” Chris and Hamlet murmured a grateful reply. It would be good to be able to block out that fear, and it was kind of their new allies to agree to help them. They all said goodnight, and Ki’li and Zi’el took the couple to a secluded grove outside, where the ground was soft and they could spread out their blankets in peace. They were asleep in moments, without noticing the circle of unicorns placed strategically around the grove to protect them. An alternate universe. The Interrogator's offices: We see The Interrogator leaning over a chair, from which we can hear sounds of struggling and faint whimpers as HE enunciates: "Deliberate pop-up pages will not be tolerated . . ." "Cut!" The Director yelled and then walked over to where Miranda, Vanessa, Tina, and Metatron were standing waiting to here what he had to say. "You guys have been working hard today, go ahead and take a lunch break." The Director told them and then went off to who knows what. "No comments or anything exept youve been working hard today That's nice!" Vanessa said and Miranda hit her in the back of the head. "We have to earn the right of comments, so dont whine for Gods sake!" "Miranda I think you should run now." Metatron said and started laughing. "Oh yeah you wanna try me!" Vanessa said and got into a Charlies Angels stance. "You couldn't hurt a fly much less me!" Miranda said and started to run. They ran trough the building right until they reached the cafeteria and stopped. Tina and Metatron came a few mintues later just walking and talking down the corridor. "I think we should go introduce ourselves to some people here since we dont know anyone but The Director and a few others right now." Tina suggested and they all shook there heads in agreement. "Maybe we should try talking to her first she looks..nice, so to speak" Metatron said and pointed to a women who was sitting by herself at the moment. But she did look nice BOTH ways you can look nice. She had medium blonde hair that went to her shoulders and not any farther and from where Metatron was standing he could tell she had bluish-grey eyes and was about 5'1" in height. There was also a dog laying under her chair. So the group walked over with Miranda in the lead and stopped where she was sitting. Miranda tapped her on the shoulder and when she turned around Miranda smiled and said cheerfully, "Hi we're new at FoF, and well, we don't know anyone so far and today and all this week are trying to meet and become friends (hopefully) with new people so could we sit with you today, if it's not to much trouble or anything." The woman smiled at Miranda and offered her hand. Miranda accepted it and of course did what you do when you shake somebodys hand. "Hi, My name is Sandy. But I didn't catch your names." "Oh yes my name is Miranda, this is Tina, that is Vanessa, and of course this is Metatron." Miranda smiled hoping that Sandy would actually become thier friend. "You can go ahead and sit down. I'm waiting for someone and as soon as he gets here I'll introduce you." She said and looked down at her dog, "Oh yes this is my dog Oliver." "Can I pet him?" Miranda asked. "Oh yeah sure go ahead." So Miranda reahed out her hand and negan to pet the little dof. Miranda could tell he took a liking to her. "Oh here comes Alex now" Sandy said sounding a bit relieved by his presence. "Who?" Miranda asked sounding curious. FOF set. Phil set his bag down next to the makeup counter. What he needed was something similar. Portable, but not so bulky. More organized than just this bag. Chris was fluffing out her hair, after the previous scene. Phil tapped her on the shoulder and tipped his head to the makeup chair. With a sigh, she sat down and he righted the mess she'd made of his work. Of course no one else ever seemed to see such things, but Phil was used to that by now. He tapped her on the shoulder again. "Done now. Running your fingers though it helps no such. Don't want to be doing this again." He graced her with a dour look. She glanced at him oddly. "Off with you." He packed his gear back into the duffel and strode off to the next set. Coming around the corner, he saw the lights announced a break. No filming. Good. He stuck his nose in the door and glanced around. This set was an elegant, stately manor home, with a gravel drive and the smell of horses mingled with paint. This was the one set he knew. Delaford. Shelley'd been a closet fan of the FoF for years, delighted by the wit and happiness and sometimes sheer terror of the events here. When things had gotten very bad, at the end, the Delaford stories were all that made her smile. She'd come away recharged, ready to live, to see the next episode. When he'd gotten the job offer here last year, she'd been aghast that he'd turned it down. Flashback "No, Phil, you can't be serious." "Not leaving 'til you're better, girl." She'd given him such a steady look. He'd been reminded of her eyes when she'd told him she was pregnant. Such an awareness of what was happening inside her body. Such a stillness. "Not going to get better, Phil." He'd tried to interrupt her but she'd continued over him. "Smart lad, Phil, you are. Don't know why you're acting so foolish." "Not." "Don't argue with me, Phillip Roderick Allen." Shelley'd said that, too, when announcing she was carrying their son. Both times, her voice had been colored by her exasperation with his obtuseness. "Go on. Take the job." She'd smiled that wicked smile he'd remembered from their wedding night. "If meeting Brandon, tell him I've always thought him a dish." Phil hadn't met Brandon yet. But he intended to. Thats a good idea MA but I also have an idea that I think you guys WONT like. Well how bout Moulin Rouge style. I've seen the video for the new remix of the song "Lady Marmalade" (Christina Aguilera, P!nk, Mya, Lil Kim) for the new movie Moulin Rouge and I just loved how they dressed in that video. You might not like this suggestion but hey at least I tried! Also sorry I havnt posted in awhile I left Vanessa to do at least one and a month later I still dont have it!! OI VAYE!!! FOF Set: Sandy read over the last two scenes she had just spent almost 3 and a half hours slaving over. She scrolled through the pages of dialogue and stage directions, her lips puckering up in self-disgust at what she had written. Pure, unadulterated... "crap..." she muttered aloud. She rested her head in her left hand, sighing as she drummed her fingernails on the desk impatiently, angry at herself. She leaned back in the chair, her eyes momentarily re-focusing on the jewel box of the new CD she was listening to - Trouble in Shangri-La. "Argh. How appropriate," she groaned, slapping her forehead before leaning forward and placing her head on the desk. It hit with a resounding "bonk" and she groaned again, this time in pain. Fantastic. I'll probably have a whopping headache later, she thought sourly, gingerly feeling her forehead. A gentle poke on the leg diverted her attention. Raising her hand away from her forehead, she turned in the direction of the poke and laughed as Oliver gazed up at her soulfully, tail wagging and dark brown eyes shining as he leaned his head on her knee. "Hey," she murmured, reaching down to ruffle the curly fur on his head. "Trying to cheer me up, huh?" Without preamble, the miniature poodle sprang up to sit in her lap and she giggled, wrinkling her nose as he kissed her. Sandy laughed again and hugged Oliver close to her for a minute. "Thanks. I needed that." She scratched between his ears and he let his breath out in a happy whoosh. Her stomach chose that moment to announce - loudly - it needed a refuel. She glanced at her watch and saw it was almost 12:30. Alex was supposed to be joining her for lunch in the cafeteria in a while, she noted with dismay. With a final pat, Sandy lifted Oliver from her lap, placed him on the floor, grabbed the book she had just picked up at the bookstore the other day along with his leash and hooked his collar to it. "Ready?" she asked. Oliver wagged his tail in response, and they made their way to the cafeteria after a quick stop in the ladies' room so she could wash her hands. Once inside the cafeteria, she chose a grilled chicken salad, a fresh fruit cup and a large bottled water, idly wondering if her own eating habits would come under scrutiny after she and Alex's being the lucky recipients of front row seats for the Director's morning tirade. She sat down at a table not too far away from the door so that Alex could see her but was relatively secluded nonetheless, taking a second chair to prop her legs up, crossing them at the ankles. Oliver quietly lay down next to her, placing his head between his paws as he watched the hustle and bustle of people walking by. Sandy, for her own part, alternated from sipping her water and occasionally stabbing her salad with her fork while immersing herself in the world of Harry Potter as she waited for Alex to join them. Am I seeing double? Barbara, looks like this thing has posted your entry twice, about the wallpaper! (And if they don't get rid of that pop-up soon, I'm going to have a special task for The Interrogator--he said he had so few diversions at present. Grrrrrrrr.) Jutta, that was TOO funny! 8-D "Sad downward spiral," indeed--LOL! As for wanting to couple Brandon and MA, well, he really hasn't been paying attention, has he? Something to think about, everyone: it's almost time (well, next month is almost) for the FOF Anniversary Cast Party. I'm sure everyone remembers last year's luau--any ideas for a theme this year? I'll start the ball rolling: I thought one possibility might be classic Hollywood, the films of the 1930's and 1940's. Lots of pinstriped suits and fedoras, anyone? And the ladies in slinky bias-cut gowns? ;-) Be thinking about it . . . FOF set. Barbara flipped through a series of swatch books, seeking something... Phil-ish. Phil-ish. Phyllis. She grinned. What would he say if she called him "Schlafly" next time? He loathed nicknames but would he even understand this one? Hrm... she plotted. "You worry me when you smile like that." Barbara's snapped around. "Sir!" she said, flushing guiltily. The Director stood in the open doorway of her office. "What are you plotting?" She deliberately misunderstood him. "Repapering the ladies' cutting room. The paper was hideous." "The lime and terracotta?" "You know? You saw that and didn't have me change it? What were you thinking?!" The Director quirked one eyebrow. "What are you replacing it with?" "I'm not certain yet. I've had a number of suggestions, including this." She showed him a paper swatch, he wandered in to look over the desk. Her lip curled. "I mean, honestly. Purple tartan. How horrid." The Director stiffened. Barbara didn't even notice. "Next thing you know it'll be solid black." She shuddered. "People don't seem to have any taste ." "Then I leave you to it." And he swept out. Barbara rubbed a pair of swatches between her fingers. Bold, colorful but not too... startling. She grabbed the swatchbook and, tucking it under her arm, headed for the ladies' cutting room. Time to check the lighting--and see how Phil was holding up. She halted in the doorway, spun back, reached into her desk drawer. Snagging a letter, she turned and left the office. ROFL!!! Gosh, I never realized how pathetic MA is! her sad downward spiral into addiction. This is priceless. Correction made. oooops, make that *belief in authority* The Director sat in his office. He was supposed to go through a few papers and documents. But he couldn't concentrate on the matter. The chat with the doctor at the lunch table kept creeping in his thoughts. He hadn't even known that there was such a thing as an addiction to chocolate, but then he had read about a man once who had been addicted to carrot juice and died of malnutrition. And there was always psychological addiction. But what should he do? He knew that by tolerating physical addiction you would drive someone deeper into addiction and therefore you adopted a hard line, not giving any money and suchlike. But with psychological addiction? He still couldn't believe how he could have been so blind for such a long time. It all made sense. It was so obvious. She really showed all the signs of an addict: denial: Mary Anne would certainly deny being addicted at all. People became addicted because they sought stability and security in the drug. So Mary Anne was unstable and insecure. She tried to hide that behind walls of chocolate. Sad, when you come to think about it. Why didn't she come to him and sought his advice? She was young, beautiful, talented, successful…and alone. He mad some mental notes: Mary Anne had to be treated with sympathy and understanding. He would also try to get her to confide in him and talk about her problems, mainly her insecurity and loneliness. The thought that 2/3 of all women prefer chocolate to sex crossed his mind and was disposed of quickly. Unicorn Home, Council chambers: Meanwhile, inside the main chamber, the unicorns had a long discussion about what had happened. Many of the non-decided individuals had been swayed by the speech that the humans had made, but the hardliners were still as antagonistic. Li’a was worried about putting it to the vote, because for something as serious as this, their laws said that over 80% had to agree. There were 200 unicorns on the council, and she knew that she had 150 of those on her side. But she needed more than 160. She also knew that Zor’ar had some 30 hard-liners, but needed 40. There were about 20 who had not made up their mind. An exact 50-50 split would mean that she lost, because she had to have more than 80%. They had to win, they just did not have a choice. She was convinced, like many others, that if the Earth, to which their Home was linked, was destroyed, it would not bode well for them. Unlike many others however, she had done a study of the magic involved in keeping the Home the way it was. She knew more about the ties between the worlds than any of the other Council members. If only they’d believe her! Nervously, she finally suggested putting it to the vote. The motion was seconded, and she was secretly pleased to see that Zor’ar was also looking worried. She knew it was childish of her, but to see him worried when she was worrying so much herself made her feel as if there was some justice in the world after all. She and Zor’ar, as the two leaders in the argument, gave their votes first. Soon, the long line of unicorns stretched around the room several times, as they queued up to mark their choice on the ship computer. This was as closed as they could manage, with their mind-reading culture, but with the shielding options it did allow those who did not want the rest of the Council to know what they had voted to have their wish. Of course, Li’a and Zor’ar had both voted openly and with their public minds as clear as they could make them. This was of course intended to give confidence to their followers. Although each vote only took seconds, it took over an hour to get all votes in. Li’a was tempted to prance nervously, but made a concerted effort to control herself. She did not want to let anyone know how worried she was, or to appear young and inexperienced. She had to keep things going while her father was unwell, and she was prepared to take over should he not get better, but she did not have the automatic support of the Council yet. They did not know her yet, and then there was the other thing…she really did need to prove herself to them. Finally, after what felt like a century, the computer was ready, and announced the results in that dry tone it had. So, it was done. Li’a almost sagged with relief, but locked her knees quickly. Not only had she won over all the uncertain voters, but someone in Zo’rar’s camp had defected and voted for her as well. The humans had done well, as had Ki’li and Zi’el. She must speak to them in more detail, in private. She glanced over at Zor’ar, and saw him staring at her, scowling, ears flat back. She shuddered gently and wondered what he had on his mind. He was unlikely to give up without a fight. Ohhhhh, Cindie, don't apologise for the length! That was fantastic!!!!! Oh, good . . . *gasp* . . . heavens--Cindie . . . *THUD* As Liberace said "too much of a good thing is WONDERFUL"!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Don't ever apologize for your entries being too long, as if!!!!!! Mistral returned to the library to find Cindie gazing out the window into the darkness. He walked over and stood behind her. Circling his arms around her waist he placed his chin on top of her head. They looked out the window together for a moment. “Will she be alright?” Cindie asked him, the concern in her voice. He released her and stood back. “Yes. That much exertion is hard on her. But she wants to do things, like have dinner with her son.” His voice betrayed him. “She’ll sleep for awhile now. Sybill gave her something for the pain.” “Patrick,” this was so hard. “You know there are about a million things I want to know. I won’t ask you, but, please…” She hoped this was coming out right, but doubted it. “…whatever you want to tell me.” She took his hand, “I’d like to hear. To listen. I know I can’t help, but I can do that much.” He gave her a half smile and shrugged. “It’s cancer. It’s spread. It’s in her brain now. We’ve tried so many treatments…” He gave a weak laugh, “I’d dance naked around those standing stones we saw this morning if I thought it would to any good.” He paused as his thoughts took him back, “The thing is, she is brilliant. A chemist. In her clearer moments she knows exactly what’s happening to her with a clinical detachment that is more horrifying than the disease that’s killing her. Those moments are becoming less frequent.” He looked very tired. Cindie wanted to fold him up in her arms and make everything better. She wanted to comfort him and take away his pain. She settled for leading him over to the couch and pouring them both a drink from the decanter on the side table. She had no idea what it was but figured they could both use it. Sitting down next to him she tried to think of the right thing to say. She was sorry. He was clearly doing everything he could for her. All obvious and all useless things to say. Instead she took a sip of her drink and said, “Well, if you do try the dancing, be sure to let me know ahead of time, won’t you? I’d hate to miss another performance.” At first he just stared at her. She wondered if she could slip under the couch cushions and disappear. Then he threw back his head and laughed. More than a laugh was a release of all the tension of the moment and a letting go, briefly, of the remorse for things he could not change. He gazed at her fondly and shook his head. Their hands found each other again and he gave hers a squeeze. “I just wish I really could help.” She smiled wanly and tilted her glass, “What is this stuff anyway? It’s awfully good.” “Cognac, its about as old as this house. I won’t tell you how much it costs or you might not drink it.” “Good, then don’t tell me, I’m going to pour us another round,” she replied as she did just that before resuming her seat. Pushing up the sleeves of her dress she continued, “Aren’t you roasting? Why don’t we open a window.” “Yes, I am. Here, hold this.” Handing her his glass he stood up and began to loosen his tie. He’d been wearing a suit jacket but did not have it on when he returned from his trip upstairs. At her expression he said, “No. This is not the *private performance*. But we tend to keep it warm for mother and she loves a fire like this.” He slipped off the tie. “Its worth the heat just to have her happy for a bit.” He continued talking as he unbuttoned the dress shirt he’d worn for dinner. Button by button. “She used to be able to sit up for longer stretches but she tires very quickly now.” The topic was serious and Cindie was listening, but she was watching too as he now undid the cufflinks and dropped them onto the table next to the decanter. “You’ll see her tomorrow morning and you can ask her more embarrassing questions about my childhood.” He flashed a smile as he took off the shirt and placed it over the back of one of the chairs before he resumed his place on the couch. “I actually have your permission to unearth details of your feckless youth?” Cindie had thought that his arms would be more muscular that his lithe frame suggested and this supposition was confirmed. He was usually in long sleeves and she could only speculate. The short sleeved white t-shirt that stretched across his chest and arms accentuated what was there to be accentuated. In the spirit of getting comfortable, Cindie wriggled out of her shoes and tucked her feet under her and took another sip of her cognac. It warmed her further. “Of course.” He held out his hands before him, “I’m an open book.” Cindie gave a cross between a chuckle and a snort but refrained from contradicting him. “Hmmmm.” Changing the subject she enquired, “You referred to this as a family home. Has it been in your family a long time?” “I thought you weren’t going to ask anything.” “I lied.” She untucked a foot and gave him a gentle poke in the thigh with her big toe, “Don’t say it. . .” she challenged. His lips began to purse. “I mean it. . . “ “Personally ….I find ….” The pause dramatic. “your lies charming. And, …I further find that I now have …your foot.” His hand was lightning fast and he did indeed have her foot. She squirmed to get comfortable again but did not try to move it away. “It remains to be seen what you will do with it. But tell me about the house.” She was comfortable and now had both legs stretched out as she rested back on the arm of the couch. It was a position she’d enjoyed with him before. He released his grip and idly stroked the top of her foot as he replied, “Yes, its been in the family since the seventeenth century. It’s one of the oldest manner houses still inhabited by the original family.” “Is it open to the public?” His caresses were firm enough not to tickle. “No. I may open it up one day. There are tax benefits that make it financially a good idea. But I won’t do that while mother is still alive. She doesn’t like the idea of a bunch of tourists traipsing through her home.” He looked over at her and gave a half grimace as he said that. “Although this certainly isn’t anyone’s idea of a cozy home.” “Patrick, it’s a beautiful home. It does seem a shame that so much of it is unused.” He’d moved his ministrations up to her ankle and was making little circles with his thumb. “I know. John is convinced it would make a good B & B. But its too far off the beaten track I think.” He wondered if the silky material covering her legs took the form of hose or stockings. He liked to think stockings. “But there is fishing in the stream. I don’t know, I’m not yet ready to do anything of that sort.” “Possibilities though.” She recalled the room with the gowns. “I found a wardrobe full of dresses in one of the bedrooms this afternoon. Is it alright if I try some on if we have time?” “Yes of course.” He massaged her calf, “You can model for me.” His emphasis on the word *model* made it sound indecent. “I think those were my aunt’s. She used to collect and preserve old clothing.” “You said your mother was your only family. Don’t you have cousins or anything?” It was becoming increasingly difficult to formulate coherent thought. “No. Mother was an only child and father only had the one sister. She died when she was in her late twenties and had never married.” He paused in his attentions to her leg. “I suppose you’ll want to know about my father.” “I have been working my way up to that.” She took a sip of her cognac and smiled, “since you’re an open book and all.” Now she squirmed her way around on the couch and nestled in next to him, her shoulder tucked into his arm which went around her immediately. He set the glass on the end table on the side of the couch and his other arm came across the front of her. He cleared his throat and began what sounded like a recitation. “Father and mother married when he was in his forties. She was in her early thirties and was, as I told you, a chemist. He was of some modest wealth and did not object to her continuing to pursue her career as long as she agreed to have children. His name was Arthur and I was named after him. For whatever reason, and I have never asked, they were unable to have any children after myself. I think father was somewhat bitter about that. He was, frankly, an indifferent parent, and I was primarily raised by mother, when she was home, and by a succession of nannies. It was an agreeable childhood. I was successful in teaching myself how to swim, the risks of drowning and hypothermia notwithstanding.” He inclined his head towards hers, “There. My life story.” Cindie was trying to digest the whirlwind recitation. She’d just learned more about him in the last few hours than she had in all their time together. The feeling was strong, however, that he was disclosing less with his candor than he had with his reserve. It didn’t make sense but that was her impression. Although certainly most people didn’t go around describing their parents as indifferent. Turning to face him she tried to fathom his expression. His eyes were impenetrable and dark. “I think I will open that window,” he remarked as he dislodged Cindie and went and cranked open one of the tall narrow panes. Instead of returning to the couch he went over to the stereo system and the strains of I Fall in Love to Easily began to waft through the room. Cindie had been staring into the fire which had settled into a soft glow as the embers through off heat but little light. A dark shape blocked her view. As she looked up into those still unfathomable eyes, he said simply, “Dance with me.” It was not a request but neither was it a demand. A stray lock of hair fell down into the center of his forehead. Of course she could not resist his entreaty. She placed her glass on the end table next to his and stood up. He wordlessly gathered her up in his arms and they danced. The songs segued into one another as he held her, conscious only of her presence and the feel of her in his arms. Perhaps he had been foolish to tell her what he did. But he did wish her to know more about him and, while he could not tell her everything, what he did tell her would be truthful. He refused to lie. This was too important. She heard a soft whisper, sounding as though it came from a great distance, “Let me love you.” She rested her head on his chest and nodded, her cheek pressed into the cotton of his t-shirt. He held her closer yet and they continued to dance. I may forget my purse, lose my keys and wander around car parks looking for my automobile, but I never forget FOF plots!!Happy Mother's day..Sorry that Mistral's mama is feeling poorly. Ohh, Claudia, as if we could forget your storyline...waiting with baited breath! Back in the surveillance room behind the Interrogator’s cell: “I was a little surprised to find this room empty,” said Claudia. “When I realised what the room was, I mean. I’d expect you to be watching HIM 24 hours a day.” “That isn’t necessary.” Rupert indicated the slowly turning tape recorders on the wall and the small camera mounted at the top of the 2-way mirror. “But someone is often here, to make sure its still recording, or to change the tapes. The tapes are analysed elsewhere, to see if the Interrogator has said or done anything we can use against HIM, later.” “So, what was HE up to, while I was asleep?” “But you weren’t asleep.” Claudia felt a shiver of foreboding down her spine. “I was! I woke up, felt all weird, found the blinking doorway, and here I am!” “I have a tape of a conversation between you and the Interrogator.” Claudia stood up, her fists clenched at her sides. “That is impossible! I’m not talking to HIM again, not after…” Her face flushed at the memory of HIS cutting remarks, how HE knew exactly the right things to say to hurt her. How when HE said HE was disappointed in her, it was like HE was twisting the knife in her heart. Why HE could still do that, when all she felt for HIM was a deep hatred. When she thought of HIM, all she felt was sick to her stomach. “The tape must be from yesterday. I refused to speak with HIM today.” “Then, perhaps you can explain what this is?” Rupert held a video cassette in his hand. “With your permission?” He raised an eyebrow and inclined his head towards a monitor and video machine on the desk. Claudia folded her arms across her chest and scowled. “Go on then.” Rupert moved over to the machine, his stick clacking on the stone floor. He inserted the tape in the machine, and immediately the monitor sprang to life. A black and white flickering image of the Interrogator lying on HIS bed. She turned her head and looked through the 2-way mirror. It could almost be a live broadcast from that room. There HE was, hands cupped behind HIS head, stretched out, a quiver of a half amused smile at the corner of his mouth. She looked back at the screen again, and jumped as the Interrogator started to speak. “Are you there?” He lifted his hand, to silence her. “Wait, there is more.” FOF set. Barbara flipped through a series of swatch books, seeking something... Phil-ish. Phil-ish. Phyllis. She grinned. What would he say if she called him "Schlafly" next time? He loathed nicknames but would he even understand this one? Hrm... she plotted. "You worry me when you smile like that." Barbara's snapped around. "Sir!" she said, flushing guiltily. The Director stood in the open doorway of her office. "What are you plotting?" She deliberately misunderstood him. "Repapering the ladies' cutting room. The paper was hideous." "The lime and terracotta?" "You know? You saw that and didn't have me change it? What were you thinking?!" The Director quirked one eyebrow. "What are you replacing it with?" "I'm not certain yet. I've had a number of suggestions, including this." She showed him a paper swatch. Her lip curled. "I mean, honestly. Purple tartan. How horrid." The Director stiffened. Barbara didn't even notice. "Next thing you know it'll be solid black." She shuddered. "Then I leave you to it." And he swept out. Shelly might like peach but Phil definitely likes to make a splash-something bold, with a haircutting theme--scissors, perhaps? FOF set. Phil frowned. Chris was messing about with his work. "Actresses," he muttered sourly. Eyebrows twitched around him, but he didn't notice. He'd followed Chris down to the set, to get some idea of the plotline she was involved with. He'd winced when she'd put the hat on and had retreated to the ladies' cutting room. Barbara was in there, chivving around a pair of interns. "That's right, Geoff," she was telling the tall one. "Give Sveyn a 100-count to steam--THEN you can rip the paper off the wall." She caught sight of Phil and blinked. "Thought you were going down to the sets?" "Did. There's things I'm needing," Phil replied. He scooped a few supplies into a canvas bag. His hand hovered over a small framed photo on the counter, then gently tipped it face down. "No need for that." A feminine arm brushed past him and stood the frame back up. "Geoff and Sveyn have girlfriends and you know I'd never breathe a word to anyone." Phil favored Barbara with puckered frown. "It's a lovely picture, Phil. When was it taken?" "She looks like hell does Shelly," he said. "Not a lovely picture." He traced the edge of the frame with a finger. "The month before." "Ah." "Why the paper?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. Barbara quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? Are lime green and terra cotta your favorite colors, then? I'll replace it with the same color scheme, if you like." The only reply her insouciance got her was another frown. "It was horribly ugly, Phil, and you're such an asthete." An amused lowering of his eyelids acknowledged the hit. He turned to the door. "Any requests?" "Cheerful. Soothing. Not sopophoric." "Gassed." "Not." "Pet?" "No." "Theme?" "You pick." "You're no fun at all." He nodded and left, a lightness in his step he hadn't had coming in. "Sopo--what?" asked Geoff. "Sopophoric," Sveyn muttered. "He don't want the ladies put to sleep in here." "Why not? If ya cozy up to 'em when they're all tucked under the dryers..." Two hands slapped Geoff upside the head. "Geoff...?" "Yes'm?" A cool voice. "Peel." With that, Barbara strode out the door, trailing the scent of sandalwood and lavender. FOF Set: The Director's features were set in determination as he strode down the hallway towards the cubicles. Yes, *addiction* is the perfect word... he thought to himself. A pair of gofers, both carrying several pages of updated scripts, were running towards him and changed their minds to stop him when they saw his face. Instead, they hurried past him without saying a word towards the sets. As he walked down the main aisle, a pair of soft voices and the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted in his direction - Sandy's cubicle, he realized. "You sure are ticklish, aren't you?" the distinctive tones of Alexander Dane's sonorous baritone rumbled. A soft, throaty laugh answered his query. "Mmmmm. That feels sooooo good, doesn't it?" Sandy replied, her pleasant soprano dropping a couple of octaves into a growly purr. The Director blinked hard, astonished at what he was hearing. Alexander chuckled softly. "Yes." There was a short pause. "Wait a second. Could you move over? My legs are falling asleep," he said. There was a shuffling sound as the two changed positions. "Better?" Sandy asked once the shuffling stopped. "Much better. Thanks," Alexander murmured and sighed contentedly. Silently fuming, the Director stormed over to the cubicle. "What on earth is..." he began saying and ground to a halt at the open entrance. Alexander and Sandy were sitting on the carpet with a small black miniature poodle wedged between them, Alexander scratching the dog between the ears. The two looked up in surprise at the tall figure hovering at the entrance. "Hello, sir. Is there something the matter?" Sandy asked curiously. Her gaze turned towards the small dog, whose tail was wagging furiously at the new arrival, and she smiled warmly. "This is Oliver. I don't think you've had the pleasure." "Uh, no. I haven't," the Director replied throatily, chagrined. He knelt down, putting his right hand into a fist and Oliver eagerly walked over, sniffing noisily and rewarding him with several kisses, deep brown eyes glistening in pleasure. He patted the dog, laughing softly at his antics. Alexander rose to his feet and held out his hand to Sandy, pulling her up as Oliver walked over to his owner and sat in front of her. "Is something the matter? Not another disaster on one of the sets, I hope," Alexander said, left eyebrow rising. The Director shook his head as he rose to his feet. "Not really, although Chris did suffer a nasty bump on the head when her horse bucked her - she's okay, Sandy," he stopped the writer from asking how her friend was with a wave of his hand. She sighed in relief, knowing that Chris had been having a rough time with the mare for the past couple of shoots. He folded his arms across his chest. "Actually, I was looking for Mary Anne. Have you seen her?" The two exchanged glances and shook their heads. "I'm afraid not," Alexander replied. "We'll tell her that you're looking for her if we see her though." The Director nodded curtly, his eyes darting in the direction of Sandy's basket filled with chocolate. "You are aware of Mary Anne's fainting spell in her cubicle from the other day, aren't you?" he asked. The two nodded, Oliver watching the Director tapping his fingers on the cubicle entrance with interest. "Well, I'm extremely concerned that she may not be taking care of herself like she should - eating properly, exercise, and so on..." Sandy's eyebrows raised up in surprise while Alexander frowned, puzzled. Isn't she taking one of the exercise classes that Sei's conducting? he thought as the two of them listened in fascinated silence while the Director continued his tirade for the next couple of minutes. "Right," the Director concluded, checking his watch. "I'll see you on the set later, Dane and it was a pleasure meeting you Oliver," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed off to continue his search. The two turned to each other and Alexander shook his head. "What was that all about?" "I have no idea, but he seems to have gotten the idea in his head that she's addicted to sweets and anything else that's bad for you," Sandy replied. "Hopefully someone finds her and warns her that he's on the warpath. I'm surprised he didn't tell me that I had to switch to decaf," she grumbled, glancing over at her steaming coffee cup. Alexander's laughter rumbled low in his chest. "Lord forbid," he muttered with a mock expression of horror. "Not that it matters much," he observed mildly, winking cheekily. Sandy rolled her eyes and chuckled, shaking her head in resignation. "Actually, I have to get back to the set myself. I'll see you later," Alexander said, leaning over to kiss her quickly on the cheek. "Okay," she replied, standing up on her toes to return it. He knelt down to give Oliver a final pat and he left her cubicle, heading for the set. Sandy watched him leave, shaking her head before she sat down in front of her computer to finalize the next two scenes. Chris sighed as she got back into her costume. She wandered over to Phil's and was soon being expertly combed and transformed, until the bump was no longer visible. The Director turned up while she was still only halfway through the transformation, and winced when he saw the bump. "Does that need any further seeing to?" he asked, concern edging his voice slightly. Chris smiled at him. "No thanks, it's a bit sore, but I'm not dizzy, I'm not faint, I don't feel sick, and there is definitely only one of you standing in front of me. More than enough Directors for one afternoon. I therefore am not concussed." She giggled, taking the sting out of the words, and then continued. "I am, however, going to sort out that stupid creature. She is NOT getting the better of me again today. Please could you have someone put a saddle and bridle on it and get my hat. I'm going to work it in the arena outside for a few minutes, to see if I can't work through this bucking thing." As she finished her little speech, The Director was already turning, and Phil finished her hair. "Now you're going to put a hat on this?" he said despondently. "I guess I'd better re-do it once you're finished!" "Ooops, sorry," Chris said sheepishly. "I didn't think of that! I'll be careful when I put the hat on, maybe it'll be ok." With that, she was out the door. Within moments, she was astride the black mare, now without horn but with saddle and bridle. They worked round the arena a few laps, and the horse behaved impeccably. Chris continued to keep her moving, doing circles, serpentines and some lateral work, keeping the horse thinking and soft. Suddenly, the mare squealed and went into bucking mode. Chris managed to keep her seat, and urged it forward. She grabbed the strap she'd positioned strategically and sat through the next buck as well. As suddenly as they'd started, the bucks stopped again, and the horse moved forward, as soft and pliable as before. Chris frowned. "Something's not right with this horse," she said. "There was no reason for that, and she's not being vicious." After another couple of circuits, the same thing happened, and Chris sat through them and then got off. She removed the saddle and ran her hand down the horse's spine. The mare almost jumped out of her skin as she got halfway down, and squealed in pain. "Well, that settles that. She's backsore. No way can we work this mare until she gets better. Send her back, the company can't charge us when they've sent us an unsuitable animal. That's exactly where I'd sit, bareback! It's no wonder she's upset!" Chris turned to The Director, who was looking at her, shocked. Chris sighed. "Before you ask, yes, we can do the unmounted scene. But nothing and no one sits on this horse. I guess I'd better check that grey we're using for Zi'el. He's been behaving strangely too. If he's not right either, I would suggest the company is trying to cheat us." With that, she walked back to the set, and started preparing for the scene they were shooting. In the process, she took off her riding hat and ran her fingers through her hair. The work Phil had done had held, and the bump remained concealed. She frowned slightly while rubbing it gently. That was going to take some time to heal! Barbara, If you won't let Phil cut (or is that cooot) your hair, how about a nice friday night fancy hair-do? Mistral Manor: Cindie showered, tended her wounds, and changed into the dress she’s packed in the event one seemed required. It was black and somewhat form fitting with long sleeves and a scoop neck that wasn’t too scooped given she was going to meet someone’s mother. Giving herself a final inspection and a passing grade she proceeded to the library. At first she thought Mistral was alone in the room when he came over to greet her. Taking her arm in his he led her over to a high backed chair near the fireplace, in which a fire now blazed, and presented her. “Mother, this is Cindie, the lady of whom we spoke earlier.” The woman who sat very upright in the chair was clearly ill but her eyes still gave the impression of a hawk’s. Her snow white hair was fine and sparse but impeccably coifed and she stared at Cindie with a most disconcerting frankness. She was extremely thin, too thin, and this accentuated the look of bird of prey. When she spoke, her voice was reedy but clear, “Hello. You’re one of the actresses I take it.” “No ma’am, I’m….” “One of the writers then.” “No…” “Well then, what do you do?” Her tone had become more impatient with each question. Mistral stepped in and remarked easily, “Miss Cindie assists the Director and keeps things running smoothly. Now why don’t you let me take you in to dinner.” She looked confused for a moment and Cindie had an inkling of what Patrick had said earlier in the car. He released Cindie’s arm and reached down to assist his Mother. She needed the assistance and he slowly and carefully walked her through a door at the end of the room which led them into the dining room. The dining room set was a long and formal cherry wood affair with intricately carved chairs. It would have easily seated 12 people and there were other chair lining the room. With relief Cindie noted their places were all set at one end. Visions of staring at Mistral over six feet of gleaming cherry had popped unbidden into her head. Seating his mother he sat at the table’s head while Cindie sat on his other side across from his mother. Mistral led them in saying grace. The food was laid out family style and he served them soup from a tureen. She noticed that his Mother seemed to have some difficulty judging distance and had trouble reaching for the spoon. Once she had a hold of it she was able to eat unassisted, however. Mistral took charge of the conversation which consisted primarily of telling his mother of their drive in this morning and the state of the countryside. No mention was made of Cindie’s little adventure. Fish was next and Mistral again served from the covered dishes on the table. It became clear that the food, though quite good, was all of a sort easily handled by the feeble hands which now struggled to grasp the fork. Cindie watched Patrick deftly guide her hand to the utensil all the while giving his opinion as to the likelihood of snow and never taking his eyes from his mother’s face. After the uncomfortable introduction Cindie was relieved that her presence seemed accepted, if not entirely welcome. The talk was mild and undemanding. At one point, the woman who Cindie assumed was Mary came in and cleared some things away and left a carafe of coffee and a pie. They made it through dinner uneventfully and adjourned back to the library. Mistral assisted his mother from room to room and seemed to levitate her to her chair near the fire. Arranging two other chairs for ease of conversation he stood behind one for Cindie before settling himself in. She spoke. “Arthur, put another log on the fire, there’s a dear.” Mistral’s expression betrayed the barest flicker of a wince before complying. Cindie had noticed he’s seated himself as far as possible from the fire in the overly warm room. Cindie supposed it was the heat which caused his reaction. Not that it was overt. Not in the slightest. His behavior towards his mother was loving and solicitous but in no way condescending. She continued, “He was very serious as a boy you know.” Her face was directed toward Cindie but her eyes looked past her into another world. “Was he Mrs. Mistral? You mean he didn’t make mischief?” Naturally this topic had much interest for the visitor. Mistral for his part appeared nonplussed at being the topic of conversation. “Oh no. He was always trying to please…” The woman’s eyes flickered. “We did have to fish him out of the stream on more than one occasion. He insisted on teaching himself how to swim – although his father had forbidden it. Very dangerous.” “Did he get into very much trouble?” “Oh yes. Although of course Arthur never touched him. Not ever.” Her eyes took on a glazed cast. She sat quietly for awhile while Mistral resumed the tale, telling of how he had determined that he wanted to know how to swim and saw no reason not to take advantage of the water to hand. His mother began to inch down into the chair until it became clear she was too tired to sit up any longer. Cindie had noted her erect posture. Now whatever reserve of energy she’d maintained it with was gone. She appeared completely exhausted and slumped in her seat. Mistral rose quickly and moved to the desk in the corner of the room and picked up the phone. A few words were spoken and he was back at her side and scooping her slight frame into his arms. With a quick look at Cindie he was out of the room. Cindie started to follow and realized he was taking her upstairs. The call must’ve been to Sybill. She stood there a moment unsure what to do with herself. Her first thought had been to follow to see if she could be of use. This idea was quickly abandoned. It would be intrusive. They obviously had a kind of routine and she had no skills to offer in this situation. She wandered over to the window she’d looked out earlier today. Drawing the curtain back she could see the water in the moonlight. Her thoughts turned to the look Patrick had given her just before he left with his mother in his arms. It had been completely unguarded. At the time she wasn’t sure exactly what it had held. Now, as she thought about it, it seemed a quick and complete sharing of a pain for which she could do nothing. Their coffee break finished, Fausta left to go back to her writing (!), while Colin Firth was left to meander back to the FOF set. Phil looked up in the mirror. He'd been tidying up the workspace and, she supposed, laying claim to it. He'd laid out all kinds of arcane hairdressing implements, some of which Barbara never wanted near her head. "Do I?" "It's Chris," she said, launching herself off the doorframe and into the room. "She's got a nasty bump on her head from that... animal." Phil nodded and went back to his straightening. Barbara stopped in the center of the room, and made a slow circular turn. RA was right. This paper was hideous. Who on earth thought that terracotta and lime checkerboard was a good design? Jutta sat at a table in the mess and was enjoying her fish and chips when The Director suddenly appeared in front of her. "Mind if I join you?" "No, not at all. Please." He sat down opposite her. It was the first time she had seen him down here. Normally he got himself a sandwich and ate it at the set or the cutting room. She wondered if he had something on his mind. She didn't have to wonder for long. "Are you getting on with your patients?" "Yes, very well." He nodded and sprinkled his chips with vinegar. She blushed and bent over her fish and chips, mumbling that that's what she's here for. He cleared his throat and said sternly: "Doctor, I have to talk to you." She nodded. He leaned closer and mumbled conspirationally: "I have the feeling that Mary Anne doesn't follow you dietary restrictions." She nearly choked on her chips: "I beg your pardon?" "I've been keeping an eye on her and I have the impression that she still eats all those unhealthy sugary stuff. I think she sidetracks your no-chocolate regime." When she still looked at him blankly he continued, somehow impatiently: "Mary Anne. The lady I told you I was worried about . The one who fainted due to that chocolate consumption of hers." Jutta knew precisely who he meant. But how came he to think she had told Mary Anne to abandon all chocolate? Probably wishful thinking. After Mary Anne had fainted in her cubicle, he had told her at length about the food she allegedly ate all day. He painted a picture of someone who drank syrup instead of tea, ate two bars of chocolate for breakfast, snacked on Mars and Twix bars during the morning, ate an entire cheesecake for lunch, got through the afternoon on crisps, pralines and candy to end the day on a variety of fruit tarts, cakes and cookies. She had tried to hint that is wasn't so much the food (no matter how unhealthy), but the stress and the demanding workload in combination with an acute episode of hyperventilation. He didn't seem to have listened. It's hard to get a deeply-rooted idea out of a mind. The Director had found his enemy: Mary Anne's love for chocolate. And he wouldn't let go. Diplomatically she replied: "I'm not allowed to tell you what I told - or didn't tell - Mary Anne. But you can be assured that our talk included dietary advice." "Maybe, but she doesn't seem to have stopped her unhealthy eating!" "But your watchdog behaviour won't make it better!" He opened his mouth in protest. She hastily continued: "Listen: give her some time. No one can change their eating habits from one day to the next. It's like an addiction: she can't stop it just," she snipped her fingers "like that. She has to adapt slowly. When you continue to observe her so closely and point out every little piece of cake she eats it will only add to the pressure she's under." He looked at her with a strange expression of enlightenment. "Addiction." *Oh dear* she thought. *Wrong word.* "No, Mary Anne's not…" "She's addicted." As if suddenly everything made sense. "It's not what …" "Thank you very much doctor, you helped me a lot." With that he got up, shook her hand and left. *Scheisse.* Jutta thought.* What have I done?* Barbara leaned in the doorway to the ladies' cutting room. "Phil," she said, "you're getting a customer." Delaford. Dev’s quarters: Therese gave a long, low sigh and snuggled back into the sensation of warmth and comfort which enveloped her. She was in that state of partial wakefulness somewhere between sleep and consciousness where her movements were more reaction than volition, but when she made contact with the firm, solid form behind her, she began to stir. The arm that was draped over her shoulders tightened slightly, pulling her more closely toward the warmth, and her eyes opened. Turning to the side so that she faced Eamon, she laid a hand on his cheek. "How are you?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble. Therese ran her fingers through her tangled locks, pushing the fringe from her brow. "I must look a sight," she said with a slight grimace. "'Vanity, thy name is woman,'" Dev intoned, "though I did not believe it to be a quality in this particular woman." He pressed a kiss to her temple, and tucked her head beneath his chin. They rested comfortably together in silence for several moments, Therese reveling in his nearness, and marveling that she could once again feel so utterly secure. "Where did you go earlier?" she finally asked, her tone soft. Dev tipped his head to look down at her, his eyebrows raised. "How did you know I had left?" he asked. "You were sound asleep, I checked carefully before I went." Therese shrugged her shoulders, "I'm not sure, exactly, but I could sense you weren't here." She reached to stroke his face again, his dismay aparant. "It's okay, Eamon, I'm not saying that I was unhappy you left--" "But I would not have, had I realized you were aware." "I listen to you breathe," Therese admitted, her hand coming to rest upon his chest as it rose and fell rythmically beneath her fingertips. "You have a very distinct sound that is all your own. Where did you go?" "I was ordered from the room," he responded stiffly, his tone leaving no doubt as to what he thought of the matter. "Dr. McCoy, no doubt?" Therese said with a slight chuckle. "I'm glad you let her send you away for a bit, you needed to rest yourself, though it's a wonder there was no bloodshed between the two of you. I'm surprised that she stayed, her duties must be extensive. Mary Anne would always be willing to stay with me as well." Therese was startled by Eamon's explosive, "No!" and watched as he struggled to bring his expressive face back to the carefully controlled mein he presented to the outside world. She paused, looking up at him as his breath caught slightly. "What is it, Eamon? What's troubling you?" Barbara, could you do something about the wallpaper in the ladies, hair cutting parlor. It is one of the worst patterns that I have ever seen. I am sure that Phil would agree! This must be the most stupid suggestion in the world but has anyone EVER though of making FoF the movie?? FOF set. After about half an hour, there was a tap at Chris' door. Barbara, one of the set designers, poked her head in. "Dearheart, the Director's asking for you. He really needs to finish filming those scenes today, so he can send that... stupid, I'm afraid, is the only polite word I can think of... back. Since FOF is paying for it for the rest of the day, he's trying to be economical." Barbara gave her a lopsided grimace. Chris sighed and began to get out. Barbara handed her a towel and eyed Chris'.... head? "After you're dried off, toddle on down to makeup. You need that lump taken a look at; I'll ask Jutta to meet you there. But it needs to be covered up, too. There's a new fellow down there, Phil. He'll take care of it. He's a genius... All right?" Barbara fixed Chris with a level look, waiting for a reply. CUT! The words went ringing through the air at the same time as a lone figure flew most ungracefully from its previous position on the horse. Moments passed as the crew held their breath, while Hamlet ran up to the crumpled heap that had been an actress only moments before. "Right, I'm not getting back on that creature!" Chris said after picking herself back up off the floor. "That's the third time TODAY that she's chucked me, and she's getting way too good at it! I need something that is going to behave even though it's not wearing a saddle and bridle!" Hamlet agreed, although he didn't say anything. He thankfully had not had any need to ride for a few shoots, and so had not had to argue with the animal he'd been allocated for a while, but Chris was turning black and blue from the disagreements she kept having with the floor. "Now, you know we don't have any other black horses of the right size available," The Director started, although he was also worried. It was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. "Then get me a bay and color the darned thing via computer, the same as you do to the red and green ones," Chris retorted, glaring at her (currently ex-) mount. The horse stood, with the horn slightly askew after the severe bucks she'd put in, and looked inordinately, well, pleased with herself! Chris sighed, slipped a halter on the animal and led it off the set. "Where do you think you're going?" The Director exclaimed, noticing where she was going. "We still have several shoots to do, and we need to get that take right!" "If you think I'm getting back on that animal, you've got another thing coming," Chris answered calmly. "Acting might be in my contract, killing myself is NOT. I'm going to have a bath and loosen up some of these sore muscles, or I won't be able to move in a couple of hours! And for once, someone else can groom this little bugger for me!" So saying, she left the horse in the stable and walked off slowly. She was calm, collected, serene...oh, who was she kidding? She was sore, angry, mad, and she had two more scenes to write! Within minutes, she was immersed in a bath, with inches of bubbles. She sighed, relaxing and letting her muscles take in the heat. Now, how was she going to get The Director to find her something more suitable to ride? With this astonishing speech, Li’a left the dais. The group moved up and turned. Hamlet and Chris looked at each other, and finally, Hamlet started talking. “I am a man,” he started. This statement brought some amusement from the audience. They had already noticed. “I will not pretend that all humans are good, because that is not the case. Sadly, there are some really nasty humans around, and they cause a lot of problems, both for the rest of the humans and for the rest of the world. However, I know that there are many good humans too. Now, you have heard the unicorn Zor’ar’s arguments. Some of them are valid. We are not all very nice. There were humans who did not treat the original unicorns very well. But you must also remember that until that moment, you were mythical creatures. The world was a very scary place for the average human at that time. The Peace was still being brokered. We had seen the war to end all wars. Many humans were very damaged by what a few humans thought was a good idea. We did capture you. But as I understand it, you wanted us to. We never held you captive. From what I’ve seen in the past few days, you could have walked out any day, and we’d never have been any wiser. No, you stayed with us, because it suited your own purposes.” At this point, Hamlet paused, and looked at Chris. She was astonished to see tears in his eyes. “When we reached your Home, we were astonished. We had not seen our own Earth’s outside for a long time, and it was a shock to see how badly off it was. But in many ways it was an even bigger shock to see how wonderful your Home is. It made us realise exactly how far our own world has degraded. We were in awe of you, and all you had accomplished. We did not feel worthy to enter this hallowed area.” Hamlet paused again, letting the feelings he was feeling seep through into the public mind that was broadcasting to the audience. “But then, we were attacked. Maliciously, quickly, and with the knowledge that we had no weapons in this medium, someone attacked Chris, meaning to kill her. Suddenly, I was no longer in awe of you. There is no difference between you and us. You’re bigger, stronger, and have some really nifty powers. But you hate, just the same as we hate, that which is new or different. Not all of you. But some. And we are just the same. We harmed some of you, because we did not understand what was happening. Those men who were out there, suddenly seeing such beautiful creatures running around in the devastation, they didn’t understand. So they hurt some of those creatures. In many ways, they were sharing the hurt they had suffered.” At this point, Hamlet stopped broadcasting, and Chris took over, gently. “I know there are those out there who regard us as a threat. But what threat can two little humans possibly be? I know your prophecy said that this Home would be destroyed, but that does not mean you cannot find somewhere else to live. As long as you survive, that is the important aspect. I know you put a lot of effort into this place, and it is wonderful. It truly does justice to the unicorn race. But if you ignore our plight, and the plight of the few other species we still have left on Earth, you are no better than humans. If you can help, but won’t, that is not very noble.” Chris paused, gathering her thoughts again, before her final closing statement. “I cannot ask you to help us. That is not my right. I know the humans have gotten themselves into this mess, and really ought to get themselves out. But there are other species out there, who need your help. The few deer and rabbits, dogs and horses and cows. They did not do anything to harm you, or the Earth. At least save them!” At this point, Chris turned to Hamlet, and he helped her off Ki’li. She stood, in his arms, weeping. The little troop walked back off the stage, and to their surprise, the unicorns started stamping their feet. In confusion, Chris asked Ki’li what was going on. “This is the unicorn way of clapping,” she responded, amazed. “They were impressed by your speech.” Almost the entire room was ‘clapping’. They continued walking, and exited through a little door that Chris hadn’t seen before, just by the side of the dais. “You can rest here,” Ki’li said. “We will not be needed for a time now, the Council must vote.” Taking her at her word, the two humans quickly sat down against a wall, and were asleep within moments. Chris’s hand was nestled firmly in Hamlet’s. Delaford. Dev’s quarters: Therese, still asleep, lies in the great bed with a sheet drawn over her and a light blanket folded down at her feet, and in an armchair beside the bed sits Eamon de Valera, keeping his vigil. After he had left the library, Dev had waited until he regained control of himself to return to his room—and yes, McCoy was there, watching over Therese as she had said she would. "She has slept so long, Doctor; isn’t that unnatural?" A worried frown. McCoy had stood and stretched. "What she’s been through is unnatural. The long sleep, well, that’s something her body needs—and after what you told me about how long you two talked in the barn—" A slight emphasis on talked. "Well, now that’s off her mind, her body can rest." "But for as long as this? All day, and now—" "Not to worry." McCoy’s face had softened a little as she glanced toward the sleeping Therese. "That’s normal sleep, Dev; I didn’t have to give her drugs or anything. She’s simply exhausted, that’s all. This is part of the recovery—" There had been more, but Dev had not heard it all, preoccupied as he was with gazing wistfully at the small figure in the bed—and she had seemed smaller than ever after her recent hardships, practically lost under the sheet, adrift in that enormous bed, blonde hair fanned across the pillow . . . "Although—" The sharp tone in McCoy’s voice had yanked him back. "It would have been better to recover without spending a night in a cold barn—" Dev had smiled, a very cool, dry smile. "Colonel Brandon would be put out with you, Doctor, for suggesting his stables would be cold. He takes better care of his horses than that." A lifted eyebrow. "All very warm and snug, I thought—" "Hrrrmmmph." McCoy had eyed him narrowly, and Dev had gazed complacently back; clearly, she could see that something troubled him. No fool, she. But he had known she would assume it was worry for Therese; with his gift for controlling his facial expressions, she would never need to assume otherwise. McCoy had shifted her attack. "And did you get some rest, like I told you to?" "Yes." "In that case—" Another stretch. "I’ll let you stay with her now, because I need to rest, or I won’t be fit to practice medicine." Another glance toward the patient, and then a kind look toward Dev. "If you need me, call me. Or if I can’t come, then Doctor Dubois will be glad to help. But try me, first." "Thank you, Doctor McCoy." A grateful look: however sharp-tongued she might be, this woman is an excellent physician, and her concern for Therese is paramount. I can have no quarrel with that . . . But that had been some time ago, and now the darkness has fallen over Delaford, along with the late-night hush, though such an estate is hardly ever silent. Dev watches. Occasionally, Therese shifts about in her sleep, turning from side to side, her brow creased as Dev watches anxiously for the onset of nightmare. If that happens, he will certainly awaken her. However, the fretful moments pass, and Therese lapses once more into stillness. Therese, what shall I do? If only she were awake—to help him. Dev sighs: it is a wrenching confession for him, even in the privacy of his own soul, that he actually needs anyone’s help. And I am supposed to be the level-headed one of us, he thinks ruefully. It is clear that Therese is still not fit to travel; she must remain where she is, no matter where the Brandons must go—and for Therese to remain, must he not be on good terms with the Brandons? That much seems clear. So slip a rein on that temper of yours, Dev; don’t go saying something to them, either of them, that you’ll regret. But he cannot simply let it pass. What Mary Anne had said: what did it mean? How can he speak of it to Therese—but then, how can he not? Dev reaches out and lifts one of Therese’s hands, cradling it in his palms, pressing a kiss on her fingers before laying her hand gently back on the bed. "Do you know I’m herrre, love?" The accent, always evident in times of distress. "I hope you do . . ." Therese’s voice, soft but clear. "Eamon . . . knew you’d come for me." Startled, Dev looks up at her face, but her eyes remain closed. Just a murmur in her sleep, followed by a slight frown and a shiver, a movement as if to gather the bedclothes about her. Dev suddenly realizes the room is growing cold, and he hurries to stir the fire, then pull the blanket up about Therese, tucking and smoothing with exquisite care until Therese is snugly cocooned in the folds. She breathes deeply and seems to relax, lying still once more with none of the restless stirring, and Dev, standing over her in the dim light, begins to speak quietly, under his breath: "Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Therese does not awaken—but perhaps she hears. If even a comatose patient can hear the voice of love in their darkness, then what of one who merely sleeps? "I would spread the cloths under your feet: Dev pauses, then rests his hand on her forehead. "I will say it to you again, when you are awake." That, and other things—perhaps not all I could, but many others. But just as you knew I would come for you, so you must return to me, because I cannot do without you. I will not call myself poor, because I have my dreams . . . and you. With that, Dev steps back from the bed and shrugs out of his jacket, which he folds neatly over a chair. Then, removing his shoes, he steps to the other side of the bed and lies down beside Therese, settling himself close to her. She knew I would find her. I will do what I must. God forgive me and defend me, I will never lose her again . . . Mistral Manor: He held up one of her hands and noted the torn nails and the abrasions she’d received compliments of his home. “Where are you hurt?”, he demanded. “I’m fine. . .” at his LOOK she simply showed him her scraped leg, the other hand and told him about her big toe. “Nothing serious. A little soap and water and anti-bacterial ointment and I’m good as new.” When he didn’t tease her about tending to her wounds she knew he was upset. “I’m sorry.” “You’re sorry?! Whatever for?” He did sound angry but it was directed inward, “I never should’ve let you go off on your own like that. It was thoughtless of me. I should’ve known this would happen…” “Hold it right there buster!” She held up a hand. “First off, there was no way you could know I’d manage to lock myself in the basement and be scared witless by a wine press. Secondly, I wanted to explore the house. And its not up to you to let me do anything. Besides which,” her voice softened, “you did rescue me so that counts for quite a bit in my book.” “But you shouldn’t have needed rescuing in my home in the first place.” “It certainly wasn’t how I expected to spend the afternoon.” She shrugged. Mistral made a hrrrmmfing noise and she continued, “but here we are. I’m a bit battered and you have the beginnings of a nice hole in your door.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “It does appear that I’ll need to have a carpenter out for an estimate to repair the door. Pity about that fine oak….” He checked for her reaction with a sidelong glance. She was about ready to launch into a retort. Good, he thought, she really is going to be fine. He forestalled whatever response she was going to make by leaning over and kissing her. She considered briefly how to react to this turn of events, and decided to respond in kind. The kiss ended but she remained in his arms, Cindie felt tired now and was beginning to stiffen. As was Mistral. He broke the silence, “we need to go and get ready for dinner. It’s gotten to be a bit late you know.” “Yes that’s right. I’m to meet your Mother now, aren’t I?” Pulling out of his embrace she stood and smoothed down her clothes. “I’d better get cleaned up. Goodness knows what she’d think if she saw me like this.” He stood as well and taking her hand, led the way back upstairs. All too soon, they reached a large clearing. In the middle of it was a building. The humans looked at it in surprise. Suddenly they heard Ki’li’s laughing response in their heads. “You don’t think we live outdoors all the time, do you?” she asked in mock surprise. “We rather like being indoors, it’s warm and it’s out of the rain.” The humans pondered this, not sure whether they could believe that equines could have built this magnificent building. It was a massive structure, yet light and airy looking. It was pure white, and seemed to glow in the sunshine. “But…but HOW did you build this?” Hamlet finally exclaimed, completely non-plussed. “I mean,” he added somewhat embarrassed, “you don’t have any hands or other appendages to grip things with!” At this, their whole group escort burst into fits of laughter, so much so that they had to halt for a moment. Then suddenly Hamlet ducked as a small rock came flying towards him. It stopped just in front of him, and hovered. They looked at it in surprise. Then it landed, slowly and very accurately, on Hamlet’s head! “OK, who did that,” Hamlet asked, looking sheepish. “I take it you have further gifts we did not know about.” The animals all agreed, and explained how doing things telepathically only replaced doing it by hand. So they were capable of moving only what they would have been able to move it manually. However, they could group together and lift bigger things, like the metal sheets that covered the building they were now in front of. Suddenly, Chris made a funny noise. “This is the spaceship you came here in, isn’t it?” she asked excitedly. The equines all agreed, and Hamlet looked at it in wonder. “So you brought it in here with you…I guess that was a good idea, so that no traces of you were left on normal Earth for the humans to find,” he pondered. With that, they were at the doorway to the ship, and they paused just outside. “Now, you must be prepared to answer some questions,” Ki’li said quickly. “I cannot tell you what they are, but your answers will probably make the difference in the decision to help or not. Are you ready?” Without waiting for an answer, they started moving in through the opening. Chris and Hamlet steeled themselves for what was to come, nervously glancing at each other. Hamlet moved closer to his companion, and took her hand, squeezing it gently. She felt the warmth of his thought, and smiled, squeezing his hand back. Within moments, they were inside the structure, and hundreds of heads turned to watch them enter. The inside was one big room, with unicorns standing everywhere. The room was circular, and at the opposite end to the entrance was a dais, with one lone, beautiful purple unicorn mare standing on it, facing the audience below. Ki’li and the little group made their way up to her, carrying Chris and with Hamlet walking next to her. As they moved forward, Chris noticed that the unicorns seemed to be grouped by colour. She also noticed that some were quite clearly staring at her, while others were very pointedly ignoring her. She wondered which was more sinister. All too soon, they had reached the dais. Ki’li and the others bowed their heads down to the ground, and the two humans heard the quick exchange between Ki’li and the purple unicorn. “Why are you so late, youngling?” the purple unicorn exclaimed in irritation. “You do realise what hangs on this meeting?” Ki’li bowed deeply again, and started explaining. “My apologies, Your Highness, we did not mean to be tardy. Unfortunately, on the way here, someone attempted to mind-blast the human female, and we had to stop to allow her to recover. I was worried that her strong shielding would be a limitation to our communication, but as it turns out, today it saved her life, and therefore, probably our own. We arrived as quickly as we could.” The horror on the purple unicorn’s face was apparent, even to the humans, as she asked icily “Who dares to attack them within our Home? Did you catch them?” She looked over the audience, and there were mutters of outrage, but not loud enough to hide the distinct silence coming from one group of emerald green unicorns near the front. “Sadly, the human passed out before we had even realised that something was wrong. She does not know our minds, and so does not know who did this to her, but feels she would know the mind were it to meet hers again.” Ki’li smiled. “And judging by the fact that she got away, the individual is probably carrying a residual headache to rival all headaches! We had to get the Healer to dull Chris’s headache, and she said that it was one of the worst she’d seen! I hope Your Highness allows, but I will not take responsibility for the safety of these humans unless they remain very close and within a full ‘corn circle.” The purple unicorn, who was clearly a leader of some shape, nodded her acquiescence, and Chris felt Ki’li breathe a small sigh of relief. “Please, introduce us, Ki’li. You have done well.” Ki’li took a deep breath. “Your Highness, I present to you the two humans, as it was pre-ordained. The male is Hamlet, and he shows great courage and strength, as well as kindness and gentleness. The female, who is sitting on my back, is Chris. She has worked with us for many years, although she never knew our full nature. She is a loving person, full of kindness and joy, despite having been treated badly by a few other humans. She also shows great mental resilience.” Now Ki’li turned to the two humans. “Chris, Hamlet, I present to you Her Highness Princess Li’a. She is the daughter of our King, His Highness Li’el, who sadly is indisposed now. She reigns in his name.” The two humans gazed in awe at the beautiful unicorn, who seemed to grow in front of their eyes during the presentation. Chris bowed her head in acknowledgement, and Hamlet did such a wonderful courtly bow that she was quite astounded. Indeed, she sensed awe and curiosity from the gathering and from Li’a as well. At this point, there was a growing unrest among a small group of unicorns. Chris noticed that this was the same group of emerald green equines she had noticed only moments earlier. Finally, one spoke up. “I speak for many among us, who are not so pleased to see the humans here. As the prophecy foretells, they bring doom to our home. Why should we help them? Why should we even show them our powers? They have done nothing for us except hurt us, hold us captive, and kill our loved ones. And this is what they will continue to do. I say let them die out. I say let them kill the Earth, and let us take our chances with our own, magically created world. It is strong, it will survive. I say kill the humans, or imprison them, so that they do not breathe a word of our strengths to our enemies. Li’a turned to the male unicorn and looked at him scornfully. “We have been over this many times,” she said. “Your group is not large enough to take control, but you have enough supporters to make a decision necessary. Sadly, we have no further things to say to each other. I therefore propose to allow the humans to speak for themselves.” Within moments, the word “Seconded” had been repeated several times, and so Li’a turned back to the two humans. “You have heard Zor’ar’s arguments,” she said. “I beg you, think of what you say. You must convince this Council to act. Sadly, the famous unicorn honour no longer extends to other creatures, nor to me.” As an adherent or the commandment "thou shall have no other gods but me" I suggest that instead of polytheistic, we substiture polystaristic.. Italics fixed. Fausta, back again so soon? Italics bummer! DoC, help, please. The hand clasped over Fausta's mouth, and she felt she was pulled away from the FOF set. The secret door closed in front of her. Instinctively, blindly, she stepped on the foot of the person holding her while jabbing her elbow into their ribs. - OW!! - a voice complained, releasing her. She pivoted, and found herself face to face with . . . - Mr. Darcy! - - No . . . yes . . . actually, Colin Firth - he said, straightening himself up, and extended his hand. Without thinking, she immediately uttered - How do you do, Mr. Firth, I'm Fausta - as they shook hands. "The other, Jane Austen hero, the other Valmont, the ONLY Colin Firth", she thought. She took a good look at him. He was tall. He was gorgeous. He was . . . shaking his foot! - Oh my, forgive me . . . I'm soo sorry . . . I didn't know . . . for a momment I thought you were someone else - she knew her face was turning red. - Understandably. I was visiting the FOF set, and it looked like you could use some help - he explained. - Oh - she cleared her throat - yes, thank you. Are you alright? Con I get you a . . . a . . . a cup of coffee? - - Coffee would be nice, yes. As long as you don't talk about your writing - he smiled. The two of them laughed. By the time they got to Starbucks he was no longer limping. I forgot to mention that MA's name appears prominently in the credits for *The New Interrogator Workshop* and its companion shows. Mistral Manor: Shaking off the gloom she decided to have another go with her trusty little tool. She braced herself and took a swing, a satisfying crack telling her she’d done some damage. She took careful aim and struck the door again. And again. This felt good. She repositioned her back foot and commenced another onslaught. At the same time the door was flung back on its hinges. Framed by the doorway stood the figure of Arthur Sydney Patrick Mistral, his face as hard as the stone lining the walls to the basement of the manor house. She shrieked. Caught off guard by the suddenness of the door being thrown back she couldn’t help herself. The sound escaped her throat before she was even aware of it. Next, she propelled herself forward and caught Mistral around the waist panting frantically and clinging to him like a scared child, which was about how she felt. His features had softened at the sight of her and he put his arms around her shoulders. Stroking her back he began to murmur quiet reassurance in her ear. Having returned from the business concerns to which he had attended that afternoon, he had not been alarmed when she did not immediately appear. As time passed and a cursory search of the house did not reveal her presence he had begun to grow concerned. Methodically he undertook a thorough search of the interior, the turn of the weather making that seem her most likely location. Painstakingly he’d gone room by room, checking all the small passages and cubby holes that the house possessed. His expression had grown more set as he proceeded, focusing on his task. When he’d heard the reverberation of the pickax striking wood he swiftly altered his course to that area of the house. It was not then long before he found the correct door and flung it aside. When he’d wrenched it open and had his prayers answered his heart leapt. In the fraction of time between her scream and her headlong rush into his embrace he’d been paralyzed with the thought that his appearance had frightened her. His blood had gone from that icy fear to warm thrumming through his body as she clung to him, her breath ragged with the fear that he was quieting, not inciting. He slowly lowered himself onto the floor with his back against the wall, cradling her in his arms and filling her ears with soothing Welsh cadences. Finally, when she was calm, she told him what had happened. She felt so utterly safe ensconced in his arms that she was loathe to move. But the floor was hard and uncomfortable for them both. Recalling the monstrosity in the basement that had precipitated her initial attempt at departure, she pulled back, looked him in the eye and challenged, “What is that horrific looking contraption down there anyway?” He rocked back on his heels, his face having reverted to the set expression he’d first worn when he found her. “That was father’s laboratory.” He replied tonelessly. She shuddered and he continued, “It’s not as bad as it sounds, or looks, I expect. He dabbled in home viviculture and the tools of that pastime are down there.” He stood up and reached his hand down to assist her to her feet. “Come now. Lets go have a look at what gave you such a fright.” She took his hand and stood up but hesitated as he turned to proceed into what had recently been her prison. “Oh, that’s alright. I don’t need to see it again.” He smiled at her but stepped around and propelled her toward the stairs. “It’s fine. I’ll be with you.” He reached around the corner and must’ve flipped a switch as light came flooding up from the basement. He shrugged at her look of incredulity. “The house has a few tricks you know.” He led the way and she followed, still reluctant but determined to face down the evil mechanism, whatever it turned out to be. In the harsh light that now bathed the remains of the basement wine making operation everything looked far more benign. Benign and dirty. The place was filthy and looked as though it hadn’t been touched for years. She said as much, to which he replied, “It hasn’t. This was father’s. I never come here and neither does anyone else.” Apparently the monstrous devise was a home-made press used for extracting the juice from whatever fruit was to be made into wine. Although she inspected it carefully she did not touch it. Perhaps benign was to kind a term for the space. Without warning she sat down on one of the crates lining the room and began to laugh. And laugh. Whether from the release of the built up tension or the ridiculous predicament in which she’d found herself she couldn’t say. Neither could she stop. Finally through gasps of breath which came between the howls of mirth, she sputtered out, “The ..New …Interrogator …Workshop….” Mistral had taken up position on a large nearby crate waiting for the gales to subside. “The what?” He asked, not comprehending her at all. Quieting herself further she continued, “The New Interrogator Workshop! That’s what this place looks like.” Clearly taken with this line of thought she went on, “Think of the episodes, *How to Refurbish Your Iron Maiden* , or *The Proper Care and Lubrication of Wall Chains*.” She was in danger of succumbing to the laughter again. “Or maybe another show entirely. How about *Great European Dungeons* hosted by Mr. I?” He looked at her utterly straight faced which made the whole thing that much funnier. “I’m sorry,” he replied earnestly, “I simply couldn’t do that.” He paused a beat, and could see uncertainty flicker in her eyes, “I’m committed to do *This Old Torture Chamber*. They want my take on the old adage *measure twice and cut once* and it would be a conflict of interest if I….” He was interrupted by Cindie flying over to where he sat and thumping him on the chest. “Oh you…” Laughing, he gathered her up in his arms as she continued, “and I thought I’d mortally offended you. Or worse, you simply didn’t think it was funny.” “I’ve never been accused of not having a sense of humour.” He stroked her hair, “I have been accused of having a perverse sense of humour.” She looked up into his eyes, “No wonder I like you so much.” They shared a smile and another hug. “You do have a perverse sense of humour you know.” “Me? Who started all this, then?” The smile remained in his eyes even as his voice turned serious, “I’m glad I found you before you had to tear the place down.” Concern replaced amusement in his eyes, “Were you very scared?” “Yes. I didn’t think anyone could hear me. I did scream, but I suppose you weren’t near enough to hear me then. And I didn’t think you’d have any idea where I’d be….” Her voice trailed off as she relived the terror she had felt. Despite the fact that the basement’s contents were explained she did not care for the feel of this place and nestled closer to Patrick. He smoothed her hair again. “Well, I found you. And I would’ve found you no matter where you were.” His voice held an utter certainty. Inclining his head toward the pickaxe that he had returned to the workbench, he added, “but it looks as though you would’ve gotten out anyway.” “I don’t know,” was her soft reply. “I’m glad you found me too.” He pulled her very close and held her. He sensed rather than heard her heartbeat settle back into its normal rhythm. Truth be told he didn’t much care for this place himself and would’ve wished to hold her to him in a very different setting. Somebody had better send the paramedics over to Renie's house! *giggle* Just had this mental picture of him as one of those Hindu statues. You know, the ones with six or eight arms! ***reality check***last time I looked, he only had two hands, ladies... LOL! Sounds like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof: "On the other hand . . ." now I lost count of how many other h*nds I posted. But let me tell you about my writing . . . (On the other h*nd, I could play the piano for Mr. I, but not even he deserves that!) Mr. I, Cindie sat on the stairs holding her knees and rocking back and forth. She began to give herself a pep talk. She was a resourceful and intelligent woman. She would think of something. If she didn’t, at some point she would be missed and a search undertaken. This would occur before anything ate her. There wasn’t anything down here large enough to eat her. She wished she was better at giving pep talks and decided to take a course on persuasive speaking when she got out of this mess. Delaford. Brandon’s chambers. In the darkness, Mary Anne lies rigidly awake, thinking. She is consumed with a restlessness that is almost painful, but she lies still, not wishing to disturb Brandon. Her ankle aches, but that is the least of her troubles; far worse is her anxiety, like a third presence in the room, a spectre come to haunt her with the prospect of the days ahead. To be summoned to the Palace to tell that story again, before the eyes of the world . . . And HE will be there. She shudders from head to foot. "Mary Anne." She gives a little start of surprise. "Christopher—I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you." "I was not asleep." Brandon moves nearer, and Mary Anne relaxes a little in the pool of heat that emanates from his body, but her fear does not leave her. It watches and mocks them both. "My dearest, are you cold?" His arms about her, drawing her near. "I’m afraid, sir." "I know. But we have no choice." "It isn’t even—" Mary Anne swallows. "I know I said all those things about not wanting to talk of this in front of everybody, but . . . more than anything, I’m really just afraid of The Interrogator. Of seeing HIM again." "Perhaps that will not be necessary. The Empress may choose to keep HIM in confinement during the hearing, for HIS own safety as well as yours." "Perhaps, but from what I’ve seen of her, and what you’ve told me, The Empress knows that the accused has a right to face his accusers. If it’s like that—" Mary Anne presses in closer to Brandon, taking what comfort she can from his warmth, his strength, his intelligent and constant love. That comfort is indeed considerable, and enables her to go on. "I just hate the idea of having to tell it all again, with HIM looking at me, and I know just the look it will be, too. That little smile—but it isn’t a real smile—that look at me as if I were a plaything, a possession of HIS, even though—" "Even though you are not," interjects Brandon, his arms encircling her with, perhaps, a bit more force than is usual or necessary. She does not object. "Even though I am not, but that’s what HE wants." A choked little sob. "Christopher, sometimes I think he could drive me mad without even touching me. Just with looking, like that." Her voice rises in protest. "And why ME?" The eternal cry of outrage. Brandon has no answer nor even a pretense of one, and he simply holds Mary Anne in his arms, touching her, offering low, wordless sounds of comfort until he feels her grow calmer and sink against him. "Not," Mary Anne continues, "that I’d wish him on anyone else, you understand." The bite of irony in her voice. "But I cannot understand why he pursues me so." "Can you not?" "What is that supposed to mean!" But there is little heat in Mary Anne’s exclamation; she knows better than to think Brandon would try to hurt her. That quiet voice beside her, in the dark. "Has not The Interrogator himself given you an explanation?" Mary Anne thinks. "HE . . . has," she finally replies. "Several different ones. That I remind him of Renie; now that, I do not understand. Renie and I look so different—" "I do not believe HIS concern is for your appearance." Mary Anne remains silent on that point. It has occurred to her that most men would not care for a discussion on such a topic, but if Brandon is disturbed by it, he gives no indication. Fortunate, perhaps, that his expression cannot be seen in the dark. And just as well that Brandon does not know some of the remarks that The Interrogator has addressed to her about her appearance. You are so beautiful . . . She pushes the memories away, and listens to Brandon. Only to Brandon. "Mary Anne, hear me. I have been a soldier, and I can tell you that a man in a position of power, especially a corrupt man, has little trouble in procuring whatever he wishes to have. You are beautiful, yes—" Mary Anne smiles in the dark, a little thrill coursing through her. She has not had time to grow jaded; Brandon’s admiration of her beauty is still a source of great pleasure for her. "—but women merely beautiful will not answer, for HIM. If they could, be certain that HE would have them in plenty." And does, when HE cares to, thinks Mary Anne, trying to repress another shiver. "What else, then?" she demands. "Not compatibility, I hope—that wouldn’t reflect well on me, now, would it? Nor on Renie, for that matter." "What you are forgetting, my dearest, is that you and Renie are good women." She cannot see Brandon’s face, but can feel his smile. "You think that HE wants . . . goodness?" "HE wants to destroy it, or else to claim it, make it HIS own in some manner—but no man can possess another’s goodness . . ." "Can’t he?" Bitterly. "Try again, sir! HE did possess whatever goodness I have, and I experienced HIS evil!" "My point, exactly. HE knew another’s goodness, briefly, but could not keep it for HIS own. And to try and grasp it by force . . . HE would only destroy the prize HE sought. Keep that before you, Mary Anne: HE is doomed to fail." This last is uttered with such force that Mary Anne cannot help seeing it for wishful thinking: a desire and not a certainty. It seems a strange view of their terrible nemesis—a view tinged with all of the nobility of Brandon’s character. To attribute a man’s crimes to some pursuit of ethics and virtue, by way of another person . . . but perhaps it is not so far-fetched as all of that. Had not her own marriage vows with Brandon spoken of the "help, comfort, and mutual society that the one ought to have of the other"? Is it not one of the functions of deepest love, to help another along the path? Mary Anne smiles a little. Of one thing she is certain: Brandon has distracted her neatly from her anxiety. "Sir, is this all some roundabout way of telling me that I am good? You could just come right out with it and pay me a compliment on my virtue, without all this . . ." A playful poke. "Minx." The poke is promptly though gently returned, and Mary Anne twists away, giggling, or tries to—Brandon has her wrapped in his arms. "You force me to re-think my opinion of your virtue, when you behave like this." "Like what, sir?" Sweetly, as she gives a sinuous little stretch in his arms, grinning at the shiver that passes through his body, a shiver that has nothing to do with fear. "Like this," he breathes, leaning nearer still until his lips find her throat, and Mary Anne abandons herself to another form of Brandon’s . . . reassurance . . . Pity, I have so few diversions at present. OH GOOD GRIEF!!!!! Listen. I can explain; I promise. Under the stimulus of an extremely stressful work week, Evil Mary Anne was accidentally released from her confinement and has been wreaking havoc--and now she's getting me into trouble AGAIN, as is her wont. It must have been she who has posted all of these provoking messages. All right, you. BACK INTO YOUR CAGE!!! (SFX: Snarling, screeching reminiscent of a great cat, sounds of a body being dragged about by the hair, repeated whipcracks, SLAM of steel door) Whew. That's more like it. Errrr, ummmmm . . . Mister I, believe me when I say I am desolated that she has troubled you, and I do beg your pardon; she won't be disturbing you again. MA, I see your thoughts keep returning to me. That is to be expected. Cindie began to try to pry the tool, which now seemed large and cumbersome, from the sturdy door. Gripping and pulling she struggled with the handle. The point of her chosen weapon seemed very happily lodged in the disgustingly sturdy oak. Finally, between bouts of cajoling and swearing at the pickaxe it came loose with a suddenness that caught her off balance. With a wuff she was propelled backwards, axe flying through the air and over the side of the steps. As she was propelled backwards by the force of her own exertions she managed to throw herself back against the stone wall. Grabbing backhanded at whatever purchase was there she stopped her decent in a manner that was no way elegant but effective enough. One of her legs was scraped from the slide down the steps and upon surveying the damage she discovered some torn nails. Aside of the abrasions she was fine. She sat down on the steps to regroup for a moment. Feeling stupid and angry and scared she sidled back down to the dank hole to retrieve her pickaxe. At this point she couldn’t think of anything else to try. She’d heard it clatter as it hit the floor and skidded. Naturally it had ended up very near the nasty looking monstrosity which in her mind had set off the entire chain of events. Keeping her eyes on the looming shadow she felt for the tool with her foot and retrieved it without taking her eyes off of the demon contraption. Logic that it was only wood and metal and couldn’t hurt her had no place in her thoughts now. Backing up from it she went back up the stairs again. Her ascent was slow and careful. When she reached the top she felt for the damage she was sure her blow to the door must’ve left behind. She found it. A little indentation of perhaps a half a centimeter. Stifling another round of weeping she struck again. Either she hadn’t braced herself or the pickaxe took an odd turn in her hand but it skidded off the hardwood in a blow which was not only ineffectual, but almost sent her sailing off the stairs. She couldn’t help it. The tears came again. Interrogator--do I want to see you "shiver," you ask? On second thought, no. I believe "shake in your boots" would be the proper phrase. With anticipation perhaps? MA -- Do you want to see me shiver? Ohhhhh, Cindie...you've got me hiding my face behind my hands now! I've never been good with scary movies! It seems like Mistral needs to do some spring cleaning-there is a torture exhibit at the tower of London that could use the "contraption"-I asked the tower guide if the implements of torture had ever been used, and he laughed and said, "no they were just for"show"."I just looked at him and said "right". You think so, do you, Interrogator? You might shiver a bit before I'm done with you. Judging from the cobwebs, no one had been down here for some time. There were rough hewn work benches with an assortment of abandoned implements on them. There were odd looking contraptions and wooden cases along the walls. She realized the floor sloped subtly towards what appeared to be a drain in the center of the stone floor. She continued to work her way forward dodging odds and ends and looking out for anything scuttling. Suddenly looming up ahead of her was a large …mechanism. It was too big to get a look at the whole thing at once so she started at one end and tried to piece together what it was. It was old. It was made of wood. It had a large opening at the top and levers of some sort. It looked like it was made to squish things. Very finely. Circling around the monstrosity as if it were an adversary she tried to imagine its purpose. Screwing up her courage she approached closer. As she stood on tiptoes and peered over the top edge she saw where there were dark stains which dripped down the side of the …thing. She screamed and dropped the torch. “Bloody hell.” Picking up the flashlight which had gone dark when she dropped it, Cindie clicked it on. Nothing. Panic began to well up again as she shook it and clicked madly. Absolutely nothing. Not willing to let go of the feel of something solid in her hand she kept a hold of the useless torch and began to make her way back to the stairs. She found them the hard way and, pausing to rub at her big toe, proceeded back up the way she had come. Now the stone wall felt clammy to the touch as she worked her way up the irregular steps. Holding the flashlight out in front of her she came to the top of the stairs. It thudded as it struck the wooden door. Had she closed the door behind her? It was closed now. Groping for a handle, she located it and turned. Locked. She pushed, she pulled, she cajoled, she pounded. After a time, she decided to try to find another way out. That was after screaming didn’t work. Proceeding down stairs she fumbled her way around, her eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the gloom created by the narrow windows high above her. She wrestled a work bench directly under one of the windows and began to stack crates. She was able to cobble together enough crates that if she stood on tiptoes she could just peer out over the ledge of one of the windows. The glass was thick and there was no way to open them that she could see. She pounded and screamed some more, seeing nothing or no one to help. In the end she had sore knuckles and a sore throat. Repeating her efforts she tried another side of the dank limbo. The same results were achieved. After several more attempts she finally sat down on one of the crates, as far from the eldritch monstrosity as possible. With her exertions trying to find a way out she hadn’t felt the chill. She felt it now. She was bruised and alone, and was growing cold. She sobbed for awhile until her body finally began to still. Some sense of self preservation stopping the wracking cries which drained her strength. She thought of using one of the tools available to rend the door. It was thick but if she kept at it long enough eventually she’d get through. All she had to do was make hole just big enough to get her hand through to the handle on the other side…. Yes, that was better. At least there was something she could do to get herself out of this mess. Berating herself for wasting so much time she began to rummage through the contents on top of one of the work tables feeling and straining her eyes for a suitable instrument for her task. Laying her hands on a likely prospect she hefted it in her hands. It appeared to be a small pickaxe. With what was hopefully the means of liberation in her hands she negotiated her way back up the stairs to the thick wooden door. She braced herself and struck the first blow. Her aim was true and the pickaxe struck its mark. And stuck. Thank you Magda, for Plutarch! And Mr. I, you really don't want to hear about my writing, noooo. Trust me on this. MA -- Are you coming to see me soon? I know I could make you ...quiver. Suzanne, the new sound clip is most . . . appropriate. The dearth of towers notwithstanding, the house that she had begun to think of as *Mistral Manor* was quite a stunner. Feeling a bit like Nancy Drew she’d taken the torch and, after walking around the outside of the house, had ventured indoors to begin her explorations. The walk outside had been pleasant, but despite the sunshine of the morning, the afternoon had brought drizzles which turned quickly into an earnest downpour. Any plans to venture further onto the property would have to wait for another opportunity. Now, she wandered through the house, up and down staircases and peering into room after room. Many of the rooms were furnished. Some looked as though they ought to be a display in a museum. The walls of some of the sections held tapestries and paintings. One of the bedrooms, in what seemed to be an older section of the house, contained a chair of an odd construction which she was sure must be very rare. Entering another bedroom in this section Cindie discovered a vast wardrobe at one end of the room. There were no lamps or overhead lights so she opened the drapes to let in what light was available. Turning her attention to the wardrobe she opened the doors to reveal a collection of gowns. They appeared to have been cared for and preserved by someone as they were in excellent condition. A perusal of the dresser revealed more vintage clothing. She tried to fix the location of the room in her mind and referenced the view out the window . It would be nice come back later and perhaps try on some of the things if Patrick had no objections. Her explorations took her all over the rambling structure and she spent several hours meandering through rooms and down hallways. She had all but decided to go back and shower and change for dinner when she happened upon a door in what she thought must be the original part of the house. The stone work was rougher here and the walls just felt …old. Opening the door she found a set of steps which led down. Feeling for a light switch she began to descend the stairs. There didn’t seem to be a switch so she turned the flashlight on to negotiate the way down. The stairs were stone and seemed to be carved out of the bedrock. They were narrow and the tread height varied which made the going slow. The right side was open to the ground and there were no handrails. Hugging the wall to her left she descended the uneven steps for what seemed an interminably long time. When she reached the bottom she saw a pull cord. Yanking it gingerly she was rewarded with a bright flash and then darkness as the light bulb chose that moment to burn out. With the beam of the flashlight she proceeded to check the ceiling for more lights. That search was unsuccessful. There were fixtures but she could find no way to turn them on. There were windows in the cavernous basement, but they were so narrow and the room so deep that they were too high to let in any light to do any good. There were slices of less dark but these showed only the dust swirling around high above her. Torch in hand, she proceeded to explore the underbelly of Mistral Manor.
Cindie
- Tuesday, May 29, 2001 at 17:03:31 (PDT)
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
email me if you need me to answer any other questions!, - Tuesday, May 29, 2001 at 14:26:03 (PDT)
Miranda
- Tuesday, May 29, 2001 at 13:49:14 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Tuesday, May 29, 2001 at 08:18:19 (PDT)
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
I have the day off today since it's memorial day. And then I have only 2 1/2 days left of school which means I will be posting ALOT! Summer better hurry up! Oh and I've noticed something my storied are so teenager something you guys probably dont want at all any complaints? I love when people tell me about something I should change in my stories., - Monday, May 28, 2001 at 09:43:45 (PDT)
Cindie
Maybe Cindie and Mistral will run into Clinton on the return trip. ;-), - Monday, May 28, 2001 at 04:26:10 (PDT)
MA
All set for tea--with Therese? Or . . . , - Sunday, May 27, 2001 at 19:13:48 (PDT)
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Sunday, May 27, 2001 at 18:02:39 (PDT)
Cindie
Don't worry too much Miranda, you're not the first person to italisize the guest book., - Sunday, May 27, 2001 at 08:43:47 (PDT)
Aside from the fine print, that's it.
D.o.C.
Miranda
- Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 17:57:38 (PDT)
Miranda
- Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 16:31:42 (PDT)
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
Me again just cant help myself. But if I do that one more time I'm going to do something really bad!!, - Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 16:29:10 (PDT)
D.o.C.
Miranda
- Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 15:54:21 (PDT)
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
OK I JUST HAVE AGAIN SAY IM SORRY!!!!!!, - Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 15:51:19 (PDT)
D.o.C.
Miranda
- Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 15:06:41 (PDT)
Miranda
IM stiil waiting for Vanessa's thing! She'll never finish!, - Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 15:05:11 (PDT)
Cindie
- Saturday, May 26, 2001 at 05:51:09 (PDT)
MA
But we may be doing Mistral a wrong; surely he does still know how to blush . . . ? ;-), - Friday, May 25, 2001 at 19:47:59 (PDT)
Cindie <cynthiagreen@ameritech.net>
Barbara, Would you please e-mail me? I have a question about Phil. Thanks!, - Friday, May 25, 2001 at 15:36:07 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Cindie... *goodness*!, - Friday, May 25, 2001 at 09:54:13 (PDT)
Cindie
Therese, I would definitely say!, - Thursday, May 24, 2001 at 15:02:06 (PDT)
MA
Now, if Miss M were to walk in as well . . . *gulp*, - Thursday, May 24, 2001 at 05:02:29 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer <I think they have a stuffed one at Madame Tussauds>
just kidding., - Wednesday, May 23, 2001 at 23:49:42 (PDT)
Therese
Uh, quite the disparity between Mistral and HIM, wouldn't you say?
“I’m surprised you noticed.”
“I was distracted - briefly. Time to get down to business.”
“I don’t want to talk to you any more.”
“That’s not very friendly, when we’ve been so… intimate.”
Rupert gave a little cough, and she turned briefly away from the screen to scowl at him, and turn uncontrollably red, again.
“What can I say, I’m a perfectionist… and your emotions amuse me. Its time to regain control.” And at that second the screen turned to snow, and a loud chhhhhhhh of static filled the air.
Claudia
ready and waiting to be used - ahem, - Wednesday, May 23, 2001 at 00:16:41 (PDT)
Per me si va nell’ etterno dolore,
Per me si va tra la perduta gente . . .
MA--seemed a good time to bring HIM back in, as Cindie said Mistral was available . . .
But oh dear! It seems that one of me is in trouble again!! =8-O, - Tuesday, May 22, 2001 at 20:01:55 (PDT)
La Belle Dame Sans Merci (aka Evil MA)
*click* *click* of stiletto heels, nearer and nearer . . ., - Tuesday, May 22, 2001 at 17:53:23 (PDT)
I
Although I would prefer to meet HER under slightly altered circumstances., - Tuesday, May 22, 2001 at 09:57:25 (PDT)
Miranda
eyes still puffy from crying last night! *WAH*, - Tuesday, May 22, 2001 at 04:37:46 (PDT)
MA (who has certainly been close enough to tell)
Cindie, you win the award for best use of a tea towel in a post. ;-D, - Monday, May 21, 2001 at 19:16:13 (PDT)
Cindie
With Mistral, not Mistral. Everybody clear?, - Monday, May 21, 2001 at 17:28:35 (PDT)
Cindie
Rupert, is someone watching HIM?, - Monday, May 21, 2001 at 08:27:12 (PDT)
Hurt, he eventually got up and walked off.
Chris <why1040@aol.com>
It's another long one! For those of you who were around when I first started, I did promise Hamlet in the water :::grin:::, - Monday, May 21, 2001 at 08:24:43 (PDT)
The Interrogator
I've been told by some that I'm "rather handsome . . ." , - Sunday, May 20, 2001 at 19:33:55 (PDT)
Cindie
*gulp* Others are just plain scarey., - Sunday, May 20, 2001 at 16:30:09 (PDT)
The Interrogator
- Sunday, May 20, 2001 at 09:08:00 (PDT)
Cindie
Good to know the Colonel is so dutiful, - Sunday, May 20, 2001 at 08:15:34 (PDT)
MA--careful with those black nightgowns, Cindie; they've been known to have certain, um, effects. ;-)
"Try the bed though. It is very comfortable . . . I'm told." *tssssstt* Steeeeeeam heeeeat!!, - Saturday, May 19, 2001 at 18:58:25 (PDT)
Cindie
- Saturday, May 19, 2001 at 16:19:13 (PDT)
Cindie
Fell asleep?! As if....., - Friday, May 18, 2001 at 17:27:26 (PDT)
Miranda
- Thursday, May 17, 2001 at 13:39:49 (PDT)
Cindie
Splashing around up to my neck now! , - Thursday, May 17, 2001 at 11:49:54 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
I feel so at home!, - Thursday, May 17, 2001 at 06:47:52 (PDT)
Cindie
- Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 17:09:33 (PDT)
Cindie
- Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 17:03:33 (PDT)
Did you forget your V-8?
D.o.C.
Sandy
Barbara, love the new wallpaper - very pretty!, - Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 14:33:23 (PDT)
Miranda
Oh I love this!!, - Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 13:05:04 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
wainscotting is just panelling in disguise ;), - Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 12:59:52 (PDT)
Sandy
- Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 11:46:31 (PDT)
Therese
wow, lot's of action on here--great to see!, - Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 10:30:34 (PDT)
Miranda
Yikes!!, - Wednesday, May 16, 2001 at 08:43:13 (PDT)
MA--"something more constructive." I hope. ;-)
So, Therese, does Dev still have the heebie-jeebies, or has he settled down a bit? *grin*, - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 20:05:14 (PDT)
Miranda
me again!!, - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 15:19:43 (PDT)
Sandy quickly introduced the three girls, and explained how they'd joined her and Alex for lunch. Suddenly a little black dog wormed his way up to Chris between the myriad of legs under the table. "Ollie! I didn't know your mom had brought you in today, or I'd have stopped by her cube earlier! How are you, you little rascal?" With that, she got down to doggie-level and started scratching the little poodle, finding an itchy spot. He stared at her adoringly and gave her a quick lick on the nose.
"You are silly," Sandy answered quickly. "You asked, so of course she's going to say you!"
"That's right," Metatron added. "Never ask the obvious question, especially when you're outnumbered by women!"
"There's nothing wrong with it as such, I just don't feel very hungry," Chris responded as she took a bit of the offending meal. "Are you sure you're not concussed? That bump looks pretty nasty," Alex asked concerned.
Chris <why1040@aol.com>
Well...Sandy did leave this rather luscious opening for me...:::grin:::, - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 14:43:50 (PDT)
I'm sure "the voice of God" forgives you.
D.o.C.
Miranda
OHMYGOSH!!, - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 14:40:35 (PDT)
Miranda
oops i accidently pressed the submit button when I wasnt done! OI VAYE!!!, - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 14:28:34 (PDT)
Miranda
I'm still waiting Vanessa..., - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 14:16:09 (PDT)
Sandy
"Bubble, bubble, boil and trouble, get this pop-up ad out on the double!" My apologies for mangling Mr. Shakespeare...., - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 13:09:01 (PDT)
I
- Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 10:02:57 (PDT)
Chris <why1040@aol.com>
Another long one...sorry to any of you who don't like this one, but I'm on a roll!, - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 08:25:05 (PDT)
MA--sorry, folks, but I couldn't resist!
Told you I'd find something for HIM to do. (I'll try and post something more, um, constructive this evening . . .), - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 05:43:47 (PDT)
Miranda
Its not exactly my story but..., - Tuesday, May 15, 2001 at 05:10:24 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
MA don't know _how_ I duplicated that... eeep!, - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 15:29:40 (PDT)
Miranda
- Monday, May 14, 2001 at 13:42:37 (PDT)
Sandy - Cindie, that was wonderful! Never apolgize for the length.
Oooo - fedoras, huh? Oliver's been looking for a new Frisbee to play with *evil grin*, - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 13:39:47 (PDT)
MA--still fanning over that last bit with Mistral. ACCCKKKK!!!! *flap flap flap of fan*
Sorry to be away so much; bad case of Real Life lately . . ., - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 07:51:41 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Monday, May 14, 2001 at 07:29:48 (PDT)
Cindie
I suppose HE would say she should be treated with firm kindness..., - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 05:52:56 (PDT)
D.o.C.
Jutta
the result of fast-typing at work, - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 04:46:34 (PDT)
The doctor had said he should give her time and not continue his *watchdog behaviour*. He frowned at the expression. He hadn't been like a watchdog, he reassured himself sulkily, just carefully observing. And he would continue to do so, Mary Anne certainly needed being watched over. Not only by the doctor who didn't see her nearly as often as he did, but by someone who knew her before her sad downward spiral into addiction.
And she couldn't control it. Even when it caused problems. He had been angry with her, had observed her and STILL she couldn’t stop. She had been told by the doctor and couldn't stop. Typical.
He thought of her attempts to hide her consumption of chocolate, cakes and sweets. She had always been ironic and nonchalant about it, but then she was a brilliant actress. She had made it seem as if she was just teasing him with trying to sneak in a bar of chocolate here or a piece of cake there, but now he was sure that beneath it all was utter despair.
True, she had lots of friends, but she hadn't been really herself since Renie left. And she didn't have a boyfriend or husband. She went home to a dark, cold and lonely apartment every night.
And third - couple her with Brandon. The two seemed to be getting on well and Brandon was just the man to take Mary Anne and make her a secure and happy woman.
Jutta
belief in authority, selective memory, half knowledge and predjudice...make a funny mix!, - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 04:42:37 (PDT)
“Motion: to save the Earth and therefore fight the Sh’rin. For-171 votes exactly. Against-29 votes exactly. Abstentions-None, none allowed. Motion carried with 85.5 % majority. Motion therefore carried legally. An announcement will be made to the populace.”
Chris <why1040>
OK, so mine is a bit long as well..., - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 04:36:37 (PDT)
Chris
melting quietly in my seat, - Monday, May 14, 2001 at 01:57:24 (PDT)
MA--out cold!!!!!
(Only temporary; don't tell The Director . . .), - Sunday, May 13, 2001 at 20:14:29 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Sunday, May 13, 2001 at 19:39:52 (PDT)
Cindie
I know its long. What can I say, I couldn't stop.
More internal homaging.
Glad Jutta is around., - Sunday, May 13, 2001 at 17:46:05 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Sunday, May 13, 2001 at 00:44:23 (PDT)
Chris
Enjoying the sunshine for once!, - Saturday, May 12, 2001 at 01:59:05 (PDT)
“Yessss.” Her own voice answering HIM. She frowned further, and looked at Rupert. “What?”
Claudia
I hope you can all remember the story line - sorry I'm posting so infrequently!, - Friday, May 11, 2001 at 21:52:25 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Bold, eh?, - Friday, May 11, 2001 at 18:02:44 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Friday, May 11, 2001 at 14:11:40 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
RA, do you think a pale peach would do?, - Friday, May 11, 2001 at 10:49:07 (PDT)
Sandy
- Friday, May 11, 2001 at 06:18:49 (PDT)
Chris
Well...I did sound a bit of a diva, didn't I...giggle, - Friday, May 11, 2001 at 02:33:18 (PDT)
Cindie
Who's been trying to be patient with these pop-up things but is now getting ready to snap. Web rage?, - Thursday, May 10, 2001 at 18:16:06 (PDT)
Cindie
Yipppeeeeee!!!!! Therese is back! :-D
The FOF set is hopping! , - Thursday, May 10, 2001 at 18:12:49 (PDT)
Fausta <faustaw@yahoo.com>
you can tell this IS fiction!, - Thursday, May 10, 2001 at 17:38:12 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
I don't think the Director's seen this room..., - Thursday, May 10, 2001 at 08:28:15 (PDT)
"Whenever someone remarks on having an appointment with you, there's a smile on their face and a general feeling of envy by everyone else. You seem to be a much-wanted woman."
Jutta
de-lurking for a moment: Therese, I'm happy to see you're back!, - Thursday, May 10, 2001 at 08:27:57 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
This is half-test, half-story..., - Thursday, May 10, 2001 at 08:09:11 (PDT)
Therese
Is there a statute of limitation on FOF??, - Thursday, May 10, 2001 at 08:02:11 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, May 09, 2001 at 16:53:10 (PDT)
Miranda
I JUST DONT KNOW!!!, - Wednesday, May 09, 2001 at 13:53:38 (PDT)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Joining the crew!, - Wednesday, May 09, 2001 at 12:27:56 (PDT)
Chris
Felt like lightening the mood a little-goofiness rules!, - Wednesday, May 09, 2001 at 05:56:39 (PDT)
Chris <why1040@aol.com>
Well...I did promise two parts!, - Wednesday, May 09, 2001 at 02:04:42 (PDT)
Enwrought with gold and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light . . ."
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."
MA
"He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven." By Dev's fellow Irishman, William Butler Yeats, - Tuesday, May 08, 2001 at 20:24:57 (PDT)
Cindie
- Tuesday, May 08, 2001 at 18:23:12 (PDT)
Chris
Nipping in at work again...this is part one of two, both of which are written! But it was so verrrrrrry long!, - Tuesday, May 08, 2001 at 08:07:04 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, May 07, 2001 at 13:40:31 (PDT)
Thank you, Mr. I. The Department of Corrections always appreciates your, um... assistance.
D.o.C.
I
Assisting the DoC., - Monday, May 07, 2001 at 06:11:00 (PDT)
Fausta
- Monday, May 07, 2001 at 06:03:57 (PDT)
Fausta
reality: what a concept! Especially for the polytheistic . . . , - Monday, May 07, 2001 at 06:02:36 (PDT)
Cindie
- Monday, May 07, 2001 at 05:36:18 (PDT)
Cindie
Right on the first guess MA!
Just glad Cindie didn't encounter any spiders., - Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 18:26:14 (PDT)
Cindie
- Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 16:45:14 (PDT)
MA
I can just hear it: "I am become Rickman, the shatterer of hearts . . ." ;-), - Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 16:41:38 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 14:20:38 (PDT)
MA--relieved to have escaped so lightly
From HIM, I mean, Fausta--not you! ;-), - Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 13:35:30 (PDT)
(secret door screeches open, and a h*nd reaches out, muffles Fausta's voice & drags her out of the scene. The audience is left to speculate as to who did this, but are grateful not to have to hear her yammer on about her writing)
Fausta
now I'm going, - Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 10:34:40 (PDT)
Fausta
talking in my sleep??, - Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 10:28:41 (PDT)
If I started yammering about my writing, you'd need the bed for at least 10 continuos hours, as it would throw you into a deep sleep and lord-knows we want you to get your beauty sleep. You might want to hang that nice, freshly-laundered Thomas Pink shirt so it won't wrinkle, though.
(On the other hand, that might be a good strategy for getting people out of trouble . . . hmmm . . . let me tell you about it)
Fausta
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ, - Sunday, May 06, 2001 at 10:26:20 (PDT)
Cindie
MA -- very comforting! (I think you finally silenced HIM. At least for awhile.), - Saturday, May 05, 2001 at 16:00:53 (PDT)
MA--my thanks to Renie and Cindie, for certain points of this discussion.
Mister I, divert yourself with this: " . . . Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of it, defying me, with more than courage--with a stern triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it--the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose . . .And it is you, spirit--with will and energy, and virtue and purity, that I want . . ." (Thanks also to Charlotte Bronte), - Friday, May 04, 2001 at 20:29:41 (PDT)
I
- Friday, May 04, 2001 at 18:27:56 (PDT)
MA--the real one! *gulp*
Edging toward the door . . ., - Friday, May 04, 2001 at 18:16:35 (PDT)
I
Are your eyes glittering for me?
What would Brrrrandon think?, - Friday, May 04, 2001 at 17:33:08 (PDT)
Cindie
- Friday, May 04, 2001 at 17:15:04 (PDT)
MA
Blue eyes glittering brightly . . ., - Friday, May 04, 2001 at 16:55:52 (PDT)
I
- Friday, May 04, 2001 at 08:14:53 (PDT)
The Interrogator
Fausta, but I do want to hear. Sit down next to me on the bed and tell me all about it., - Friday, May 04, 2001 at 05:53:50 (PDT)
Chris
- Friday, May 04, 2001 at 01:42:23 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Thursday, May 03, 2001 at 21:43:03 (PDT)
MA (living dangerously this evening)
Dear HyperMart--Get RID of that silly pop-up page!!!!!!!!!!!, - Thursday, May 03, 2001 at 17:58:01 (PDT)
Cindie
- Thursday, May 03, 2001 at 17:50:28 (PDT)
Fausta
yes, I'm 1 week behind in reading FOF right now. . . , - Thursday, May 03, 2001 at 06:52:38 (PDT)
The Interrogator
- Thursday, May 03, 2001 at 05:56:26 (PDT)
MA
Having an attack of the shivery-quiveries . . ., - Thursday, May 03, 2001 at 05:50:01 (PDT)
Cindie
Claudia, I find the archives *very* inspirational., - Tuesday, May 01, 2001 at 18:30:58 (PDT)
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