Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Thanks Jutta for your post. Yes, I would like to claim the onscreen Snape. then I will write:) Lee
Lee <sundown@myshorelink>com>
- Wednesday, April 30, 2003 at 04:33:22 (PDT)

Police Station
Afternoon of Day Eight of the Investigation
(aka, Meanwhile, back at the ranch.... uh, station....)

"Graff."

Detective Miles Graff glanced up from his paperwork. "Patril?" he asked.

Officer Ivan Patril stood, rather hesitantly, in the doorway to Graff and Silvert's office; the dark-haired young officer frowned slightly. "Silvert here?" Patril asked.

"Yes, but she's talking to Illyan."

"Oh." Patril looked uncertain, so Graff took pity on him.

"Sit?"

"Yeah, thanks." They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, staring at each other, wonderin who was going to start the conversation. Then Graff leaned over his paperwork again.

Patril shifted nervously in his chair. "When will Silvert be back?" he asked.

"Now."

Graff looked up from his report to see his partner hooking the office door shut with her heel. It shut with a click of finality (homage). Detective Ekaterin Silvert eyed Officer Patril with curiosity. She dropped into her chair, threw her feel up on her desk and gave Patril an expectant look of inquiry.

Patril stared back.

Finally... "Well?" Silvert asked.

"Huh?" Patril asked, confusion on his face.

"Silvert is wondering what ill wind blows you up on our shore, Patril," Graff said dryly.

"Database correlation," Patril replied. "Didn't trust this one to the phones or email." Silvert pulled her feet one-two off her desk at his words. Graff leaned eagerly forward. Patril took a deep breath. "There's a matchup between the de Montfort clientele and the --"

The office door flew open. Officer Rutyer, head of Data Analysis, pointed an accusing finger at Graff. "You!" he bellowed. "You bastard! The next time you decide to play a joke on some poor sucker, leave me and my people out of it, damn you!" With that, Rutyer turned around and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Graff and Silvert exchanged looks. Silvert rose to Patril's frown and followed Rutyer from the room. Graff turned back to Patril.

"You were saying, Patril?"

Patril frowned. "There's a database correlation between our two datafields...."

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Yes, back at the ranch....., - Tuesday, April 29, 2003 at 21:07:45 (PDT)

Barbara's Flat
Evening of Day Eight of the Investigation

Barbara got to her flat, shut the door behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. Her eyes travelled the familiar room. Her books, old friends waiting patiently for her, lined the walls. Each title murmured to her of old familiar stories and best-beloved characters. She dropped her briefcase on the floor just inside the doorway and reached out hungrily for her bookcase and the titles therein. She needed their comfort now.

*******************

Barbara glanced up at her clock. The digital display glowed a red 11:30 pm. Damn. She'd read too long -- again. Her stomach chose that moment to give a rumbling cry for attention. Double damn. She'd read through dinner, too. No point in eating now, she supposed; she had to get up in 5 hours anyway.

She folded the corner over on the page she was reading and shoved the book under her pillow. She rolled out of the bed and padded down the hallway to her bath. She readied herself for sleep: five minutes with the toothbrush, one hundred strokes with the hairbrush.

Her eyes looked tired, even to herself, red-rimmed and puffy. Tomorrow was going to be a long day. Longer day. Another long day in a series of ever-lengthening days.

No, she told herself firmly. No thinking. She pulled the book out from beneath the pillow and read more.

Soon, she couldn't keep her eyes open. She reached over to the stand, flicked the light off and shut her eyes.

And dreamed.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Bibliophiles of the world, unite! You have nothing to loose but your place!, - Tuesday, April 29, 2003 at 20:01:51 (PDT)

Dear Lee, please go ahead with your Snapestory. Julie has send me an email a few weeks ago saying that she would "give back" the character for reasons she didn´t explain. So the onscreen Snape is up for grabs!!
Jutta
I still exist, but I´m so busy at the moment... but I will be *back in business* soon!, - Tuesday, April 29, 2003 at 08:16:21 (PDT)

hey, i've just been cruising the web and was tempted to find AR sites... i'm a bit young... my name's Moona but ah, if he had a bigger role in the harry potter movies as Severus Snape, i would probably write a bit o' a story about that... i'm a big Potter fan, and Snape's my fave character... I'll come back later, when i have some inspiration to write something... ;)
Moona <moonaperuna@aol.com>
er..., - Monday, April 28, 2003 at 19:58:05 (PDT)

Off Set - The Museum Affair:

Mistral retained his façade of polite interest and by virtue of a reservoir of patience which had lately been truly tested, was able to remain banal long enough for Jessica to lose interest, at least for the time being, and she left to pursue one of the young artists attending the function. Not being an overly optimistic man he did not delude himself into thinking that he’d seen the last of her for the evening. It was a rarity for him to have regrets, not because his choices had always been wise, but because he was inclined to believe that any consequences received were earned for good or ill. His seduction of that troubled woman was one of his regrets.

He’d encountered her some years ago, just before joining the show. While he’d had girlfriends and was far from virginal he was still unaccustomed to the women by whom he found himself pursued. It was a time when he was just learning the extent of his powers and was eager to put them to the test. It was still flattering when a beautiful rich woman made it clear that he was welcome to exert them over her. In his naiveté he’d thought he was seducing her and in her desire to be wanted she allowed them both to believe it.

After that he learned to gauge his partners better. To spend time only with women who, while enjoying what he had to offer, did not expect or wish for more than he was willing to give. There had never been any lack.

It was inevitable that he would encounter Jessica from time to time and just as inevitable that she would toss out her string in the hopes of reeling him in, not because she truly desired him, but simply to prove that she still could. There was no question of love. It was more a matter of her need to control by being conquered and that was as much thought as Mistral could give to the matter. Whatever daemons drove her they were hers and he was not the one to help her tame them. Husbands and lovers she had aplenty, whatever was lacking in her life he could neither provide nor counsel. He had once gently attempted to steer her to that course without success. He’d even enlisted the aid of one of her friends to no avail. She was in the midst of her third divorce since Mistral first met her and would probably have a few more before she was done. Not one of his finest moments. While he would never encourage her he would also never be less than polite to her.

Once Jessica left for greener pastures he cast his own sensory net. His Cindie Senses told him that contrary to her declaration she hadn’t gone to the ladies’ room but was over at the far end of the room talking with some of the board members. This event had been her idea and despite her protestations that she didn’t know anything about art or publicity she had engineered the involvement of a number of cast members to benefit the local budding talent currently on display. Whether he had the right to be or not he was inordinately proud of her. Just then he wished to be proud of her in closer proximity than across the room but thought he’d best allow her a bit of time. With a shrug he began to mingle, talking with some acquaintances and submitting to the requisite photo-ops all the while keeping track of his partner’s location relative to his own. She dipped out of sight now and then but he always located her. On this last occasion he heard her over by the bar talking to The Director. No wonder he was here tonight in support of this project. The Director was an artist in his own right and had worked in the profession for a time. Mistral believed he’d recently had some of his sketches published.

At one point he became engaged in a rather interesting discussion of violence in neo-surrealist art with a local vicar and lost track of her again. When he scanned the room this time his lotus blossom was nowhere to be seen. He noted that the Director was still in the same place but was now speaking with another prospective guest director. He continued to scan the room and did a double take at the sight of the long cool blonde on Christopher Brandon’s arm. He blinked in momentary astonishment. It was Mary Anne. She’d done it again. Tossed her ‘type’ to the four winds and was all long enticing expanses of leg and arm punctuated by curves more displayed than covered by the figure hugging dress. It appeared vintage but tailored to her frame. It did not escape Mistral that he was not the only one to notice the effect of her ensemble. Mary Anne was turning heads. So she should.

Moving toward Mary Anne and Brandon he didn’t notice Cindie had made to walk towards him, turning a few heads herself, but had stopped when he moved off. About that time Chandos appeared and she began to speak with him. They left the main area so that he could show her some of the items he had donated.

“Mistral!” Mary Anne had seen him approach.

“Mary Anne, Brandon.” He said and nodded at them both in turn. His regard, however, was for the deity before him and he took in every detail from eye make-up to copper-rose toe polish. “Have you just arrived?”

“No,” Brandon replied. “We’ve been looking at some of the exhibits. You don’t think I’d get Mary Anne near a museum and then have her not look at the displays, do you?”

“No, that would be asking her to go too far against type. But,” now he turned toward Mary Anne, “you have done that already it would seem.” He glanced at Brandon and then back at her, “Mary Anne, you look like a Cyprian goddess tonight.”

Cindie
Good grief, three posts in a row. Someone else write something, please!, - Sunday, April 27, 2003 at 17:36:05 (PDT)

And about the virtual party... I wasn't here when FoF first began but I do know it was created for just such events. The GB is more for news and discussion. Speaking for myself, feel free to party here. The characters taken in the story-line and behind the scenes story-line are in Claudia's Who's Who but I think we all know you're just borrowing them for a bit of fun. Just be sure to put them back when you're done. (A little wear and tear is to be expected.) Maybe some of you would like to grab (ahem) someone who's not taken and begin a new thread or weave into an exisisting one? If you do, it is a good idea to lurk for a bit and ask before borrowing someone for a long term thread.

Enjoy your flight.
Cindie
- Saturday, April 26, 2003 at 18:18:48 (PDT)

I was just re-reading Claudia's post and finally caught the Elyot moment. Did Ed's hair flop when he hit the cushions?
Cindie
I'm so depressed... , - Saturday, April 26, 2003 at 18:14:24 (PDT)

Oh Katie watch out Rasputin has been watching that muggle Sex in the City show and has a clipper and wants to be a stylist, ahem yet I think the offers of "hearter shiope" and "Brah-zillion" are not to my liking...,P. "Hey Phil what does he mean?" No I don't think I'll ask your former Misses partner..I will just stick to drawing here with Ed and Pablo.
Janine <janinels@optusnet.com.aufooyfoothingy>
Sorry about the kidnapping of people's characters yet posting here is the "nice" thing to do , - Saturday, April 26, 2003 at 07:36:03 (PDT)

Oh is this a costume party? Now I must go pick up a costume at the last minute. I'll probably end up with a chicken suit myself! I see the dress has come in handy for Dev again. Rasputin! Get your hands off my wine glass! Oh, oh, ohhhh yes, that's a better place for your hands.... But I think I'd rather have Phil style my hair. :)
Katie
- Friday, April 25, 2003 at 23:11:54 (PDT)

Oh thank you Ed. Oh you brought Picasso along. Wow good stuff Pablo, I see Snape is wearing a bulls head... I think he was encouraged by the wench wearing the chicken head. This certainly beats paying for the life models!
Janine To be politically correct yet alone
- Friday, April 25, 2003 at 22:55:16 (PDT)

Darn, I go down to the shops and pick up the drycleaning and miss out on a wild party. Hmm I think I shall shuffle to the corner and whip out the sketch book..Oh your already saved aplace for me . Thank you
janine
- Friday, April 25, 2003 at 22:50:19 (PDT)

Hello, here to read
Lee
- Friday, April 25, 2003 at 11:07:43 (PDT)

She followed the handmaiden, gliding along the corridor, as if being pushed along on invisible wheels. Either that, or she was so relaxed, she couldn’t even feel the impact of her feet on the floor.

They passed the first open door. Anton sat in a large comfy chair. They hadn’t got him out of his suit, or even to loosen his tie. But he was looking down at the heads of two handmaidens with a half smile on his lips. They’d managed to pry away his shoes and socks, and each woman had a foot in their hands, massaging in fragrant oils, slowly getting him to relax by massaging the pressure points on his toes. Claudia wished she had a camera.

The next door revealed the Doctor, seated in a high-backed leather armchair, leaning intently over a chessboard, brow creased in concentration. A handmaiden sat opposite him, cross-legged in her chair, and impish grin on her face as she made her next move. The Doctor nearly leapt out of his seat “Aha!” he yelled, as he quickly picked up a piece and moved it, knocking a black knight out of his path.

They moved on down the corridor, passed closed doors, no hint of what lay beyond them. The next open door, she glimpsed a god. Tall, bare chested. A golden short kilt to match the material in her longer skirt. His hair slicked back and smooth from a recent bath. His beard adorned with fine gold threads. He was pacing the room with a frown on his otherwise noble face.

The handmaiden stopped at this door and bid her go in. Claudia held her breath for a second and crossed the threshold, hovering in the doorway for an invitation inside. The man was preoccupied, and it took him a few minutes before he realised she was there.

He stopped and looked up, his frown deepened and then it was gone. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m no fun today, I’ve a lot on my mind. Please, do come back when my mood has lifted.”

“Not in the mood?” she said. “that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that.”

Ed did a quick double-take, and his mouth fell open. “Claudia! I didn’t recognise you!”

“I nearly didn’t recognise you either. It’s a good look.”

“You too.” He managed to say, before he collapsed on his own heap of cushions.
Claudia
- Thursday, April 24, 2003 at 22:07:17 (PDT)

Dear F of F writers, I humbly ask permission from Julie and Jutta to write something about Snape for a little while. I will await an answer before starting. Thanks, Lee
Lee Carson
- Thursday, April 24, 2003 at 18:03:24 (PDT)

Streets are stained with roses of red. Fires fill the hearts of angry men. A horse carriage of lovers laughing who just wed. A coffin that's captured corruption with red carnations thrown on his chest. The carriage and coffin cross as if playing a game of chess. A game of life and death that will never be the same. Who will be the King? Who will be the Knight? On the street of red and white blood has been shed, lovers have been wed. Witnesses in black and white stand at the side of the road. Who will take his soul? Who will take her hand? When he tells her he no longer loves her? Heaven or Hell waits to sale itself to sinners and to saints. Love can last in Heaven, and heartbreak in Hell, sealed in a coffin of red flowers. Flowers that fall from phantom friends, friends that will forever be standing at the side of her soul, ready to catch her if she lands in a coffin of confusion and heartbreak. There to help her find Heaven when hope was lost in the carriage of lovers who were laughing, but who are now crying. Crying tears of red to find light in a night of so much pain and darkness, pulled by a white horse looking for a street where the roses are white.
Ali
- Tuesday, April 22, 2003 at 18:29:33 (PDT)

The Aston-Martin brakes to a glassy smooth stop and Brandon emerges, glancing about to see whether anyone has noticed his arrival. This is a quiet and private neighborhood with its expensive homes and banks of luxury flats, but it does no harm to exercise a bit of caution. No one out at this time of the evening . . .

Except for Mary Anne, emerging from the covered stairs that lead up to her flat. Seeing Brandon, she stops, smiles, and turns about so that he can get a good look at her gown for the Museum gala.

“Do you like it, Christopher? I got it at that vintage market.”

“I had not seen it before. Very striking.”

Striking, indeed. Her appearance, stepping as she had from the vine-wreathed archway into the evening light, had struck him like a physical blow.

“It didn’t look like much, when I first saw it-“ Mary Anne is beside him now and slips her arm through his as they walk toward the car. “-but once I had taken it to the seamstress and she made it fit me so well--!”

The seamstress had obviously known her business, for the vintage gown of peacock-blue striped with rich gold brocade fits Mary Anne so closely that Brandon finds his eyes roaming over her in some concern as to how she can breathe. If questioned about women’s fashions, Brandon would be likely to respond with a self-deprecating smile and a claim of ignorance, but he knows Mary Anne well enough to know her usual preferences for clothing that flows with her body: the glide of silk, the drape of velvet. Yet she shows not the least discomfort in this gown that, for all its figure-hugging fit, seems to call forth hidden curves rather than accentuate her slenderness.

It is also . . .

At this point, Brandon realizes that his eyes have been lingering a bit too long where they should not. Swallowing, he attends to unlocking the car and helping Mary Anne into the passenger side.

But the thought persists that this thing is far more revealing than any of her usual choices. A high neck, yes, but no sleeves-baring her slim white arms to the shoulder. And the front slit almost to the upper thigh, exposing a considerable and daunting length of leg . . .

”Daunting,” indeed, Brandon snaps at himself as he settles himself in the car and slams the door shut. Of all the nonsense! You know how she enjoys this sort of thing; she simply decided to try something new and different . . .

Yet the uneasy feeling persists-not his own desire for her, for Brandon is well accustomed to that, but the sense of another energy pervading the car, pervading Mary Anne herself. Against the cool silvery-gray upholstery of the Aston, she seems almost to crackle with fire and colour, though she sits quietly enough as Brandon guides the car through the streets-yes, quietly, and that too causes him to cast his surreptitious glances at her. Usually she would be wondering aloud about such an event, who will attend, which old friends they might see after a long absence . . . but this time she is silent, occasionally leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes, revealing that the lids have been brushed with an eye paint in deep copper rather than the gold that one would expect to match the gown. Again, something different. He has never known Mary Anne to rely on elaborate cosmetics; she had generally allowed her looks to speak for themselves. Well, it looks as if something else is speaking now. Something most beautiful, yes, and engaging, but undeniably disturbing, particularly when the beams from a passing car seem to strike light from her closed eyelids. Eerie, that. And when she opens her eyes, they show more brilliantly than ever against the copper shadow, darkened almost to lapis blue.

She is a stranger tonight. I know her and do not know her.

An unsettling and provocative thought.

Her eyes are open; they and her smile are fixed upon him. “Best watch the road, Christopher.”

“So I should.” A slight laugh from Brandon as he corrects the drift of the car. “Do try not to be so distractingly lovely. Then perhaps I can concentrate on my driving.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise.”

Brandon concentrates on his driving, but to be unaware of his passenger is beyond his power and senses. There is her perfume, a waft of jasmine and tuberose and chypre . . . and has she done something to her hair? Waves and curls, yes, but more . . . styled, somehow, illumined with that same energy. Perhaps Phil has been at it. No detail has been overlooked, from the crystal and gold earrings right down to the copper-rose varnish that winks from her fingertips and toes. For whatever reason, she has put extraordinary effort into her appearance tonight.

Brandon pulls up to the museum and releases the car to valet parking, reflecting as he and Mary Anne advance past the aisle of photographers that the evening is certain to be interesting, at least. He has seen that sort of effort from Mary Anne on other occasions, enough to know that the result can be electrifying.

And unpredictable.

MA--a bit of shameless self-indulgence, here.
Good to see you, Clods. Looks as if we share the same "gilt-y" pleasures . . . ;-), - Sunday, April 20, 2003 at 19:25:30 (PDT)

Flash back, forwards and sideways to:

She’d never felt more relaxed in all her life.

She, Anton and the Doctor had each been taken to separate rooms. She’d found herself in a comfortable-looking apartment. Cushions in a pile on the floor where the bed should have been. An interesting wet room for the bathroom. She’d welcomed being left to shower. It was unusual - instead of water she was bathed in a warm mist, and as it swirled around her she’d felt all her troubles lifting, and a feeling of peace and contentment wrapped around her.

The next thing she remembered was being here, floating amongst the pillows. A handmaiden behind her brushed her hair. Two others had her hands and were applying gold leaf to her fingernails. And yet two more handmaidens were seeing to her pedicure. Working the magic of turning her hard, large feet into soft woman’s feet, suitable to be seen in sandals.

She was pulled to her feet, and gold cloth wrapped around her hips, to fall in a long sheath skirt, which opened at the front as she walked. More cloth was wrapped in an X over her chest, leaving her midriff bare, and her plain belly-button ring was replaced with a red stone. Her hair was woven in long strands with golden thread. She felt utterly unlike herself, more like some exotic princess, or goddess. Last of all, her feet were caressed with golden sandals, which tied with ribbon to her ankles. As she moved she felt like she was walking a few inches above the floor. She seemed to glide, instead of her usual clomp.

“Follow me,” said one of the handmaidens, bowing her head, and opened the door to the corridor.
Claudia
Yes, its really me! Now, I just need to catch up on reading, - Sunday, April 20, 2003 at 15:20:06 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Barbara's Office
Afternoon of Day Eight of the Investigation

"I'm wanting to talk to you.

Barbara sat at her computer radiating discomfort. "You and I have nothing to say to each other," she replied.

"Barbara." He tried to make eye contact but she wouldn't lift her eyes from the screen. "Please. Friends should always have something to say to each other."

She made a derogatory noise.

"We've been calling each other friend for a time, now."

She glanced upward and stared at him, but didn't speak. She looked back down at her screen.

"Barbara, don't be cutting me off." He swallowed nervously, swallowing his pride. His voice went low and quiet. "I'm not having a lot of friends."

"Well, who's fault is that?" she replied frostily. "Isabetta, Sue, Valerie, Meagan -- none of them were interesting enough."

"I've only been knowing them for a year!"

"I got to know you in a year," she replied coolly. "How hard can it be?"

"I've not been knowing you at all, in three," he said quietly.

"Exactly," she said crisply. "How can you love someone you don't know?"

"Do you think I was going home and planning this?" he asked. He saw her jaw set and her spine stiffen. "Are you imagining I'm wanting to be losing my best friend? Are you imagining I'll be doing this on purpose?" he demanded as she looked up and glared at him.

She blinked.

And suddenly... deflated. As if all the rage had poured out of her. "No," she whispered. Her voice was far below quiet, somewhere in the subterranean depths of weariness. "No." The word came on a breath that was almost a sob. "It's just ..." she sighed "... part of the irony." Her head fell and her eyes landed on her screen. The reflections of the screensaver flickered in her eyes. "Please don't ask me for anything, Phil. I've nothing left to spend." She stared, unseeing, into her monitor.

Phil looked at her hungrily, but she never saw. "I'll not be showing it, if you'll forget you were hearing it."

She shook her head, slowly, weighed down by thoughts and memories. "Don't turn your soul inside out, Phil. It's not worth it. It never is." He moved around to perch on the edge of the guest chair beside her desk.

"What did he do?"

"What?"

"Bernard."

"He died." She was looking into the middle distance again, somwhere between his sternum and his spine. Where his heart lay.

Phil thought of various responses and opened his mouth to say one of them, but they all sounded trite, inept. Useless. But one word fell out.

"Why?"

"Most people ask 'How?'"

"'How' is not being as important as 'Why.'"

She nodded slowly.

"Why?"

"He wanted to."

Phil waited.

"He said he couldn't get rid of me any other way."

Phil felt her words like a blow to his belly.

"I loved him, you know." Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, beyond tears. She turned to look at him. "I murder people."

Phil shook his head, denying it. He reached out to touch her face, speechless. She leaned away from his hand. "I wasn't knowing," he said.

She turned back to her screen. "I know."

Silence.

"I'll not be apologizing for loving you," he said finally.

A bleak amusement came into her face; the wry, dry distancing wit she used, he knew now, to protect herself. "I didn't know Virgos were stubborn."

"Not any more than Tauruses."

"Tauri." (homage)

Phil felt his dread lift at her automatic correction. She could make it. Should make it. Would, with his help. It helped to have the right information. He'd thought she was being self-absorbed, but it was he who was the one all wrapped up in himself. Barbara wasn't overwrought. She was broken. He could fix that. He should.

Would.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
So Phil's a Virgo.... Hans is a Leo... Brandon's a.... Cancer? George is an Aries. Mistral? , - Friday, April 18, 2003 at 21:20:42 (PDT)

Off Set-- The Museum wing opening:

Cindie continued to cling to her tether to reality although they had made it through the gauntlet. Spots were still floating like so many bubbles in front of her eyes from the photographers’ flashes accompanied by the buzz of too many questions being asked at once. It seemed that between the innuendo and the picture that had appeared in the tabloid, along with the recent exposure of the scenes in which she’d appeared on FoF, had been enough to stir the interest of the press. Intellectually it seemed an obvious development but in practice she found it more daunting than she would have imagined.

They were through now though, and in the Museum where ‘invitation only’ ensured only a few photographers whose camera whirred away at a discreet distance. This was a most welcome state of affairs. They checked their coats and Cindie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She had enlisted Chandos’ aid again and he’d come through with the name of a dressmaker. It no longer seemed odd that Chandos had connexions that could produce such valuable intelligence, and she was very pleased with the results if she did say so herself. A silk dress of pale lavender with ivory and purple embroidery and a high neckline that buttoned up high and to one side. It looked Japanese and Mistral had seemed to like it. He kept called her his dear lotus blossom. Of course he looked gorgeous in his tuxedo. It wasn’t the same one he’d worn for last year’s anniversary party. This one was more modern somehow and one had to wonder how many tuxes the man possessed.

The coats checked, Mistral took up her arm and they walked towards the new wing which was supposed to be the point of the evening. It seemed to her that the other guests were too busy seeing and being seen to even notice the exhibits. This was a wing designed for revolving exhibits of contemporary artists, with a stress on local talent, and though some of it didn’t fit her definition of art, it was still intriguing. Apparently most of the other guests didn’t think the exhibits the focus of the opening as they daaahhhlinged each other and kissed the air to either side of each other’s ears.

She and Mistral were gleaning speculative glances, most were subtle but some made her feel like an amoeba under a microscope. There were several women who seemed to be openly appraising her. And him. She tightened her grip on his arm and as she did so felt a wave of anger at herself. She had told Brandon once that she didn’t wish to be an accessory and here she was acting like one. It was a poor way to handle their first public outing. There were bound to be other people here she knew, some co-workers were scheduled to attend. Meanwhile Mistral was nodding and smiling to people though they hadn’t stopped to talk to anyone yet. Now that she thought of it, that seemed odd. Why wouldn’t he want to introduce her to people he knew? It seemed clear that he did know at least some of them.

The party took up the entire first floor of the Museum though the hub of activity was the foyer and the new wing. They walked for a bit, taking in the new exhibits and talking in low tones sharing their thoughts on what they saw. The speculative and appraising glances continued. Cindie did her best to block them out and focus instead on what Mistral was saying. A wicked sense of humour was in full gear as he commented on something that appeared to be blobs of different coloured clay. One exhibit looked like it was supposed to be a security camera and had a giant eye that looked out and hardware rigged to it. It was called *Big Brother*. “Now that’s a nasty bit of business.” Mistral eyed it right back.

“You’ve probably found the only eye in the place that won’t blink first.”

“Hmmm.”

They continued to stroll, Mistral occasionally veering off in one direction or other suddenly for no apparent reason. He seem distracted which was something he had never been with her. When they came to a large ornate stair case he paused, cast an assaying glance about the room and bent to whisper in her ear “Come upstairs with me. There’s a balcony, it should be quiet, there’s something … we could talk.”

The last time he’d had something to ask her it was to watch Annabelle. After what happened upon his return Cindie didn’t think he’d want her anywhere near his flat any time in the near future. Before she could respond a sound akin to nails on the chalkboard rent the air.

“Mistral, daaaaaaahling!” A shrill voice cut through the murmurings in the room. Cindie looked over, the voice belonged to a very tall, thin woman dressed in devastating sheath of black which looked as if it had little diamonds affixed to it. The dress’s V-neck was cut very low in front and, as she turned to set her glass on a passing waiters tray, Cindie saw it plunged even lower in the back. Her hair was jet black and cut in a severe geometric style that accentuated strong high cheekbones. She wore a diamond necklace of the sort that cat burglars in the movies were always plotting to steal and had rings on each and every finger. It was a wonder she could raise her hands above her waist. The heavy eye makeup framed crystal sharp green eyes. She was beautiful -- if one fancied Egyptian goddess good looks.

Mistral was immediately wearing a fixed smile, “Jessica, darling, how are you?”

“Same as ever, daaaaaaahling!” She looked Cindie over and showed her teeth, “and who is your charming little companion?”

“Hello, I’m Cindie.” Nice try, but I can talk all by myself. Cindie extended her hand and the woman took it and held it for a moment before dropping it, seemingly not sure what to do with it.

“Yes, so you are.” She dismissed Cindie with a flick of her head, not offering her own name and focused the pair of stunning eyes upon Mistral. “Now where have you been keeping yourself, daaaaahling, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Now, Jessica, you know they keep me busy.” He made no move to complete the aborted introductions.

“Not on weekends, surely daaaaaahling?”

Cindie watched as a vein in his temple seemed to throb but he went on to make polite noises and enquire after some mutual acquaintances.

She couldn’t decide if Mistral was actually glad to see this woman or not but wasn’t going to listen to anymore *daaaaaahlings*. Let him deal with the devil creature. “I’m just going to go and freshen up. See you two later.” She slipped away heedless of the annoyance that flashed across his face.

Cindie
Wondering if spam is a government conspiracy, - Friday, April 18, 2003 at 17:45:46 (PDT)

"down to earth site"

This must be a coded message for Alexander Dane.
Cindie
Sitting in the living room with my tin-foil hat on. , - Friday, April 18, 2003 at 17:33:48 (PDT)

Thank you for producing such a down to earth site. As a writer I can tell you are a skilled communicator. Thanks again.
Communication Skills
Davenport, - Friday, April 18, 2003 at 12:31:53 (PDT)

Perhaps Lonnie is acquainted with Grace and Hart?
Cindie
Leigh, are you still out there?, - Thursday, April 17, 2003 at 17:20:23 (PDT)

Hey! Nice site. If you are ever in Las Vegas let's play golf. lonniejames@hotmail.com.
Las Vegas Golf
Las Vegas, - Thursday, April 17, 2003 at 13:24:09 (PDT)

Imperial Palace, the Justice Chamber:

Pinned by The Interrogator’s gaze, Mary Anne feels her normal senses flee away from her. Dimly, as if from very far away, she can hear the voices of Rupert Cadell and Diggory Venn; from the corner of her eye she can see the blur that must be The Empress, her black gown a dark outline against the Solomon Throne of justice; there is the faint waft of men’s colognes and women’s perfumes . . .

Fear. It has a taste. Coppery-sour. That, and the feeling of HIS eyes locked upon her are Mary Anne’s only distinct and immediate sensations. The bile in her throat and the cold on her skin, as if she had suddenly been stripped and thrust outside into the snowfall on the Palace slopes.

Mary Anne knows that because of The Interrogator’s particular obsessions with her, she has been spared much of the physical suffering that befalls HIS usual victims. It is not that HE is incapable of causing her physical pain, but in her case, it has usually been exercised to drive home a point and is quickly over. Acute mental suffering has been her lot with this man, but horrible though the memories of it might be, she does not deceive herself as to her good fortune. She has, so far, escaped lightly and need only think of Therese for a reminder.

Now, however, it seems that her ability to suffer has increased beyond measure. Few people might think of fear itself as a form of pain and torture . . . but as The Interrogator could point out, It’s the suspense, not the pain, that will drive you mad. The effect of sustained anxiety upon a warmly emotional temperament, especially one gifted with more than enough imagination to guess at and therefore dread a multitude of possible future catastrophes, can leave inward marks deeper than the scars of beatings, can ravage the interior landscape as surely as a late blizzards can devastate a blossoming grove.

Stop looking at HIM! Look at something else!

Strange, that she cannot seem to look away.

Do notlook away! Answer!

Distinct, as though HE had spoken. And that look-emptied of all the sardonic amusement with which The Interrogator had been accustomed to exert power over her. This is a chill and deadly gaze, one that assesses her as a genuine adversary who must be fought, and fought well. It is a look that sees her-and sees her, not some image of HIS depraved imaginings or futile longings, but just as she is: a woman called to relate a story that might instantly mark her as insane.

But they can’t think that of me, not when they hear everything . . .

Oh, but they can and they probably will. Most people would rather hear entertaining gossip than dull truth . . .

Except this gossip IS the truth, and I really was . . .

THUMP.

Startled, Mary Anne jerks in her chair, turning her eyes from the cage to the witness box just in time to see Venn bending down to pick up the heavy book upon which he had sworn his oath; it has fallen to the floor.

“Pardon, Mister Cadell, fair clumsy of me that was . . .”

“My fault entirely, Mister Venn. I think I must have jostled it with my cane . . .”

Hardly daring to breathe, Mary Anne eases back in her chair. And closes her eyes.

MA--no weaseling, Cindie. ;-)
- Tuesday, April 15, 2003 at 18:41:58 (PDT)

That's okay, Andrea. I moved your post to the Guestbook.
D.o.C.

uh i think i added to the wrong one sorry if i messed up your storys and poems :} i read some there wonderful i wish i could write stuff that good :} sorry again and love this site :} keep up the good work bybe bybe for now going to watch Harry Potter:} god hes gergouse with that black hair and that long black shirt coat he wears mmmmm id love to just tell him how gergouse he really is but im sure he already knows that and if he doesnt hes crazy because he really is heavenly:} seeya latter
Andrea <critzerclaws@aol.com>
- Monday, April 14, 2003 at 22:03:25 (PDT)

Exhausted, Hamlet wandered down to the area by the water that they had made their own. He’d been worked so hard by those Healing unicorns, but now knew a lot more about his gift. He couldn’t wait to tell Chris all about it. He was so excited by the whole thing, having his own talent, and one that was so useful! Although he had to admit that it took a lot out of him! These unicorns were truly fascinating, and he was deeply grateful to them for all they had done to help the two of them. He still wasn’t sure about how they were going to fight the Sh’rin, how two puny little humans could make a difference when they had all these gifts, but he supposed that something would turn up. And if it didn’t, well at least they would go out fighting rather than going like meek little sheep to the slaughter!

A short while later, Hamlet realised that Chris hasn’t joined him, and it’s getting late. Worried, he scanned the local area, looking for Ki’li. When he realised that they were both missing, he understood that they were probably off together somewhere, and settled down by the water to think a little. When he thought about it, it was nice to have a bit of time to himself for once.

He thought back over the weeks and months that had passed. He wondered what had happened to his home. It may not have been high quality, but it was his home, and he missed it. It was where he’d been born and had grown up. The family had hidden there during the riots, and had taken in several of their workers’ families during that troubled time too. Despite the turmoil, he remembered that time almost fondly. He’d had loads of other boys (and even the occasional girl) to play with. And his parents had made certain that he was not aware of the worries that he now knew they must have carried every day.

Hamlet sighed quietly, his mind returning to the present. He still had no idea how they were going to go about saving the world. He was certainly no hero, and Chris, although nice enough, well, she wasn’t really THAT special, now, was she. How were they going to beat a species that the Unicorns with all their powers hadn’t managed to vanquish?

One of the unicorns came closer to him. It was a big, black male, standing at least 18hh at the shoulder. Hamlet eyed it warily. Although he was becoming accustomed to all the different personalities they’d met through their couple of days here, he hadn’t forgotten what had happened to Chris when they arrived. He had occasionally felt a stab of darkness in his mind, as if someone mean was probing his mind. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet, because in all honesty they were so quick he wasn’t 100% certain that it had really happened.

Hamlet shivered uncontrollably. It was getting awfully cold around here. He’d been so used to the temperate climate, this was a bit of a shock. The unicorn stepped closer to him, and he felt even colder. His last conscious thought was that he should’ve brought a jacket with him.

Chris <why1040@aol.com>
Yep, two snippets in one week! Can you tell I'm sick of work??, - Friday, April 11, 2003 at 07:12:40 (PDT)

Quite right, dearest--MA's an open book to the Colonel. And that book wasn't written by Machiavelli, either. ;-) As for vengeance, I'm afraid we've passed the stage of buttons . . .

MA
- Thursday, April 10, 2003 at 05:55:50 (PDT)

And dearest, when you say "nor I, I'm afraid" I seem to recall that "It has never been difficult for Brandon to guess Mary Anne's thoughts..."
R
- Wednesday, April 09, 2003 at 09:34:48 (PDT)

"allays anxiety, without a word spoken"--perfect.

. . . vengeance within her grasp" . . . Will it be only buttons, this time, dearest . . . ?
R
Vengeance or something greater? Hmmmm..., - Wednesday, April 09, 2003 at 09:02:33 (PDT)

"I felt like I was watching Judas Kiss, confused and out of focus waiting for the Rickman bits." Thanks, Janine.
R
- Wednesday, April 09, 2003 at 08:44:13 (PDT)

Chris sighed and rubbed her temples, quickly clicking the 'Save' button on her laptop. At the movement, Ollie sat up from his watchful position on the beanbag bed at the other end of the room, and padded over, tail wagging.

"Okay you scallywag," Chris laughed, as he looked up at her with bright eyes. "Do you want to go walkies?"

Laughing further at the excited yip, she got up, switching off the computer in the process. "You're right, I have been working too hard, but I'm really far behind, and the Director will have my hide if I don't produce something soon," she said to the black poodle, as she went out to the hall to get her coat and his lead. Ollie bounced along, running back and forth, clearly eager to get out.

As she closed and locked the door, Chris breathed deeply, feeling the spring freshness. Ollie was practically bouncing up and down, but settled quickly to walking on the lead.

"I know my friend, you're a good dog, aren't you? Yes, you are," Chris mumbled to her four-legged companion as they walked down towards the park. She was very pleased she'd managed to get a place so close to this particular park, as it was where ALL the local dogs came to play. There was another one further up that was more for children and other humans, but this one was practically reserved by the doggie crowd.

As she approached the large field, she saw several dogs playing happily with each other. She went over to the far side of the field to start off with, to give Ollie a chance to approach the others when he wanted to. She took off his lead, still talking cheerfully to him. Soon, he was wandering around, picking up all the new smells, and generally doing doggie things. She noticed that he kept an eye on her the whole time.

After a short time of sniffing tails and other general introductions, Ollie was happily 'chatting' to all his new friends, and got involved in what appeared to be a running race of some sort. Chris laughed along with the rest of the owners as the antics got wilder and funnier. A couple of the larger dogs were having an enjoyable game with a football, though no one could figure out quite what the aim of the game was. A threesome of dogs had got ahold of an old towel and were having a three-way tug-of-war, which frequently mean that one was just pulling at the middle, and not actually getting anywhere.

"You new around here?" asked one of the guys in the group.
"No, I'm dogsitting for a friend," Chris replied equably, as Ollie shot past her with a cocker spaniel hot on his heels. "Sadly don't have one of my own at the moment."

"He seems a friendly chap, you should bring him down often," added one of the ladies, having got back up after being bowled over by her two great danes who decided that mummy should play too. She brushed herself off, laughing loudly, and threw a couple of balls out for them to divert their attention.

"Well, I don't have him for long, but I'm glad he's enjoying himself, that's the important thing," Chris smiled.

After a good hour of playtime, Chris called Ollie over to head home. He bounded over, still apparently full of energy, but didn't protest as she put the lead back on him for the walk home.

She made sure he did his business on the way, before going back inside. She carefully dried his legs clean. "I think you had a good time, didn't you? Yes, you did!" Ollie wagged his tail and yapped happily, but it was obvious that he was tired.

Chris checked her watch, and gasped at the time. "Okay little one, time for your din-dins! Then I've got to get back to work. This latest bit is almost finished, and I really need to get it proofed tomorrow, or I'm going to be in for another one of those TALKS."

Ollie followed her eagerly into the small kitchen, where the kibble was hidden away in a cupboard. He bounced over to the right cupboard, and Chris laughed again. "Okay you scoundrel, so you're vastly intelligent and very hungry!" She moved him out of the way gently and got the kibble out, pouring it straight into his bowl. She kept him waiting for just a moment before she allowed him to start eating, checking his obedience. "Can't have you lapsing just because I've got you! Sandy would kill me if you're not cared for properly!" Chris giggled at his slightly affronted look. As she gave the appropriate signal, he tucked in to his food.

Chris refilled his water bowl with fresh water, checked the amount of kibble left and left him to it as she settled down for another session in front of the computer. She was soon so engrossed in the text in front of her that she didn't even notice the little black poodle pad into the room and settle on his beanbag bed.

Ollie watched this funny human for a short while, before falling asleep happily.

Chris
Coming up for air, albeit briefly, - Wednesday, April 09, 2003 at 06:32:46 (PDT)

A WEEK AT THE GYM This has been adapted for the Rickmaniac in us all. If you read this without laughing out loud, then you are fit and healthy and I envy you. This is dedicated to every woman who ever attempted to get into a regular workout routine.

Dear Diary

... For my fiftieth birthday this year, my husband (the sweet dear) purchased me a week of personal training at the local health club. Although I am still in great shape (from playing on my high school softball team), I decided it would be a good idea to go ahead and give it a try.

I called the club and made my reservations with a personal trainer named Bruce, who described himself as a 26 year old aerobics instructor, and model for athletic clothing and swim wear and young Alan Rickmans lookalike. My husband seemed pleased with my sudden enthusiasm to get started. Well, the club encouraged me to keep a diary to chart my progress, so here it goes:

Monday:

Started my day at 6:00am. Tough to get out of bed, but found it was..well..worth it when I arrived at the health club to find Bruce waiting for me. He is something of a Greek God - with blond hair, dancing eyes and a ..dazzling white smile. A young Colonel Brandon Woo Hoo!!

Bruce gave me a tour and showed me the machines. He took my pulse after five minutes on the treadmill. He was alarmed that my pulse was so fast, but I attribute it to standing next to him in his Lycra aerobic outfit. I enjoyed watching the skilful way in which he conducted his aerobics class after my workout today. Very inspiring. As lithe as Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet Bruce was encouraging as I did my sit-ups, although my gut was already aching from holding it in the whole time he was around. This is going to be a FANTASTIC week!

Tuesday:

I drank a whole pot of coffee, but I finally made it out the door. Bruce made me lie on my back and push a heavy iron bar into the air-then he put weights on it! Oh I could feel a Private Lives silk pyjama moment coming on. My legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made the full mile. He was benevolent like the Metatron

Bruce's rewarding smile made it all worthwhile. I feel GREAT!! It's a whole new life for me. I am Truly Madly Deeply motivated although today he reminded me of Jamie wondered if his lips were icy.

Wednesday:

The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying on the toothbrush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I believe I have a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer or stop. I parked on top of a GEO in the club parking lot. Bruce was impatient with me, and sounded like “Hans” insisting that my screams bothered other club members. His voice is a little too perky for early in the morning and when he scolds, he gets this nasally whine just like when Hans pretend to be hiding from the terrorists that is VERY annoying. My chest hurt when I got on the treadmill, so Bruce put me on the stair monster. A medieval contraption I think Bruce is beginning to resemble George yet I felt I was Kevin Costner. Why the hell would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by elevators?

Bruce told me it would help me get in shape and enjoy life. He said some other stuff too. I felt like I was watching Judas Kiss, confused and out of focus waiting for the Rickman bits.

Thursday:

Bruce was waiting for me with his vampire-like teeth exposed as his thin, cruel lips were pulled back in a full snarl. I knew how Harry Potter felt and couldn't help being a half an hour late, it took me that long to tie my shoes. With all the warmth of the Elliot Marston Bruce took me to work out with dumbbells. When he was not looking, I ran and hid in the men's room. He sent Lars to find me, then, as punishment, put me on the rowing machine-which I sank.

Friday:

Bruce is a sincere as Vicomte de Valmont I hate Bruce more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. Stupid, skinny, anemics little cheerleader. If there was a part of my body I could move without unbearable pain, I would beat him with it. Bruce wanted me to work on my triceps. I don't have any triceps! And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me the barbells or anything that weighs more than a sandwich. (Which I am sure you learned in the sadist school you attended and graduated magna cum laude from.)

The treadmill flung me off and I landed on a health and nutrition teacher. Why couldn't it have been someone, more appreciative of a woman like Rasputin, Dr Mesmer or softer like a drama coach, or the choir director?

Saturday:

Bruce left a message on my answering machine in his grating, shrilly voice wondering why I did not show up today. Just hearing him reminded me of Interrogator and made me want to smash the machine with my planner. However, I lacked the strength to even use the TV remote and ended up catching eleven straight hours of the *$@#&& Weather Channel. Sunday:

I'm having the Church van pick me up for services today so I can go and thank GOD that this week is over. I will also pray that next year my husband (the @#!%&) will choose a gift for me that is fun - like a root canal or a hysterectomy.
Janine <janinels@optusnet.com.au>
Dear all please enjoy this joke adapted for all Ricmaniac..Do not be offended if I am using this space or your personal FOF character. Thank you, - Wednesday, April 09, 2003 at 04:11:59 (PDT)

Imperial Palace, the Justice Chamber:

Mary Anne lifts her head, her eyes wide with astonishment as they follow Venn’s progress to the stand. Diggory! But how did he get here without my knowing-- And then, just as quickly: Don’t be silly. He could have just arrived last night, or this morning, for that matter . . .

Watching as Venn mounts to the box, Mary Anne feels a quick surge of reassurance, the source of which she cannot discover but which remains to comfort her and even bring a smile to her lips as Venn takes the stand with not the least sign of unease, laying his hands upon the book set close by the witnesses’ seat and repeating the oath in the steadiest of tones, even glancing once in the direction of The Interrogator’s cage-a brief acknowledgment of HIS presence before straightening in the chair with an unmistakable attitude of, Now, to the business.

Some murmuring commentary in the chamber, quickly stilled. Diggory Venn, the country man of Egdon, his good suit skillfully mended and perhaps a bit shiny from repeated pressings, could not be expected to cut a very imposing figure among the mighty of the Realm assembled in this chamber, but there is something in his mere presence that allays anxiety without a word spoken, the gravity and good cheer of a man whose conscience is quiet and who is determined to do all that is right. It pleases Mary Anne to think that so long as there are such men in the world, then The Interrogator and HIS sort cannot expect to have everything their own way.

Once again, Rupert Cadell is the questioner, and Venn sits composedly under the questioning, his large, strong hands folded in his lap or occasionally resting on the railing of the box as he listens, then answers. Mary Anne finds herself wondering whether Tamsie might be present or if Diggory had taken a page from Hans Gruber’s book and left his wife home in safety, and treats herself to a small inward chuckle. The difference is that Diggs could’ve told Tamsie to stay in Egdon and that would’ve been the end of it. She’s an obedient wife. And that’s something you’ll never be, Renie dearest-nor I, I’m afraid. If you’re not here, then it’s not because Hans commanded you to stay home! Wherever “home” might be, these days . . .

“-and now, Mister Venn, to the time you spent working for The Interrogator.”

A ripple of surprise in the room, which Rupert allows to subside before he continues. “Of what, exactly, did this work consist?”

“Aye, what did I do for him, then?”

Another stir, hardly felt as laughter. Not derision-more a subliminal delight in Venn’s musical Egdon accent, so different from the courtly and formal tones of the various questioners.

Venn shifts in the chair as a man might settle himself for a long drive in a wagon. “It was hard times, then, an’ as I’d quit th’ reddle trade, I was after having to fill my pockets any honest way as came by. An’ honest enough his offer was. First to my Missus, then t’ me. A house needs keepin’ and tendin’, and I was there t’do all a strong back and two good arms could do. Cutting wood an’ the’ like. Wha’ever needed done.”

“Did anything take place to alter your arrangements with The Interrogator?”

Venn considers this a moment, rubbing one hand idly against his chin. “It was no’ so much a thing that happened-“

Mary Anne smiles a little. “Happent.” Diggs, it’s almost worth going through all this, just to hear you again.

“-so much a thing that happened, as . . . well, I could see as my Missus was scared, certain as God gi’ me eyes to see. She said as he was something not right.”

“Was HE cruel to you? Or to her?”

There is some throat-clearing from the advisers’ bench and one of Rupert’s younger colleagues points out that this question might be construed as ‘leading.’

“Very well; I shall rephrase. Mister Venn, continue. Tell us whether anything took place to alter your arrangements.”

“Aye. Well, I’d been seein’ as folk avoided us. Some. Not all, but some.” A sigh. “There ‘ad been children as ran from me before, because of I was The Reddleman-all red as I was then, it was like as I might be The Devil, for aught they knew. Now it was th’ older folk who ran. Be times I’d sit to a drink in th’ Quiet Woman, and none’d sit nigh me. Always ‘cept a few.” No bitterness. Acceptance. Calm regret. “An’ then-“ A pause. “There’as talk of folk . . . disappearin’. And him always nigh, around th’ time it happened. I thought little o’it at th’time, for there’s always those’ll talk of a stranger . . .”

“You say you thought little enough of it at the time. Did that change?”

“Aye. It came t’ th’ matter of Miss Renie. Missus Hans Gruber as is, now.”

Mary Anne glances over toward Hans, who is sitting as though carved of stone. But as Venn looks directly at him and gives a friendly nod, even Hans is not proof against that genial warmth and returns the nod, acknowledging Venn with a brief wave. The tiniest of gestures, like a salute to a comrade in war.

What this must be doing to Hans. Mary Anne’s own recollections of her arrival in Egdon are, to this day, too painful to be contemplated for long. The pursuit of The Interrogator; her belief that Renie was dead and that she, herself, was to blame; the moment when HE stood before her, when Brandon’s sword was in her hand and vengeance within her grasp . . .

Mary Anne’s eyes stray to the cage.

And this time, she is caught.

Her eyes lock with HIS.

MA--love the Oriental gear, Cindie. Gorgeous.
Sandy, good to see you! Both "shaken and stirred" by your post, rrowwwwr. ;-), - Tuesday, April 08, 2003 at 19:26:09 (PDT)

Connemara, Ireland:

"Okay... According to the directions here, we just follow this road until the end and we take a left," Alexander said, tapping his index finger on a piece of paper. "The hotel is 200 yards away on the right."

"Great! Even with taking turns driving, it's been a *long* day on the road," Sandy observed, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

"Mmm. We only got lost *twice*," Alexander teased lightly and laughed at the face that Sandy made. "Yes, it was my fault the first time..."

"Uh huh, it was, Mister I-Don't-Want-To-Stop-And-Ask-For-Directions!" Sandy groused, wrinkling her nose. Her eyes twinkled as she watched him glower at her before she burst into merry laughter. "What is it with men not wanting to stop and ask for directions? I swear, it's a conditioned response for men to refuse to admit when they don't know where they're going!"

Alexander, still glowering, mumbled an unintelligible response and scrunched down in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. A remarkable feat for someone so tall, Sandy thought to herself in silent amusement. From the corner of her eye, she watched him continue to stare at the scenery outside the window until his lips started twitching and then a slow, sheepish smile emerged, followed by a soft, rueful chuckle.

"Fair enough," Alexander acquiesced, inclining his head slightly. "I don't know about you, but I'll be glad to have a bite to eat and go to bed." He reached back and stretched in his seat, settling his arm around the back of Sandy's seat and idly running his fingers through her hair.

"Sounds like a plan," Sandy agreed with a gentle smile as she made a stop at the end of the road and turned left. She whistled softly as they came upon a small yet well-kept castle - one of many that served as hotels these days throughout Ireland. "Now *that* is pretty."

Alexander nodded in agreement as Sandy turned the BMW into the castle's gravel driveway. "There's just one thing missing though," he observed as he turned away from gazing at the perfectly groomed grounds to facing forward.

"What's that?"

"A moat."

"Ahhh... Were you planning on taking a midnight swim, Alex? Or were you planning on tossing the hotel staff out that tower window if you weren't satisfied with the accommodations?"

Alexander covered his face with his hands and groaned loudly as Sandy began giggling. "Why? Why do I open myself up to this?"

"You're a sucker for punishment and endless torture?"

"Perhaps you're right, love," Alexander responded dryly as Sandy pulled into a parking spot and turned off the car's motor.

"Maybe," Sandy replied, still giggling as she pressed a button on the dashboard and the trunk slowly opened. She cast a sideward glance in the Englishman's direction and saw that in spite of his grumbling as he unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the car door and exited from the vehicle, he was smiling. She chuckled to herself one last time as she removed the key from the ignition, unbuckled her seatbelt and reached over for her pocketbook. She then slid from her seat and closed the driver's side door.

Alexander finished pulling the luggage from the car's trunk and closed it. "Allow me," he said, sweeping into a bow before taking the pull-up handle of Sandy's rollaway in his left hand while taking the pull-up handle of his own rollaway bag in his right.

"Thank you, kind sir," Sandy inclined her head slightly in Alexander's direction. "Nice to know that chivalry's not entirely dead yet."

"Some would say otherwise," Alexander replied airily, not noticing the blonde's left eyebrow rising as he turned around and headed towards the door. He came to a stop at the heavy and elaborately scrolled wooden double-doors and frowned, his shoulders drooping just a bit when he realized that they had to be pulled open instead of pushed.

"Let me return the favor," Sandy said, walking past him to open the door. She blinked in surprise at the weight of said door as she tugged on the heavy brass handle and slowly opened it for Alexander to pass through. "Damned English oak," she muttered under her breath (homage). "After you," she invited.

Alexander sighed and walked to the threshold. He stopped just before he passed over it to gaze at Sandy, who returned the gaze calmly. "You're enjoying every moment of this, aren't you?"

A wicked grin surfaced. "You better believe it."

A long, drawn-out sigh emitted from deep within Alexander's chest, followed up with an exaggerated eye-roll. "Incorrigible." It was said fondly. The hazel eyes twinkled as Sandy shrugged her shoulders in response as he walked inside. She followed behind him and allowed the door to shut softly behind her before turning around to gaze about the foyer that led to the main check-in area. They saw that it was richly appointed with mahogany-accented furniture that was polished to a bright shine. There was the faintest scent of lemon oil that drifted through the room and the lit chandelier positioned at the room's center sparkled and made prisms on the textured wallpaper as they walked over to the unoccupied registration desk.

The two exchanged glances. "Wonder where everybody is," Sandy mused. "I know that it's the off-season..."

"Don't know. It is quiet though," Alexander replied, nodding in agreement. He had just put his hand up to ring the service bell that was placed on the counter when a pleasant-featured middle-aged woman with deep red hair stuck her head outside the open doorway.

"Ah! I thought I heard someone come in! Just had to step away for a moment. Welcome. I'm Eileen O'Shea, the manager of this establishment," she said with a warm smile as she approached the counter. The smile widened exponentially as she gazed up at Alexander with sparkling deep green eyes. "A pleasure to see you here, Mr. Dane. Your interpretation of King Richard the Third was absolutely exquisite."

"You've actually seen it?" Alexander blinked in surprise, the beginnings of a relieved smile starting to surface on his lips as Sandy gave her passport and a printout of their reservations to the hotel manager, Alexander following suit.

"Of course!" the hotel manager exclaimed warmly, passing address forms and pens to the couple. "It was..." she trailed off as Sandy began humming the theme from Galaxy Quest softly as she filled out her form. She watched nervously as a thunderous expression passed over the Englishman's face - she had heard and read plenty of gossip regarding any reference of *that show* in Alexander Dane's presence, no matter how remote it was - before it suddenly changed to amused exasperation... and something more. She blinked twice as he then calmly picked up the second pen and began filling out the form placed before him.

Sandy lifted her head and mouthed, "Ego check." She smiled as her eyes shifted to gaze at Alexander for a moment before she lowered her head and concentrated on completing the form.

The hotel manager suppressed a chuckle and waited patiently until both had finished the registration process. "Thank you," she said as they passed the forms over to her. "Here are your room keys - adjoining rooms on the second floor," she added in as she passed back heavy keys in return. "Breakfast is served promptly between 6 and 9 in the morning. If you wish to make any bike or fishing pole rentals during your stay, simply call or stop by the front desk in the morning and my son Liam will take care of you."

"Thank you, Mrs. O'Shea," Alexander murmured. His stomach suddenly growled in protest and he rolled his eyes.

"It's a pleasure. Enjoy your stay here," the hotel manager replied with a smile. "The restaurant is still open if you're hungry, by the way. Just go through those doors," she directed them.

"Thank you again - and dinner sounds wonderful!" Sandy said, returning the smile before turning her head in Alexander's direction and taking the handle of her rollaway bag before he could.

Eileen O'Shea watched the couple make their upstairs, Alexander softly laughing at something Sandy had commented on with the smile slowly fading from her lips. She frowned and went out back, where two men were waiting for her expectantly. "Well, are you happy now?" she demanded, her accent deepening as she put her hands on her hips. "What do you want with those two anyway?"

The older of the two men calmly sat down in a chair and took a cigarette from his pack. "It's a matter of international security," he said, removing a fancy engraved and quite obviously expensive metal lighter from his rumpled navy blazer.

"Bollocks! If those two are as dangerous to violating international security as you say they are, I'm the bloody Pope!" the harried hotel manager snatched the offending material away from the man. "I'll not have you smoking your cancer sticks in my presence or in this building, thank you very much!" she snarled, tossing them into a nearby trash receptacle.

The man held up his hands in surrender, the expression on his face becoming stony. "You promised us your cooperation in this matter, Mrs. O'Shea," he said in the same calm tone. "I trust that you're not going back on your word?"

Eileen O'Shea's face turned deathly pale at the silent threat behind the deceptively mild tone. "No. Of course not," she said hastily, nervously licking her lips.

The man gave her an oily smile in response and leaned back in his chair. "Good. I would hate to see that little matter of your husband's, uh, *business transaction* mistake be brought to the attention of the local authorities."

The hotel manager drew in a harsh breath. "You bastard!" she whispered.

The man shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "We have an understanding, then?"

"Yes! Now get out of my sight!"

The man rose to his feet and joined his younger companion. He inclined his head forward. "Of course." The weary gray eyes turned dark and glittered feverishly in the lamp light as he gazed at the visibly upset woman. "Mrs. O'Shea, you have the gratitude of..."

"Shut up and leave, you piece of gobsh...!"

The man inclined his head once more and the two men left the room as silently as they had come in. Eileen O'Shea watched the empty doorway for a long time before her legs finally gave out and she sat down with a heavy thud in the chair that the older man vacated, shaking her head in stunned disbelief.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Later that evening:

Alexander left the bathroom, his hair still a bit damp from the shower he had taken earlier. He was about to finish combing his hair when he heard a light knock on the adjoining room door. He walked over and opened it to reveal Sandy standing near the threshold dressed in a simple set of light green pajamas with long pants and a spaghetti-strap top. He smiled at the tilted martini glass decal (complete with olive) on the shirt with the words, "Shaken, not stirred" sewed underneath the glass. "Hi."

Sandy returned the smile, taking in the equally simple attire of blue silk pajama bottoms. "Hi, Alex." She reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes. "Just wanted to say goodnight."

"Oh... Is that all?" Alexander asked lightly.

The blue-gray eyes darkened and seemed to turn deeper blue as Sandy approached and stepped over the threshold. "No."

"Good." Alexander's smile grew wider as Sandy's arms snaked up his chest and wound gently around his neck and he slid his arms around her to draw her close against him. Her breath fanned against his cheek briefly before his lips went down on hers hungrily. She returned the kiss with the same hunger before it softened, became something different.

The two weren't exactly aware of how much time had passed when Alexander slowly broke it. "We have to be up early," he breathed, his eyes still closed.

"Yeah," she whispered, leaning her head against his chest so that her ear was positioned directly over his heart.

Alexander opened his eyes and gazed down at her for a moment. Sandy's eyes opened then and she slowly withdrew her head away from his chest to look up at him. She looked like she was going to say something but then thought better of it. She backed a couple of steps away from him, reaching out to touch his fingertips with hers and smiling gently. He returned the smile and walked with her over to the threshold. She stepped over it and turned around. "'Night," he said.

"'Night 'Lex," Sandy replied, watching as he reached out and carefully closed the door between them. She heard the door click shut and she stared at it for some time before pulling herself away from her silent reverie and walking over to her bed. She climbed inside and turned the light off, pulling the covers over her. She listened to the ensuing silence then turned over on her side with a long sigh and pounded her fist into the pillow once.

Alexander leaned against the door, placing his arms around his chest and scowling down at the carpet, kneading the plush pile between his toes. "Idiot," he muttered. With a soft sigh, he propelled himself away from the door and walked over to the mirror to complete the task he began earlier.

Sandy
- Tuesday, April 08, 2003 at 14:33:13 (PDT)

FOF, Off Set:

It was a beautiful evening, cool and clear, as she peeked out the window and saw Mistral pull up in front of her building. He was exactly on time. Cindie tapped on the glass but didn’t really think that the sound would carry from the first floor to the street. Whether it did or not as he exited the car he looked up unerringly and caught her eye. She smiled and waved and held up an index finger that she would be right down. The smile he gave her back was quiet but true. As he stood under the street light she could see he was wearing a tuxedo with a dark shirt and tie. He looked urbane, polished and perfect and she felt a thrill run through her as she turned to gather her wrap and went down to meet him. She also hoped she looked a fraction as good.

When Mistral had pulled up and exited his car his eyes were drawn immediately to her window. There she was. His heart gave a little jolt at the sight of her, looking out for him. He would have gone up to her flat but her signal kept him on the street. When her figure disappeared from the window he moved around to the passenger side of the car and watched the front entrance to her building. When she emerged moments later he had the door open for her. It was with great difficulty that he refrained from gathering her in his arms but he would not dare a repeat of their captured kiss. She was so beautiful. He could see even in the street’s light that she was dressed in lavender silk. The dress was in an Asian style with embroidery in ivory and purple in a delicate lotus blossom design. The collar swept across to button at the side of her throat with eyelets heavily embroidered in a deeper purple and buttons of silk thread woven tight. She was his lotus blossom. As he handed her into the car and caught the scent of her perfume, reserved but wafting of the lotus flower, he murmured this endearment in her ear.

She paused, her head ducked to enter the car, and smiled up at him as he stood poised on the kerb, the door still open. “Do you like it? I didn’t know if it would suit - I’ve never been to anything like this before.” What she didn’t voice was the feeling that she was completely out of her league. When he’d asked her to go, after she’d all but tossed him out of her office, it was before she’d taken on the storyline. She’d known all eyes would be on him with perhaps some mild curiosity as to her identity. Now, between her small part on the show and that picture in the tabloid she didn’t know what to expect.

“You’re perfection.” He took in the matching silk embroidered slippers and the lacquered comb that pulled back her hair on one side and added, “thank you for accompanying me.” Before she could reply the car door was closed and Mistral was sliding in next to her behind the wheel.

When he started the engine and was pulling from the kerb he heard her say, “thank you for asking me.” He knew the humour in her tone and allowed his own mirth to give voice in his reply.

“My dear, I don’t recall you leaving me many options.”

“There are always options, Patrick.”

“There are times, however, when they do not bear close scrutiny.”

She looked over to see him merely negotiating traffic with the easy grace with which he seemed to negotiate everything.

Mistral’s thoughts had already gone back to that afternoon when his presumptions had landed him angrily walking the halls and into a tête-à-tête with Christopher Brandon. He had decided then what he had unconsciously known for sometime. There would be no one else. There were no options, save one. While they had settled the topic of exclusivity he had not broached that of past history. It was very much irrelevant as far as he was concerned. Not that he wasn’t interested in her past, he was grateful for whatever events and experiences had brought her to him. He only hoped that her journey to him had been free of pain.

As for his - there were chapters which must needs remain closed until such time as they could be safely revealed. It was his past liaisons, transient as they might have been, which he now considered. Events like this one where he would attend to benefit a worthy cause and as publicity for the show were nothing new. What was novel and what he cherished was arriving, and leaving, with her. He glanced over to the seat to his left. His lotus blossom and his salvation. Would she understand how it had been with him before? In the glow of her light he wasn’t sure that he did himself. How he cherished this. Cherished her.

When they pulled up to where a red carpet emerged from the museum’s main entrance Mistral laid a hand lightly on her arm. She looked over to him, expecting him to speak, but he simply looked back at her and said nothing. Abruptly he exited the car and went around to open her door. She had known that the press would be here. Publicity for the museum and the show was expected and desirable. She could handle it.

The valet whisked the car away and she was left standing on the carpet’s edge, clinging to Mistral’s arm as if it were a lifeline. The flash of the light bulbs began immediately and she put on her best happy to see you all smile. They stepped forward to stroll the gauntlet, Mistral leisurely and composed as if they were in Kensington Gardens again and not a soul paying them any mind. There were questions. Somehow this was something she hadn’t considered. Thankfully most of these were directed at Mistral and he batted them away with practiced ease. Ever polite, he simply found ways to answer without giving any information. Instead, the journalist would receive a quip or line which was eminently quotable, if completely non-responsive. The few which were directed at her were pointed but she managed to smile demurely and say nice things about her co-workers and thank the Director for giving her the opportunity to work on the show.

Of Nigel Theasewackle there was no sign.

Cindie
Clods put out the APB for Therese, but who's going to put one out for Claudia?
, - Monday, April 07, 2003 at 17:46:14 (PDT)

Imperial Palace, the Justice Chamber:

Concentrating fiercely on keeping her eyes away from The Interrogator, Mary Anne is relieved when the first witnesses come forward, people with few connections to her. The very first is some sort of clerk, a minor functionary of the Alliance, there to detail their fact-gathering on The Interrogator and Mary Anne finds herself relaxing by slow degrees as that clerical voice rattles off dates, times, and stages of a long-standing investigation. She can sense the change of mood throughout the hall and wonders whether this move was a deliberate tactic to settle the crowd; a squadron of elite Imperials could not have done a more masterful job of restoring order.

Her relief is short-lived, however, as testimony proceeds. Facts, after all, can be such dry things-but there are faces to accompany those facts. And Mary Anne cannot find it in her to deny the bond of sympathy with those whose lives have been altered forever by this man. By The Interrogator, by HIM, known by a hundred names through The Realm, denounced in a thousand curses. Reminders, those faces, that HIS reach has been very long.

Very brief stories, some of them-though Mary Anne could wish for still more brevity as one young officer of U.N.I.T. relates the story of his capture, of falling into HIS hands.

“And I’ve never been able, since, to sleep in the dark . . .” Those hollow eyes, not the eyes of a young man. “Always with the light on, with some light, so I know just where I am when I wake up . . .”

Mary Anne feels Brandon’s sudden movement beside her, but when she glances at him he is quiet once again, his expression impenetrable rock as the officer goes on to explain that he was the fortunate beneficiary of a prisoner exchange before he had been there very long. But even in that short time . . .

Others. One young girl not out of her teens. “HE came with HIS people, for my mum and dad. They told me to hide in the closet-“

Mary Anne risks a glance in The Interrogator’s direction and thankfully HE is watching the young woman on the witness stand as well. There is nothing in HIS face, no feeling, be it contempt or amusement or remorse, only that detached regard as though HE has seen and heard it all and has no particular interest to spare for this waif of a witness.

Even though she actually saw HIM, thinks Mary Anne. HE acts as if that doesn’t matter. As if she doesn’t matter, and that’s worse than if HE laughed at her, or made threats . . . to HIM, she hardly exists.

And then, to her dismay, a more familiar voice. Not familiar to her personally, but that is unmistakably a Wessex accent as an older woman takes the stand.

“-and my poor man, my Geordie, what drove for ‘IM in Egdon, well, Geordie got scairt, see? Said as ‘ow ‘ed be gormed if ‘ed work any more for that’un-“ Her head jerks toward The Interrogator’s cage. “Said as how they didn’ call HIM the Bad Man for nothin’. Geordie thought as maybe ‘e could get to sea and ‘ed be clear . . .” Moments pass as the woman wipes her eyes. “But they foun’ my poor man in th’ weir. Drownded. Naught out o’ th’ common way, they said, but I know as it was HIM-“ Her voices rises. “I know as it was, I do!”

Once again, Mary Anne cuts her eyes briefly toward HIS cage, and oh, now the contempt is there, the smug certainty that there is nothing this poor woman of Egdon can bring against HIM, no proof, for the Egdon weir is a dangerous place; everyone knows it. Drownings there are not unknown-not “out of the common way.” No proof. The burden of no proof. Mary Anne turns away, watching for a moment as Rupert Cadell consults his list, then lowers her eyes, staring at the floor. At nothing. She can hear the rustle of paper, can hear Rupert clearing his throat . . .

“Mister Diggory Venn, to the stand.”

MA
The preliminaries have begun . . ., - Thursday, April 03, 2003 at 19:54:26 (PST)

Your voice sounds like a candle cut from a green velvet curtain.It captures a burning rich passion found only in the flame of a fire. Your flame shines bright and buries me in sensous sounds of solitude. In the dark I dare to dream of you and me fastened to the flame, flashing and dancing beneath black blankets of velvet. I've never been here before, embraced to the face I've dreamed of so long. Listen to me breathe, I can't mask my emotions for you. I want to be so close to you, I could melt into you and make you mine.
Ali
This is a poem inspired by Alan, - Thursday, April 03, 2003 at 18:51:10 (PST)

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