Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

The Brandons’ suite:

After removing his cloak and setting it aside, Brandon returns to Mary Anne and stands over her with his arms folded. "I am debating as to whether I should bestow my favours upon a woman who finds my attire so amusing."

Mary Anne allows herself to recline a bit more seductively. "Now that I’ve had time to look at it . . ." A mischievous grin. "You have very nice legs, Christopher."

Brandon glances down at the limbs under discussion with so droll an expression of puzzlement that Mary Anne has to bite her lip to keep from laughing again.

"And so have you, my dearest," he finally returns. "However, I cannot see your legs so well as you can see mine . . ."

Now Mary Anne cannot help laughing, as she obliges by extending her legs from under her nightdress and warming her feet at the fire. "Is this better?"

"Much."

In one graceful movement, Brandon seats himself next to her on the fur rug and indulges in a long stretch, easing his muscles after a trying day. Once, twice . . . before he gathers Mary Anne into his arms and, without a word, takes her face between his hands and kisses her, softly at first, repeatedly.

Maddeningly.

The balance has shifted so abruptly, as Mary Anne had known it can, and she has no objections. Laughter has fled.

"Christopher." That tremble of longing, and more than longing.

"Shhhhhh. It will be all right, my dearest."

That it, unspecified but present. The necessity of a terrible duty, but tonight, they must drive it far from them.

All sensations, heightened. The low hiss of the fire, its heat on her skin . . . is it from the fire? The taste of Brandon’s kisses lingering on her lips, and his circling touch, her skin tingling as if it could perceive each single and separate hair in the carpet of fur . . .

MA--so, Therese, I said I would.
Emily, thanks for the kind words. 8-), - Friday, February 01, 2002 at 18:41:11 (PST)

Flashback, Delaford

Therese walked up and down the aisleway in Colonel Brandon's stable, attempting not to further injure the feelings of the head groom, Jasper Hayes. She knew that he would never chastise or comment on her presence in his domain, for he was far too polite to do anything even resembling such behaviour. She knew also that he considered her frequent visits encroachment upon his territory, yet still could not stay away.

She spent long hours in the airy stalls, brushing the horse's already gleaming coats, and crooning to them softly. Nox followed her always, eagerly trotting beside her down the aisleway, and waiting patiently for her at the stall door while she groomed each occupant.

Of all the equine inhabitants of Brandon's livery, Menelaus was the recipient of the most attention. The regal black war horse arched his neck proudly upon Therese's arrival, and snuffed her blonde hair gently as he nuzzled her shoulder. "A fine warrior such as yourself, lowered to begging for treats," she admonished him with a smile, breaking off large chunks of the carrot she had liberated from the kitchen which quickly disappeared between velvety lips. "Colonel Brandon will be most displeased to return and find you so completely spoiled."

"Miss Gellert?"

Therese turned to see a young guard approach, one of the several AR Personnel who still patroled Delaford, and whose duty it was to protect her. For she was one of the few victims of The Interrogator to survive, and though HE had been taken into custody, no one was certain that each and every member of HIS staff had been captured. The Empress was careful and thorough where the protection of her subjects was concerned, and had left some of her best people behind. Therese knew she should appreciate this, was aware that it was for her own safety, and the well being of everyone on Brandon's estate, but each time she saw a member of this force, she couldn't help but think of HIM.

"Miss Gellert?" the guard repeated, his first attempt having illicited no response.

Therese turned to the man, "Oh, sorry, yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am. . ." the guard's fair hair made him look almost boyish, though Therese had no doubt that he was higly trained, and would be quite formidable if the situation warranted, but at the moment, he just seemed sheepish. "But Miss McCleod, well, she told me I should fetch you and that if 'ye dinna ken ta starve yeself near ta death,' then she has just pulled some fresh scones from the oven."

Therese attempted to smile at the guard, and realized that from his perspective it likely seemed more of a grimace than anything, but his presence had ruined the effect of the stables for her. "Thanks," she managed, before turning and heading toward the main house.

The smell of freshed baking did indeed permeate the main hall, but her appetite had not withstood her encounter in the stables, and instead she headed for the library, and the ever present comfort to be had amongst books. Opening the door, she found Eamon looking longingly toward the window from the center of the room, and caught the tail end of a sentence that she was certain had not been meant for her ears. ". . .I cannot leave her, yet there is good I might do elsewhere." His words were clipped, the frustration and anger contained within his speech and manner.

“Eamon? Where do you wish to go?”

He turned slowly to see her regarding him from the doorway, and it crossed her mind that any other person in this situation would smile self-consciously at being overheard, or make some far too obviously distracting counter to her question. But not Eamon. No, he was ever calm, the consumate politician and statesman, and crossed over to her side calmly. "Therese," he said warmly, taking her by one hand, "I did not hear you enter."

"That much was obvious."

He smiled down at her, his self-depricating half smile that was so much a part of his expression. "Where had you gone? I've been roaming the halls, annoying everyone I've run across in order to avoid coming after you."

"I've been in the stables, Eamon, the only other place I seem to be allowed to go without an entire flock of Personnel following, attempting to ignore the fact that my presence is horribly offensive to the groom, who perceives me as trespassing upon his domain, but quite welcome to the horses, so long as the carrots hold out."

"We might just as well have saved the inhabitants much aggrivation and stayed together."

Therese nodded, and pulled him toward the wing backed sofa that stood in front of the fireplace. "Come, let's sit, I've been on my feet for several hours, and as much as it disgusts me to admit it, I'm completely worn out."

A strong, supportive arm immediately went around her waist, and they situated themselves next to one another comfortably in front of the fire. "Shall I get you something to eat? Some tea?"

"I'd rather you told me where it is you'd rather be."

Dev took his spectacles off, and folding them, tucked the slender frames into his front shirt pocket. Laying an arm over Therese's shoulders, he drew her back toward him, settling her against his chest, and lowering his lips to hers, kissed her gently. "There are times," he remarked, after he had raised his head once again, "when I wonder at having chosen such a clever woman."

"Perhaps not so clever as tenacious?"

"Both, I think." His right hand rose to rub the bridge of his nose, and his eyes shut briefly as he struggled to find the correct words. "It troubles me, Therese, to be here, instead of at The Palace," he finally managed.

Therese swallowed the immediate sense of panic his words brought to her, and waited several long moments before replying. "You believe we should go there, then, and t-testify." She cursed herself for the tremor in her voice, hating that she should influence him in this matter.

"Absolutely not," he responded immediately, his voice flat.

"Perhaps, then, you should go, while I remain here," she finally managed, fighting the bile that rose up in her throat at the very thought of being separated from him.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, his voice firm. "I wouldn't entertain that notion for even a moment. Do you really think there is anything in the world which could possess me to leave you right now?"

Therese shook her head, her relief at his words palpable. "Still, you wish to be there, don't you?"

"My only concern is you," he said, taking her head between his hands, he leaned forward again, his kiss this time long and lingering. Several moments later when he leaned back along the sofa, and gently stroked her hair, Therese sighed, her mind churning. It had not escaped her notice that he had not truly answered her question, which, in a sense, was the most telling response of all.

Therese
the first measurable snowfall of the season today, 30 Jan, in *Iowa*. Who'd have thought?, - Wednesday, January 30, 2002 at 21:22:28 (PST)

The smell of bread in the small flat was overpowering, musty and earthy mixed with gentle thyme and mint that wafted througout the immaculate kitchen.

Much as she could stand disorder in her workspace and bedroom, Erika liked her kitchen organized. She once again glanced at the shell-moonstone decorated dry-erase board that sat on her refrigerator, reading in bright blue letters "Izzy! Anastasia! Tuckling! Dinn and a surprise play, tonight at 7!" Erika provided a dinner for a change and Izzy grabbed tickets to a play for the 4 ladies. Erika tossed the Couscous and Jasmine Rice salad with some violet petals and munched on a chick pea as she pondered the week. Her first day had gone rather well, in fact, although she had been slightly shy around the well known people, Erika hoped she had come off as nice. There had been the small spat with Jaques, when, running some memo's and forms to different areas, slammed into him coming around the corner and he applauded her sarcastically for her grace. He just...infuriated her and flustered her, and he had quite a presence as she could feel him whenever he came close to her. She expected he was put off by her somewhat Gypsy-like and otherworldly qualities, which she reveled in.

She wouldn't care, she mused as she took the Tandoori chicken from the oven and placed shredded lettuce and slices of starfruit around it, but it was only that she found herself attracted to him, no matter how many dirty or disdainful looks he gave her or curt replies when she said hello.

The doorbell rang and she quickly went to the door and opened it, revealing a tall woman with bright red hair, a calmer woman with many necklaces, beautiful with carved glass, and a young girl of about 14 with slightly less bright red hair who carried an origami box.

"Izzy," She greeted the redhead who plunged into the apartment to check on the food, "Anastasia," The brunette with the many necklaces smiled and went to follow Izzy, and she finally embraced the younger girl, "Tuck!! Whadja bring me?" They walked back into the apartment, where Ana and Izzy had already started on the peach and mango salsa with pita bread.

"Something special," Izzy mumbled through the food. Tuck grabbed the chicken and salad as they began to eat.

"But first...you have to tell us all about your adventures in the big world of 'Flights of Fancy'..." Tuck said dreamily, pulling the box away. Erika explained that Yes, all the men were more handsome in person, No, no one was mean to her, Yes, everyone was very down to earth and No, she wasn't sure yet if she could sneak Tuckling on set. Tuck snapped her fingers in dismay but pushed the box over as Erika chewed on some chicken.

"I think you'll like it. Alana is doing the makeup this time! Plus I know most of the involvee's, so we can get backstage if you want.." Izzy said smugly, chomping on a heath-bar, chocolate chunk cookie. Erika ripped into the box and found four tickets, to Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'

"Oh...my." She uttered before giving a salute to fate, wherever it was.

---

A Smlll Theater, somewhat close to Eri's flat

Jaques sat in a dim, small makeup room, next to some young girls who were getting fairy makeup applied as a young woman with spiky platinum blonde hair approached him with eyeliner.

"You know I hate this part..." He sighed melodramatically as he rubbed a horn at his slightly unruly hairline. The woman slapped his hand away as she applied makeup.

"Stop it! I just applied those!" She swayed to the light music coming from a stereo in the corner as she picked up some blue facepaint and a tiny brush by a picture frame, grabbing shimmering dust along with it.

"What're we listening to tonight?" He asked with drawling, mild sarcasm. She put shimmer on his eyelids and began to paint the the corner of the eyes out as he fluttered his long lashes.

"Baz. Thought it would get you in a better mood. Things go any better at work today?" He ran a hand through his now darker hair, tinted a deep ebony before he came into Makeup.

"No...The girl basically shoved me into a wall. She's so unreal...absolutely flaky. My knee still hurts..." He gave a grimace and she pulled some glitter from the makeup table as he noticed the picture for the first time. 6 young women stood grinning, each in tight black shirts and cut off, loose black pants. He eyed over each of the females and then noticed-

"Alana, what's that picture of?" She looked at him quizzically but picked it up and handed it to him with a gentle smile.

"I did costuming and makeup for a Modern Dance troupe a while back. The Wild Roses. They were amazing...they had to stop, not enough support I guess. Why?" He fingered the girl grinning in the middle, a flower stuck behind her ear.

"Who's this?"

She looked over his shoulder and a smile spread across her face, "The one in the middle? She was the co-founder. That's Rie! Erika-," She was cut off as he broke in.

"Lannie...That's the girl I told you about...who works with me." Erika the other production assistant grinned back at him from the dark picture and he felt his heart race.

--------
Carmen <DharmaChamelian>
Wow! In absolute wonderment here, what great parts lately! (Or perhaps I am easily awed...), - Wednesday, January 30, 2002 at 19:10:54 (PST)

sorry about that it put in the box usa...and im a native brit so i felt as though i had to correct that mistake. =)
Emily
- Wednesday, January 30, 2002 at 18:36:59 (PST)

Duplicate post removed, country corrected - these things are just so important !!
Claire
Also from the UK,  -Saturday, February 2, 2002 at 06:36:04 (PST)

I think that all of these stories especally mary-anns are very witty and well written. Col. Brandon is my favorite character, frightfully wonderful job. I am impressed! Keep up the good work.

Emily
Emily
smiles a lot UK, - Wednesday, January 30, 2002 at 18:35:39 (PST)

The Palace:

In one of the many drawing rooms Cynthia sat at a table pretending to enjoy a game of bridge. It seemed that her presence was essential in order to make up a fourth, at least according to the Dowager Knows Everything that had roped her into the game in such a manner that would have made her refusal seem a breach of manners if not Court protocol. Cynthia smiled and made noncommittal noises at her chatter and played badly enough that when one of the Dowager’s regular bunch appeared she was permitted to demure to the other player. She left the table and ducked into a nearby sitting room where she found a beautiful Delft tiled hearth with a blaze going fit to roast an ox. Drawn to the quiet and the flames she walked over to the hearth and gazed into the fire. In it she saw the wreckage of the car. She knew it was past time to move on, date, perhaps even try to find someone for whom she could care. Her breath came out as a sigh.

“What could so trouble such a self possessed woman?”

At the drawled query she nearly leapt out of her dress. Turning, she saw the speaker, the Vicomte de Valmont who was sprawled out in one of the arm chairs, one foot draped negligently over the side. He smiled at her surprise, “Did the Dowager’s friend show up to relieve you?” Just the barest hint of a smile played upon his too full lips.

“Yes, how did you know?” At his widened smile and bow of the head she knew he had engineered her rescue. “Why did you do that?”

“Because it pleased me.” He had been careful not to call her a beautiful woman. Instinctively he knew that flattery of her looks would not be the surest route to her bed. “I could not allow any further torment with that company. I know the woman in question and would not even have my enemies suffer so.”

“Then I am in your debt. It is very possible that I could not have withstood much more.”

“Not at all, your smile is its own reward.”

“You should be warned Vicomte, that I am not one of your idle Parisian ladies seeking a diversion in your arms.”

“Nor did I ever think you were. If that were the case I should be flattering you and convincing you to come with me to see the Vermeer portrait in the third floor, very secluded, very dimly lit, display room.”

“Well then, since we are settled on that not happening, what shall we do? Please, nothing involving smoky rooms and dull card games.”

“If you are intrepid, we could take a moonlit walk in the garden. There are no flowers but it is still pleasing to the eye and the fountains are still lit and …well, if you wish to accompany me, I shall show you.”

Cynthia considered briefly. It did sound intriguing, and certainly safe, nothing untoward could happen outdoors, it was far too cold and there were guards everywhere. Handsome guards in cloaks. She wondered if Valmont would sport a cloak, they seemed to be de rigueur here, she had packed one. They made arrangements to meet at the east entrance in twenty minutes. Valmont watched as she exited from the room before him, his predatory gaze sweeping her retreating figure. This was going almost too well.

Cindie
- Wednesday, January 30, 2002 at 18:17:41 (PST)

Presentiment. What a great word.
Elyot
- Wednesday, January 30, 2002 at 17:13:58 (PST)

“I miss them you know.” It was an afternoon conversation conducted on the flattest stretch of the Road for three days. Weaving through the ever thicker canopy of trees.

“It’s natural, we’ve been together for weeks.” Sinclair replied drawing up along side. “Do you want me to take a turn up there?”

Claire shook her head. “I always found the sounds comforting at night.”

“Well I appreciate the peace and quiet.” Sinclair’s mouth firmed at the corners. This was not quite what he envisaged as the grand expedition. Three wagons and spare horses. Circumstances conspired to whittle the party overnight, a combination of sickness and good fortune had robbed the party of three more families.

Part of him wished to be on the River, two rather than ten days away from civilisation, but there was no persuading a woman with a presentiment. He had not even tried. They had always left their final destination suitably hazy, Sinclair suspected it was because each preferred their own imaginings, strong willed individuals evading a final truth. In their wagon there were no promises made, dreams shared of homes with windows made of real glass.

“I expect PL misses them most.” Claire sighed. “They were his family, Daisy and so forth. Well he has his work cut out now. Those ridges and ruts were so bad today he took the reins off Dana within the hour.”

“Daisy? “ Sinclair struggled to recollect the women folk. For one moment O’Hara’s indiscretion flitted through his mind. “Daisy …I thought that was all over.” He ventured uncertainly.

“All over? Daisy was his favourite you know that.”

“Of course. His favourite …” There was a pause. Sinclair felt he was being played a line, but he wasn’t quite certain if this was the next instalment of their constant battle to outwit and amuse.

“Still I’m sure Running Bear will have them round to the Willamette in no time.” Nonchalantly Claire revealed.

“Yes yes …. I’m sure the Cattle drive will not be long behind us.” Sinclair reined back to avoid that look he knew had spread across Claire’s face. She had caught him out on that one but he wasn’t about to admit it.

Claire
- Wednesday, January 30, 2002 at 16:10:52 (PST)

Imperial Palace, the Brandons’ suite:

Brandon’s soft tread, however quiet, is no match for Mary Anne’s keen hearing. When he is within a few feet of her, she turns and looks up at him . . . then opens her eyes wide and stares.

Brandon has resumed his long white cloak and cuts a most dashing figure, looming above her in the firelight, but as Mary Anne’s eyes travel over him, she cannot help grinning when she sees his bare feet poking out beneath the hem of the cloak.

Chuckling, Mary Anne strokes the rug. "Feels wonderful, doesn’t it?"

Brandon pulls an innocent face and glances down as if completely unaware that his feet had been resting on a fur rug, but the effect is rather spoiled by how his toes flex and curl in appreciation of the plush texture. "Does it? I hadn’t noticed." And at Mary Anne’s hrrrmph of disbelief, he adds, "I suppose I was . . . distracted."

"You’re quite . . . distracting, yourself." Mary Anne eyes him once again, from his bare toes to the clasp of his cloak. "You look like an angel."

"An angel?" Brandon raises an eyebrow. "I would have thought you looked the part a great deal more than I."

"I don’t mean that sort of angel, not one of those prettified, sentimental pictures. They’re too . . . too safe. I meant a real angel."

Your guardian angel, my dearest? Brandon clears his throat. "Thank you for the compliment, but I must warn you—" The glint in his eyes. Not firelight. "—that at this moment, I feel neither angelic nor safe."

"Nor do I." That grin of hers. Challenging.

"Then," continues Brandon, reaching for the clasp of his cloak, "I believe it would be to our mutual advantage for me to cast aside any angelic-seeming vestments."

Mary Anne sits up straighter, patting her hands together in light applause. "Oh, yes. I am in favour of casting aside vestments, by all means—"

Brandon’s cloak opens, and Mary Anne bursts into laughter.

With difficulty, Brandon keeps a straight face. "Do you find my attire inappropriate?"

"No, sir, but I—" Mary Anne cannot stop giggling. "I’ve never seen you wear a nightshirt before!"

Brandon looks down at the long linen garment that reaches nearly to his knees. "And why, may I ask, should a man not wear a nightshirt? Especially as we are now further north and it is much colder—"

Mary Anne sighs, getting back her breath after her outburst of laughter. "If you feel you have to resort to a nightshirt to keep warm, then I have obviously been remiss in my wifely duties." A sly upward glance, as she pats the rug invitingly. "I shall set about correcting that at once, but first, Christopher, you’d better put that cloak somewhere safe. It’s beautiful, and you wouldn’t want it to get burned."

Smiling, Brandon unclasps the cloak. "But Mary Anne, I am not near the fireplace."

"Who said anything about the fireplace?"

MA--Anton Gruber, grrrrrowling poetry? Ach du lieber, Cindie!!
Okay, Therese, OKAY, here's the next installment . . . ;-), - Tuesday, January 29, 2002 at 19:42:38 (PST)

Flashback
Wagensburg:

It was almost closing time and the young bespectacled man who was gatekeeper for past issues of the Wagensburg Zeitung had begun politely coughing and putting away pens and pencils and anything else which might serve as a hint to this American woman that he had better places to be. Cynthia looked pointedly at the large wall clock which clearly indicated she had a full ten minutes. The sandy haired fellow with the wire rimmed glasses could give the Zeitung a full day’s work today. She had one more paper in this stack of microfiche and had every intention of giving it a thorough going over.

It hadn’t occurred to her when she volunteered for newspaper duty that her very limited German would pose a barrier. As it was she scanned for names and a few key words Anton had written down for her. She again consulted his clean precise hand – she had found something. As nearly as she could determine it was an advertisement placed by Gruber Glassworks recruiting workers for the Glassworks factory. Cynthia let out a quiet “yesssssss” and hit the print key on the microfiche reader. She also copied the front page and the surrounding articles and classifieds for good measure. She tucked the roll of microfiche back in the case and turned it back in to the front desk with two minutes to spare. With a nod to her silent and impatient watchdog she tucked the pages in her handbag and returned to the Inn to see how the others had fared.

Anton and Chandos were at the Inn when she arrived and it was agreed they would meet in their room in twenty minutes to go over their results before going downstairs for dinner. It seemed best to discuss things in private. Cynthia was bursting to show them what she’d found but had to admit that a wash up and cold water on tired eyes was most welcome. She changed for dinner and tapped on the boys’ door. Anton opened it. He sported a grey dressing gown with purple undertones over his slacks and smelled like lavender and sandalwood soap. He was also very excited.

He quickly pulled her into the room and closed the door behind them, “I have found out where they keep them, the old ledgers.”

“How did you manage that so quickly?” Cynthia asked.

The Steel Fox smiled, looking more like the Siberian Tiger he had been dubbed in the Forbes article in which he and his company had been the feature story a few months back. “The proprietor’s wife likes the way I declaim German poetry.”

“Indeed, Herr Gruber. And how, pray tell, do you declaim German poetry?”

“With a grrrrrrrrowl that drives Frau Innkeeper to distraction,” he said in her ear. She could see where he would have that effect.

“Can we get them? Will she let us see them?”

“Chandos and I have been discussing how best to proceed.” Anton led her to a chair at the big oak table they had gathered around last night. Chandos had been sitting on the far bed tying his shoes and came over to join them.

“We know that our host is going to be out for the evening.” Chandos inclined his head towards Anton, “thanks to the charms and poetry recitations of Herr Gruber.” Anton gave the slightest nod of acknowledgment. “The Frau was very anxious that he should know the coast would be clear this evening.” Chandos smile was good humoured but not benign.

Anton coughed discreetly. “We had thought it best if I occupied our hostess while Herr Chandos secured the ledgers.”

“I see.” Cynthia responded. Her mind was full of visions of Anton Gruber in the role of *Anton, Ace of Spies*. She’d turn any secret plans she happened to have over to him in a heartbeat. “What will I be doing while you gentlemen are engaged in these, ah, activities?” She enquired.

Chandos had her answer. “The old ledgers are in a storage area behind the front desk. There is a sliding door in the wall behind the counter opening onto a set of shelves. The ledgers are in there. It is not locked as there is nothing valuable but it would seem best if none of us are seen accessing them, since we do not know who sent us our little love note last night, nor what their intentions are.”

“Agreed. So I am the look out?”

“Yes,” Chandos responded, “you will need to watch for anyone entering or leaving the Inn, as they’ll go right past where I’ll be, and if Anton should lose our hostess’ attention, you’ll have to let me know.”

“Fear not Herr Chandos,” came Anton’s retort, “I shall keep her fully …engaged.” He turned to Cynthia, “Now, what was it you had to tell us? From the look on your face when you came in it seemed that perhaps you had some luck as well.”

“As a matter of fact, Herr Gruber, you are not the only one to get lucky today.” Cynthia deadpanned and reached for her handbag, “I came across an advertisement from an old newspaper, which I believe is some sort of recruitment notice for the Glassworks.” She reached in to pull out the sheaf of copied pages and came up empty. She looked in and rustled around, it wasn’t a large bag and didn’t have much in it, there was no mistaking what wasn’t there. “They’re gone.”

Cindie
- Tuesday, January 29, 2002 at 17:14:38 (PST)

Dev's Flat

Where have you been these past several months, Therese?"

His question hung in the small kitchen area, and Therese toyed with the stem of her wine glass, her brown eyes contemplating this task studiously. She traced the rounded circle with an index finger, then ran it up the side and around the rim, tipping the glass toward her slightly. She watched the deep, burgandy coloured liquid tilt dangerously toward the edge before righting it once more. She was just beginning the process of tracing the glass and tilting it for the second time when a strong hand clamped down on her wrist, and the wine was removed from her grasp.

"I'm trying for both patience and understanding, but I am human."

Therese looked up at Eamon, her huge brown eyes wary and pained. She'd contemplated this moment many times over, had wondered just how much to tell him, and how much should be kept to herself. She knew now, had known then, actually, that only the truth, in it's entirety, would suffice. She took a deep, ragged breath, feeling the familiar sense of pain and loss, and began.

"You remember that night at the Stag and Thistle?" she asked softly. "The night that you told me you could not be without a committment from me, and that I told you there could be no one else?"

At her pause Dev nodded, his dark hazel eyes boring into her, but revealing nothing. It was as if he had turned off his emotions, and expected the worst. "I remember, go on."

"We spent much of that weekend at my flat, if you recall, in fact I don't believe we left until we were expected at work on Monday morning."

"What are you getting at, Therese?"

"Five weeks after that I realized I'd not had my. . .I hadn't. . ." even still, the words stuck in her throat, but she struggled onward. "I took a pregnancy test just a few days after the Halloween Ball, Eamon. It came back positive."

Eamon stepped around the counter, turning her chair, with her in it, to face him. He laid a single hand upon her flat midsection, then stepped back several paces, and crossed his arms over his chest. "That would have been months ago, Therese," he said, his voice cold and flat. "How could you?" he demanded, the fury and pain barely controlled within his voice. "What manner of woman could do this to us, to our--?"

"Eamon! You think that I--" she turned to look at him, at the harsh lines of his face, the steely gaze directed down at her. "You apparantly think precisely that," she said, her tone soft and sad. "When I discovered I was expecting our child, I was overwrought. I knew that you would insist upon our marrying immediately, and I felt I needed time to think."

"To think about what?" he interrupted her, his tone demanding. "It seems to me at that point there was nothing left to consider. There should have been one option, and one option alone, and it should have--would have been imediate."

"Which is precisely why I left," Therese admitted, the pain obvious in her voice. "I didn't actually go anywhere specific at first, I stayed in a tiny cottage in Scotland until the worst of the morning sickness was over. It lasted for only a month, and I walked through the hills, thinking about you, about us--about being a family. It was a difficult time, but a time of adjustment. I missed you terribly, but I knew I couldn't call, Eamon, or you'd bring me back, and I'm sorry, but I still needed time."

"Knew I would never have allowed you to destroy our child?" he almost spat the words at her, his tone savage. "So you had to run away and do it on your own?"

Therese flinched from his words, as if from the force of a blow, and looked up him beseechingly. "Do you really think that of me?" she asked, her voice low. "Could I ever do such a thing?"

"What else am I to think?" he demanded, "you're not pregnant now."

"No," she responded quietly, "I'm not. By the time I was two and a half months I knew that I had no choice but to return, and tell you. I won't say that I didn't consider what you're thinking, but there is no way I could ever have done so. I incapable of destroying any living thing, Eamon, how could I possibly imagine harming a part of you? I'd planned to return at the weekend, when I awoke in the middle of the night, doubled over in pain. I called the caretaker, and his wife came, but there was nothing to be done at that point. I hadn't truly had time to even accept my situation, so there was no way I could have been prepared for the incredible, bonewrenching sorrow I would feel." She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears at the memory of that awful night several months ago, and watched his hands drop to his sides.

He was there before her then, pulling her from the chair and hugging her to his body. "Yet you still stayed away," he whispered into her hair.

"I couldn't turn to you then, Eamon--don't you see? I'd kept it from you that we were to have a child, how could I suddenly return, and expect you to mourn something that you'd never even known had been?"

"You should know that you can turn to me for anything, Therese, at any time."

She nodded against his chest, lying her head upon the shelf of his collarbone, and holding him tight. He lead her to the sofa in the living room, lowered himself into the cushions, and curled her up upon his lap. "You still didn't return," he said many moments later.

"No, I didn't," she agreed. "I flew back to the States."

"You were in America?" he asked incredulously, "and didn't even let me know?"

"I had things I had to settle," she explained, "loose ends to clear up."

"What type of 'loose ends'?"

"I sold my house, to begin with."

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"Because I don't think I'll want to live there again."

"No?"

"No. I'd hoped, you see, to know that I'd probably stay in England for so long as the show runs, but then I thought I might relocate to Ireland."

"Ireland?"

"Yes, wonderful little island, lovely people, exceptional horses--"

"I'm aware of the place," Eamon told her, his tone arid. "Why Ireland?"

Therese paused, and gazed up at his face, so close to her own. There were times during the several months when she'd been away that she'd felt she couldn't breathe, her heart would constrict so painfully from missing him. She'd known that he would be furious with her for having left, but she'd counted upon his love for her being so great, that he would be able to forgive her even this. Still, it was hard to voice. "Ireland," she said, very slowly and distinctly, "because that's where the man I wish to marry is from."

Therese
- Monday, January 28, 2002 at 20:37:03 (PST)

Flashback
Wagensburg:

The next morning they met over breakfast downstairs. Though they were the only ones in the room they spoke in hushed tones trying to formulate a plan which had some hope of yielding results. There were the obvious places, the records room, or wherever birth and death notices were kept, the archives for past newspapers, possibly the newspaper office or the library if there was one, and the local population. The latter seemed a bleak prospect given the general polite suspicion by which they’d been met. It was decided that Chandos would try the job of charming the socks off of everyone while Anton would try the records and Cynthia would have a go at newspapers of the time.

They agreed to meet up for lunch which was provided by the Inn but which they ate outdoors, the weather being fine. This was particularly agreeable to the archivists who had unearthed little but decades old dust and who welcomed the fresh air and sunshine. Anton looked tired, “If there is a record to be found they’ve done a fine job of hiding it,” he groused.

“Don’t get discouraged yet. We’ve just got here” Chandos had been popping in and out of shops and was in a much better frame of mind.

“Easy for you to say. You’ve been eating bakery and being charming all morning.” Cynthia was with Anton at the moment. “Did you learn anything?”

“Only that I’m a local legend along with my compatriots. I’m fascinating! Sadly no one actually knows our names so I am an anonymous celebrity.” He looked crest fallen but brightened when handed a bottle of beer.

“Cheer up! If they knew all that was in those little bags you made off with they wouldn’t be so charitable. As it is you only compare favourably with Rose Noble and his lot.” Cynthia knew Chandos didn’t give a whit for celebrity or lack of it, but always enjoyed a chance to needle him about his romantic past as a gentleman treasure hunter. “Have you found out anything?”

“No, not really. Everyone is polite but nobody knows anything about this person or the cross. No one is owning up to having heard the name Gruber either.” He paused, “You know, the Inn keeps ledgers going way back. I wonder if any of our friends might have signed in.”

“That is a good thought,” Anton was looking happier, “why don’t you check?”

“I don’t think they’re going to let me do that.”

“Then you will have to find a way.” Anton intoned.

“I wonder where they keep the old books.” Cynthia was warming up to this idea.

“I will find out.” Anton had a mission.

Cindie
- Monday, January 28, 2002 at 18:53:59 (PST)

Just a note for those interested, Rebecca has a new story up at Flourish & Blotts -- no Snape -- Mad Eye Moody and Imogene.
Cindie
still sniffling, - Monday, January 28, 2002 at 17:40:52 (PST)

Imperial Palace—the Brandons’ suite:

Brandon dismisses the valet and the ladies’ maids on the pretext that the hour is very late and that he is certain they will be glad to seek their own beds. "I shall attend my wife," he insists. The maids are far too mannerly and well-trained to question him, and if they exchange glances with the valet, those glances are subtle, with no more than the least hint of a smile. Bidding the Brandons good night, and inquiring as to what hour in the morning their services will be needed, the servants retire.

Grimacing a little at his own inconsistency, Brandon moves to assist Mary Anne. You insisted that she make use of their services, Brandon thinks as he undoes the tiny pearl buttons down the back of Mary Anne’s gown, mesmerized by the sparkle of the Cantarian fabric at every brush of his fingers. Brandon’s palms slide up her back, to linger at her shoulders, caressing . . . and then he gently lifts his hands, and strides off toward his own dressing room. Control yourself. She has had a long day, and if she is already in the bed and sound asleep, then all the better for her.

For he had been watching her all evening, watching without seeming to watch, and had taken note of the strain in her face, her hesitancy. His darling Mary Anne, with all her dash and spirit—watching him all through dinner to make certain she did not reach for the wrong fork. Speaking to The Empress with perfect decorum, but always aware of the grave duty she has been summoned to perform. Clearly enjoying her dinner, from consomme’ to mousse au chocolat, but eating with an air of distraction, her eyes roaming the table—not with the delight she has always taken in excellent food.

Brandon frowns as he carefully removes his white cloak and unbuttons his uniform coat. She is afraid, of course. And well she might be. I will do what I can, but if only there were more . . .

Brandon finishes his preparations for the night and opens the door of his dressing room—then stops.

Mary Anne is not in bed. She sits before the fireplace, curled up on an extravagantly luxurious fur rug, taking down her hair and combing it out, stopping occasionally to hold her hands out toward the blaze, or to run her fingers slowly over the carpet, rubbing the thick, silken strands between the tips of her fingers. Watching her, Brandon feels the catch of breath and heart—both stopping for an instant, then resuming . . . though at a quickened pace. Her profile against the fire, fine and pure and clear-cut as an ivory cameo. The light playing in her hair. He cannot see her eyes, but knows what the look of them would be, the drowsy half-lidded sparkle of invitation . . .

Slowly, very slowly, Brandon smiles. Exhaustion, anxiety, melancholy: all of these must be banished from Mary Anne’s presence, and shall be. Silently, Brandon turns back into his dressing room, closing the door—to emerge a few moments later, walking quietly, oh-so-quietly toward his wife . . .

MA--girls, looks like it'll be a mass grave, then!
Ack, Therese, and ack once more . . . , - Sunday, January 27, 2002 at 19:09:46 (PST)

Yeah, that sounds about right.
Cindie
You're killin' me, woman., - Sunday, January 27, 2002 at 17:13:23 (PST)

Dev's Flat

The ride from the FoF back lot to Eamon's flat had been a quiet one. Tory, generally inquisitive about her surroundings whilst in a vehicle, had curled up in the back seat of Dev's midnight blue BMW, and was napping contentedly. Therese might have been a bit uncertain at the silence, as it was very atypical of them to not talk to one another about every topic imaginable, except for the fact that when his left hand was not manuvering the gear shift, it was resting possessively on her leg.

She had been surprised to see that their destination was his flat, and not hers. Eamon frequently stayed with her, rather than she with him, not because of choice or intent, but simply because there was a clause in Dev's lease which did not permit dogs.

They stood for a moment on the front stoop of the stone building as Dev unlocked and opened the front door, ushered her ahead, then stepped inside. Therese was always struck by the spare, spartan quality of his abode, the sofa and chairs were functional but unimpressive, and as was so seldom true of her own quarters, there wasn't a single item out of place. Magazines were stacked neatly on one corner of the coffee table, and tall, overflowing bookshelves filled the entire floorspace along two walls. Therese knew, from experience, that these books were arranged in very specific order, with regard to subject, author, and his own particular preference. In one corner of a bottom shelf, Therese had made her presence known, and her collection of Herriot, horse, and Shakespeare was still there, just as she'd left it.

She felt Eamon's hands along her shoulders, helping her out of her coat, "Tea or wine?" he asked, while leaning over her ear.

Therese watched him take hangers from the front closet, noting his economy of movement even at that simple task, and she swallowed slowly. "Better make it wine, I should think." She'd known it would be difficult, facing him after her long absence, but his continued silence unnerved her to a far greater degree than would his shouting. She and Eamon had always been able to talk--they kept one another awake long into the night with their discussions, and were never short of topics to explore whether alone or when spending time with their friends. This easy ability to communicate had made them close from the start, and it was something she had always relied upon. Even their rows, and those were not infrequent, were long, drawn out, and much talked over affairs.

Eamon moved to the kitchen area, and crouching down he opened the bottom cupboard doors of a standing wicker cabinent. He considered the several standing bottles before selecting one. "Think you'll be in need of fortification, then?" he asked, holding up Therese's favorite merlot.

"I rather think I might."

Had she wished to be put at ease, she was disappointed. Dev's responding look was inscruitable, and straigtening once again, he retrieved two long stemmed glasses from those hanging in the cabinent. He moved to the tall chairs that stood before the breakfast nook, and pulled one back for Therese. She crossed to the seat, and climbed into it, tucking her legs beind the bottom rungs. She closed her eyes briefly as she felt his hands caress the nape of her neck, then trail down her shoulders and back before he deliberately stepped to the other side of the counter.

It took only a few moments for the wine to be uncorked, and soon he was handing her a glass. She took a small sip of the dark beverage, and inhaled it's dusky scent before returning it to the counter and meeting Eamon's gaze.

The silence was complete, and Therese vowed she would not be the one to break it, even if she had to give way to the tremours she could feel working their way along her spine.

Finally, when she thought she might be on the brink of madness if he didn't say something, he reached out to her with his right hand, and cradled her chin in his palm. "Where have you been these past months, Therese?"

Therese
sound about right to you, Cindie?, - Sunday, January 27, 2002 at 17:02:00 (PST)

Delaford

It was that time of night, deep into the small hours, when even an estate the size of Delaford is silent and still. The piercing, terrified wail tore through to Eamon's consciousness, causing him to leap from his bed, his adrenaline fueled heart pumping wildly.

Within moments he had caught his bearings, and turned to the small, trembling figure whom he had so recently lain beside. He reached to touch her arm, but she flailed out, her fist connecting with the solid muscles of his upper arm. Even lost in the depths of the nightmare, Therese focused on the reality of his flesh, crying out, and striking at his arms and chest. "No!" she cried, her struggles taking on renewed urgency as Eamon gently took her wrists into his grasp, "let me go!"

As he had on other occassions, Eamon soothed her in his deep Irish brogue, inwardly cursing the creature who had done the things she remembered in her dreams, but had not been able to voice to him. He kept speaking to her softly as he eased himself onto the bed behind her, and pulled her against his chest. Folding her arms in front of her body, he was able to hold both wrists in one hand, leaving the other free to softly stroke her hair. "Wake up now, a chuisle mo chroí (my darling/treasure), you must awake."

Therese's struggles slowly began to lessen, until finally she ceased all together as was able to pull herself from the depths of her nightmare. When she opened her eyes, they radiated her fear and confusion. "Cen tam e?" (what time is it?) she asked, unintentionally lapsing into Irish, using the same tongue with which he had soothed her from her dream.

"Ta se a tri a chlog ar maidin." (It is three o'clock in the morning.)

She looked at him, startled, wondering at the time, and why he held her, then took her hand from his grasp, and trailed light fingers over the angry red marks that stood out along his bare arms and shoulder. Slowly, snipits of the horrors she had relived began to return to her, and she began to shake, knowing that she had put those marks upon him as she struggled. "I'm sorry," she said softly, her misery evident in her tone.

Eamon shifted her position in his arms, cradling her slender form against his chest as he leaned back against the pillows propped up along the headboard. "It is nothing," he soothed, taking her hand from his arm, he placed it against his heart. "Less than nothing, compared to your pain."

"Tá grá agam duit." (I love you.)

"And I, you, Therese. You are my heart, and my life."

She laid there, resting against his chest for several moments, gazing at his features in the dimly lit room. The moon outside shone in the window next to the bed from between the parted curtains, softening the lines of his face. Deep hazel eyes regarded her intently, unable to hide behind the gold edged spectacles which were still folded neatly on the nightstand. She could see the concern radiated there, and the pain, which he tried so desperately to hide. "Shall I tell you of my nightmare?"

Eamon didn't respond for long moments, thinking of how it had torn at him when she had choosen not to disclose what she had suffered at HIS hands after her return. He had taken it personally, her inability to confide, and had been even more affected when it had been Mary Anne she had wished to turn to, instead of himself. But now she offered to tell him part of what she had suffered, and he was afraid he couldn't bear it. "If you wish."

He could feel her response as much as hear it, was aware of her forehead moving back and forth against the colum of his throat as she nodded, and he steeled himself against the words to come. "Look at me, Therese!"

She turned her head away from HIM, her eyelids closed tightly as she struggled to keep her mind on Eamon, and when he would come to rescue her. She felt the bite of HIS fingers as HE took the base of her skull in HIS hand, and manually forced her head around toward HIMself. She was on the floor of the main room, the one HE had taken her to originally, her arms manacled to the wall behind her, legs stretched out from her body. HE knelt over her lap, sitting back on her thighs slightly, bearing most of HIS weight on HIS own legs, but allowing enough presure to remind her of the power HE held.

Beside them both, on the floor, lay a hypodermic needle, a beaded drop of liquid pearling from the sharp tip. HE forced her head around to look at syringe. "Open your eyes, Therese, OPEN THEM."

Still, she remained as she was, eyelids tightly closed.

She knew how it angered HIM, her direct refusal to comply with HIS commands, but it was one of the few areas of rebellion left to her. HE could control her physically, but she vowed to never let HIM control her spirit. When she felt the stinging prick in her upper arm, she twisted and lurched, trying to throw HIM from her. HE responded by grasping her legs more firmly between HIS own, and pressing HIS full weight down upon her. She concentrated then on using her upper body to evade HIM, but she was securely pinned between the manacles and the stone wall, could feel the long, cold needle burrowing into her flesh, and the intense burning sensation as the contents of the syringe was forced into her.

Therese had paused, allowing several, long moments to pass as she thought back upon those long hours of captivity. "I see it now," she remarked, looking up and into Eamon's eyes. "It was probably nothing more than saline, though I guess I'll never know for certain, but what HE did to me was secondary. The torment was for me to contemplate what HE'd done, and how it might affect me." Pulling away from him, Therese turned around completely until she faced him on the bed. "HE counts on this experience to effect me still, doesn't HE?"

Eamon nodded slowly, swallowing with difficulty at even this tiny part of what Therese had been through. He was skilled at interrogation and force in his own right, but was unprepared at the onslaught of emotion he felt hearing the result of it from Therese's own lips. "Yes," he finally managed, "I am certain HE does."

"Then Eamon, what I must do is obvious. . .I must go and face HIM, and testify against HIM in front of the Empress."

Therese
proceeding as ordered, - Saturday, January 26, 2002 at 19:00:29 (PST)

Eamon Vivion deValera paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in the library. When he initially had entered the room he did two things. First, he checked the hearth for any signs of the shattered remnants of his temper. There were none. Second, he checked to make sure that he was alone in the room. He was.

Now he paced, a quandary of a new sort pressing on his agile mind. He had allowed himself to be placed in the untenable position of being relied upon by a man whom he deeply respected and whose respect he felt he had yet to earn despite the fact that it had been bestowed upon him. More than once. The keeping of this place had been given over to him and he would not take that trust and responsibility lightly. Added to that, even though Therese had improved dramatically in the environment of the fresh air at Delaford and in the company of its four legged inhabitants, she was still not as strong as she had been before….

…And yet, there was the nagging thought that while he was here, tending to the estate of his friend and watching over Therese and her recovery, that the Realm would be better served if he were at the Palace to add his testimony to that of Mary Anne and the other witnesses. Even if Therese were yet unable to tell her story, and he knew he did not wish her to have to do that, he had seen much and could add his voice to the Prosecution. He had seen the aftermath of HIS work, from the explosives HE had engineered around his love’s small frame to the way he had to take off his glasses even now when he bent to kiss her, lest their glint cause her to shy away in recollection of another pair. If adding his voice to those who were already at the Palace to speak would assist in ensuring that HE was in no position to hurt anyone ever again then he had to find a way to make that happen.

Brandon’s words when asking Eamon to act as the master of Delaford in his absence and to resolve any disputes among the tenants were too apt. I know that everyone involved would receive a fair hearing and a wise judgment… A fair hearing, more than HE deserved. But a fair hearing HE would receive, the Empress was renown for her even hand. As for a wise judgment. . . could his story help the Empress to render just that? The Empress was fair, in all senses, but the hand of her justice, though encased in velvet, was as steel underneath. If there was sufficient evidence to convict HIM of a capital crime, she would not stay that hand. His first instinct was to protect Therese at all costs, nothing could be more important. Yet he knew that there were other considerations as well. Justice, a higher cause. He was not one to shy from serving a higher cause, but while he would serve such a calling with his own life, he would not serve it with hers.

And he would not leave her. That was a cold certainty. It took all of his self mastery not to follow her each time she went out to the stables or the paddocks. The compliment of AR personnel which had been left at Delaford would keep a discreet watch on her. He knew the logic of that and knew that she would not welcome him guarding her too closely. That logic was a poor antidote for the craving in his soul to know her safe every single moment. Thank God, and he did on a regular basis, she was safe and was still Therese. Such an ordeal could not help but change her to some degree, but he’d seen that flash in her eyes that let him know she was herself. It had been irresistible this morning to enquire after the shape of his favourite jumper. He knew she had been wearing it and would react strongly to the intimation that she may have stretched it out in certain places. As if her still too thin frame would allow such a thing. The reward of her biting remark and indignation had been sweet and well worth the loss of the jumper in question which he had already given up as hers. Even now he resisted the impulse to go to a window overlooking the stable yard in search of a glimpse of her… “What shall I do? I cannot leave her and yet there is good I might do elsewhere…”

“Eamon? Where do you wish to go?”

Looking up sharply at the now open library door, and silently cursing its well-oiled hinges, he found that he was no longer alone in the room.

Dev
Resorting to writing my own material.
I believe that *homage* is the appropriate term to acknowledge the writer who had tended to my professional appearances in the absense of Therese., - Saturday, January 26, 2002 at 13:57:05 (PST)

Excellent work, Miranda.
Magda
- Saturday, January 26, 2002 at 06:45:41 (PST)

Miranda sits in shock, not noticing anything around her. I'm pregnant? How can I be pregnant? I'm 16 and I'm an angel.

She looks to Metatron who seems to be in the same shock. She gets up slowly and walks off the stage. She could hear the people saying 'Congratulations' and other things like that but she just walks right past them. She pushes open the door to the Great Hall.(ahaha. I didn't realize 'till yesterday that I was calling it that, whoops.) She steps outside and looks around. The hall was dark and quiet, a perfect place to collect herself.

Miranda sighs and sits down on the floor next to the door. She leans up against the wall and stares at the roof. Why me? Of all the angels in Heaven, why me? God knows I'm not the most dependable person, or the smartest. So why pick me to do this?

Miranda looks up when the door opens. Metatron steps out. He sees her and walks over to her. Miranda looks at him.

"Did you know?" Metatron shakes his head 'no'. Miranda brings her knees up to her chest and places her forehead on them, not looking back up at him.

Miranda tires not to be startled when she feels Metatron start to stroke her hair. But what did startle her was hearing Metatron say, “You’re such a pretty girl.”

She lifts her head and looks at him. “I’m scared.” She says quietly, but loud enough for Metatron to hear.

Miranda frowns when she sees a confused look pass over Metatron’s face. “Why are you scared?” He asks her trying to catch a glance from her.

Miranda thinks for a moment. Why am I scared? There‘s nothing to be scared about....

“What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing can go wrong.” Metatron answers her shortly, as if he was hiding something. Miranda frowns and looks at Metatron again. He had a hurt look on his face, as if a memory long forgotten had come back but it was one of those sad memories that you strive to forget and yet still they come back and you suffer more and more everytime.

“Metatron, what’s wrong?” Miranda asks quietly. Metatron just shakes his head as if saying ‘nothing’ and gets up. He offers his hands to help Miranda up and she accepts. Seconds later they are standing next to each other. Miranda turns away from him. “I’m going to go to bed now, Good-night.”
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
I've been watching to much Absolutley Fabulous...., - Friday, January 25, 2002 at 21:58:06 (PST)

Flashback
Wagensburg:

They arrived in Wagensburg too late to begin any real work. They went to the Inn of Wagensburg which Chandos said was under new management since he’d last been there some few years back. The Innkeeper was polite enough, but quiet. Not the sort one would imagine running an Inn. The place had a large great room with a high beamed ceiling and a huge fireplace at one end. The steps up to the rooms were off of this central room which seemed to be a relatively active place. Locals came in to drink and gossip and no doubt word of their appearance would be all over town before the sun was up in the morning. They had stayed up for a bit after dinner trying to make some contacts with the people who came in and out with little success. It seemed that strangers of any sort were looked upon with a jaundiced eye. The exception to this rule seemed to be Mrs. Innkeeper, a blousy woman with a blond braid looped around her head, huge round pale blue eyes and bovine lassitude of mind if not of body. She did like to talk though and was certainly friendly, especially to Anton. Cynthia immediately thought of her as Heidi Moo Cow but kept this malicious moniker to herself.

They were showed to their rooms, a fairly large one with two beds which Anton and Chandos would share and a smaller one next to it for Cynthia. Although her room was very tiny it boasted its own bathroom while the gentlemen had to share down the hall. Tired from the journey she fell asleep almost immediately.

There was a rapping at her door. It was the police. It was always the police in this dream and Colin was always with them. He was lucky – had been able to avoid the carnage unfolding in front of him as the Suburban jumped the barrier and crashed headlong into Ted’s car. They always knocked. Why didn’t they use the doorbell. The doorbell sounded like pretty chimes, not at all like this crude rapping noise. It finally occurred to her that the dream wasn’t progressing. She was supposed to be opening the door to find Colin standing there, blood streaking his face and hands and clothes, the blue and red and white of police lights pulsing behind him and making everything look surreal. The policeman’s mouth moving as if he were saying something while Colin’s voice cut through. Colin making his way towards her, pushing aside the policeman and another female officer who had been dispatched to tell her. Colin sobbing and telling her what had happened, composing himself while she took it in and then in turn sobbed and screamed in his arms.

“Fraulein Cynthia!” Loud, insistent and persistent Anton Gruber was pounding now.

“Coming,” she tried to call out but her voice was think and slow from her restive sleep. She got up and went to the door. Gruber stood there clutching an envelope in one fist while the other was ready to renew its assault upon her door. “Herr Gruber, what is it? Is something wrong?”

“Nein. Nein. Come and see. A note for us, it has been left…” His agitation showed only in the thickening of his accent and she had some difficulty comprehending him. Following him she could see light streaming from the room he shared with Chandos. She stopped, ran back for her robe and slippers and trotted behind Anton, making occasional little hops as she tried to put on her slippers. At their door she saw Chandos at the big oak table that served as a writing desk pouring over a thick piece of paper. She put on the last slipper and pulled on her robe.

“What is it? Chandos?” He beckoned her over and she sat down at the table.

“What do you make of it?” He handed her the paper.

It was good quality paper and seemed old as it was discoloured around the edges. There was no signature and it carried no salutation. It read:

Cindie
I wonder if the Palace has any pitiless bureaucrats., - Friday, January 25, 2002 at 17:49:26 (PST)

Dinner at The Palace:

"I hope you have been enjoying your first day with us, Mrs. Brandon . . ."

Mary Anne hesitates, but only for an instant. "Some of it very much."

A sympathetic nod, as though The Empress had expected just that answer. "I thought there were some things here that you should see, especially since this is your first visit. They’re not to be missed!" (homage)

Mary Anne beams. "I envy you the libraries, Your Majesty! If security there were not so good—" A mischievous grin, which The Empress seems to enjoy, matching her smile for smile.

"It isn’t strictly an archival facility, Mrs. Brandon; we do circulate certain items, but you did see some of our greatest treasures."

"And your museums! I don’t think I have ever seen so many beautiful things in one place. Why, just before we were summoned for dinner, we were speaking with Herr Gruber and his assistant about how many art treasures there might be tucked away in the throne room."

The Empress laughs, a low, melodic sound, and picks up her wineglass, turning the fine crystal to catch the light. "Treasures come in many forms. Herr Gruber is responsible for these, did you know?"

Mary Anne lifts her glass, examining it . .. yes, there, stamped into the base: the mark of Gruber Glassworks. "I should have guessed."

"You have had a busy time of it since this morning, Mrs. Brandon. One day is hardly enough to take in all that there is to be seen here."

"Yes, though we did see more than I would dreamed we could, in just one day." Carefully, Mary Anne sets down her glass. "Though . . . I’m sure there are some very important parts of The Palace that we didn’t see, or . . . couldn’t."

Again, that look of understanding. "Believe me, Mrs. Brandon, I wish with all my heart that you and the Colonel were here for a pleasure trip, and that alone. We both know that is not the case. But I had thought you should have one day—if only one—to know the pleasures and beauties of my home."

Mary Anne nods, watching The Empress closely and trying to fathom the secret of this woman’s extraordinary and compelling personality. Intelligence and beauty, yes, but there is some other elusive quality. Charm is frequently inexplicable; one can only acknowledge that it exists, and Mary Anne willingly recognizes its existence in the woman who speaks to her so kindly, but whose kindness does not turn her from her purpose. She’s a good woman. Just and fair, though she can be firm when she has to be. She’s . . . Mary Anne swallows, hit by a jolt of recognition. Why, she’s like Christopher, in some ways. A surreptitious glance at Brandon—who is certainly the kindest and the best of men. (homage) Yet Mary Anne cannot help wondering, as she has wondered on many occasions, about his life as a soldier: is he as ruthless in war as he is generous in peace? She has seen enough to make her believe it could be so. Yes, I think she might be very much like Christopher. She’ll do what has to be done, but she’d far rather show kindness, even to The Interrogator. Even HE would have every chance . . . though HE would be too proud to accept it.

" . . . can wait," The Empress is saying. "If you would join me in the morning, after breakfast? I’ll send an escort to your suite. But for now—" As the plates are changed for the next course. "—I would have you enjoy yourselves as my guests, and think of other things. Let us forget about unpleasant duties until tomorrow. Agreed?"

Mary Anne is happy to comply, or to make the attempt. Think of other things . . . As though her mind can resist being drawn to the picture of HIM, somewhere in this Palace, awaiting the decisions that will determine HIS fate.

With a little shiver that she hopes no one sees, Mary Anne picks up one of her forks and devotes her full attention to her dish of lobster with white truffle sauce . . .

MA--Therese, you've been hanging out at Focal an Lae, haven't you? *grin*
Better the hounds of hell than the malevolent hedgehogs, I suppose!, - Thursday, January 24, 2002 at 19:12:43 (PST)

Flashback
A road trip:

Her calendar was cleared, there were no projects which couldn’t keep for awhile. Chandos had agreed to join them. It was he who had unearthed the Wagensburg records of a marriage of a woman by the same name Green Eyes had given them. Cynthia laughed at how eager he was to return to the scene of his former escapades. Rafter was unable to join them, being too large to smuggle through customs and Chandos being unwilling to make her endure quarantine. “She’ll be happy enough with Bell until I return,” he’d insisted, but still looked like a man who’d just lost his best friend.

“We will send her letters telling her you are alright.” Anton said firmly. It wasn’t clear whether or not he was joking, but Cynthia had a feeling they’d be posting quite a few letters. Anton had made all the arrangements. Chandos had insisted they take a Rolls for the drive. Anton had agreed as readily to this suggestion as he had to Cynthia’s suggestion that Chandos accompany them. Once she had explained his knowledge of the area and the fact that he had been her contact in unearthing much of the information in her possession, Anton quickly saw the advantage to adding a third to their little party. The Rolls was packed with everything a savvy traveler could desire, currency was laid by, papers gone over and ordered and a basic plan was in place.

The information which both Anton and Chandos had unearthed led them to believe the trail started, or at least went through, Wagensburg. Green Eyes had claimed that her mother left the Soviet Union and traveled to England and had intimated became pregnant on the way. The birth certificate which Anton and Cynthia had seen, was in English but bore a peculiar seal. When she’d described it to Chandos he’d recognized it immediately as the seal of Wagensburg. What it meant they none of them had the slightest idea.

While Cynthia’s coming into that knowledge was happy coincidence due to her acquaintance with Chandos, Anton had sent an employee to research the seal and he ultimately traced it to the small town. As for the cross, Gruber had had it gone over by experts and it appeared to be what was purported, a very old relic of the Church, though as of yet, no direct evidence could be found which proved it to be from Saint Petersburg.

It was enough of a puzzle to interest them all for their own reasons, particularly the organizer of their little band who could possibly have a blood stake in what they discovered. A man with a deep sense of family, Anton Gruber could not allow the intimation that an ancestor of his might have been involved in the affair to go uninvestigated. That he wished to be part of the investigation personally was as much an indication of his interest in a mystery as it was to the sensitivity of its subject matter.

They set out on a beautiful Autumn day; Anton at the wheel and Cynthia riding shot gun while Chandos sat in the back reviewing the file again while he made calls on the cell phone. Cynthia gave up teasing him about his indispensability but considered how long it would take her to fling it out the window if it didn’t stop ringing. “I told them to call me if anything came up,” he said defensively, as the obnoxious thing rang for the fifth time.

Anton smiled and patted Cynthia’s knee, “He’s hoping its Rafter,” he chuckled.

She smiled, “I expect your right.” The leaves were turning and their way was lined with red, orange and gold as they sped towards the little town they hoped would answer their questions.

They stopped on the way at a café for lunch. They had made good time and their spirits were high. Chandos had a glass of wine with his lunch while Cynthia and Anton both ventured to try the wares of the local brewery. They argued over its merits while Chandos rolled his eyes as exclaimed that they were worse than any connoisseur of wine he had ever encountered, to which they both agreed that he did not know what he was missing.

Cindie
- Wednesday, January 23, 2002 at 16:50:46 (PST)

You gotta love Tory! :)

Carmen
So nice to have days off sometimes..., - Tuesday, January 22, 2002 at 08:54:38 (PST)

Hey, Therese! Love the Irish expressions! Go néirí leat!
Claire M.
Which means any encouraging phrase you wish - it's a bit hard to translate these things literally., - Tuesday, January 22, 2002 at 05:41:54 (PST)

An apartment near the FoF offices
Later that night

Erika returned to her apartment and went over all the paperwork, descriptions and notes about all the actors and employees, and scheduling for the rest of that week. And while 7 was early to wake up, she wasn't too worried about it. After taking a long shower and changing into a flowing, large petticoat she had bought at a thrift store and loose black tank top, she voraciously ate at the tilapia fajita's, basmati rice-and-black-eye-pea salad with cucumber, mango and peach salsa and tzatziki, she quietly went back into her bedroom and picked up a notebook to record the dream she had had the night before. And, to her dismay, she found her thoughts running back to Jaques, her fellow P.A. and melancholy, handsome man.

Really, he did look so familiar and she could not remember from where or when she had seen her. It bothered her to no end, and she racked her head for ideas. Those eyes, dark hazel, she wanted to look closer, jump into them and never come out. It was just...he didn't seem to like her much. He brooded and seemed deep in thought all the time, and was not like the people she normally would befriend. However, she made it a point to get closer to him. Laying her head against the cool wall, Erika watched as the petticoat fell out like a limp, white flower across her mattress and she closed her eyes.

-----

And in a swirl of muted golden light and shiny waves of satiny fabric, Erika, no Lady Ivory was back.

The music was different, no longer Mozart, Rachmaninoff, the second movement of his Piano Concerto No. 2. She thought it was slightly ahead of its time as she sipped champagne and observed everything calmly from behind the mask.

"Adagio..." she murmured.

She noticed the dancing had gotten slightly more popular, recognizing some of the people that Sterling Silver had pointed out to her, Crimson Duke, Marble Duchess, the list went on in her head as the Silver Lady approached her again.

"And tell me again why you aren't out there dancing, Lady Ivory?" the older woman asked in her gentle voice.

"I will..." she purred from behind her mask and smiled up at Sterling Silver.

"I will be setting out on my journey before breakfast tomorrow, Lady Ivory. You will be staying with me tonight, I do hope?"

An emphatic nod. "Ye-es. You are only leaving for three days, am I right?"

"You will be fine. Titania is invited of course...although as Mab hasn't shown up for years, she may be waiting for something that will not come." Lady Sterling Silver smiled, and Lady Ivory thought of the fae that was suppossed to be in her mask.

"I think she may be with Oberon for a while this week. How is Demeter doing?" Lady Ivory referred to the impregnated mare that Lady Sterling Silver owned.

"She's going to throw this week. That's why I would like you here...I need someone experienced..." Ivory blushed, pulling her mask closer to her face. Sterling Silver gave her a benevolent look, and gestured onto the dance floor, and Lady Ivory agreed. She glided past several dancing couples as the Concerto ended and she stood alone. Abruptly, talking grew very quiet, the dancers sparsed, and quietly made a path as Lady Ivory looked to see who was coming, already knowing who it was.

Lord Ebony

Her face became impassive, unreadable behind the honey mask, her lips in a straight line. He made his way throughout the dance floor, his black jacket snapping behind him as he stalked the floor. She watched him, as he observed everyone with disdainful scrutiny, and straightened, the folds of her dress rustling as he came closer to her. The music started again as he waved a hand, the unmistakable notes of Debussy's Reverie filling the room as the people, more carefully began to dance. He stopped at her, no mask, as she stared into his dark hazel eyes, multi-faceted and changing in the light with the bronzen flecks flickering. He gave her a formal nod and she lifted a gloved hand which he brushed his lips against. Taking his hand, they began to move to the music, each fighting to lead or keep up.

"Lord Ebony, I assume," she said as they swiftly moved past other pairs.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" He somewhat sneered back, his eyes cool and controlled.

"Just as brooding and childish as they say you are." She swiftly spun on her foot, as they began to move the other way, the dance becoming more sharp and driven as they spoke.

"I'm glad I can live up to such a reputation. Aren't you a tad young to be out this late? A girl playing in a Lady's clothes?" he purred back as she pulled her mask closer and felt the ruby blur speed in there, a comforting presence.

"Lady Ivory." She spat, as Titania observed this all with somewhat stormy eyes. "These are dangerous creatures...keep on your toes..." she heard a whisper and his eyes flickered as they moved up her body.

"I've not heard of you...you are quite sure you are not a Maiden, or a sneaky servant perhaps?" He pressed her flat to him as they moved along, the impressionistic music almost coming to a close.

"You're losing your footing, Ivory.." she could hear Titania warn again.

"I could get Lady Sterling Silver to prove myself. I've heard you hold her in some sort of esteem, if such a thing is possible." He raised an eyebrow as the music stopped and he gave her a deep bow to which she only nodded and let her mask down. She saw the shadow of a smile flicker across his face but he stalked away, as she, breathing shallowly found Lady Sterling Silver.

"You did quite well out there, Ri."

"His name can't be just Lord Ebony, m'Lady...what is it really?" She pressed as the older woman raised an eyebrow at the curiosity the young Lady expressed.

"Oh truly? They call him Jaques, Ri."

-------
And in a wave of cold sweat Erika awoke, staring at the garish 5:30 AM that burned out from her alarm. Running a shaky hand through her hair, she pulled a notebook to her and began to record all that she had dreamed.


Carmen (C-cret)
Yawn-ity, yawn...shouldn't be out at Ball's this late...might forget a slipper!, - Monday, January 21, 2002 at 21:40:10 (PST)

FoF--The Cubicles

"Why have you taken to stammering lately when you say my name?" Dev demanded, his hands, tightly fisted, rested upon either hip. "Been gone so long you can't remember who I am?"

Therese swallowed, and started to rise to her feet; she was half way up when Dev stepped forward, and firmly took hold of one arm, pulling her to a standing position.

"I'm so sorry," Therese managed, her voice barely audible, her left arm still held in Eamon's grasp. "I-I don't know what to say."

Mistral had also risen at Dev's arrival, and he casually walked over to the chair where he had left his coat. Shouldering himself into the black wool garment he made a small show of sliding each hand into the leather gloves he extraced from one pocket, then turned to his companions. "Therese, it has been a pleasure, as always," he said, bowing slightly from the waist. "Eamon, I will leave you two alone to, ah, discuss matters between yourselves. Good evening." And with that, he strode quickly from the office and down the hall.

"Don't know what to say?" Dev continued as if there had been no interruption, his tone harsh. "Don't know what to say!" he dropped her wrist suddenly, then crossed his arms tightly across his chest while glaring down at her. The dim office light managed to catch the glass lense of his spectacles, causing a slight reflection. Therese was hard pressed to remember that it was merely a trick of the light, rather than physical evidence of the hurt and anger which eminated from him. "What does one say after abandoning someone you supposedly love, I wonder? Just what can be said after months of having left no word, no message, and not a single bloody telephone call? Tell me, will you, Therese, just what DOES one say after that?"

Therese backed up involuntarily under the onslaught. Dev was yelling at this point, stabbing his finger at her accussingly as she slowly backed away from him, and toward the wall. A low, throaty growl stopped his tirade and her progression as both figures turned to see Tory, who had left her corner, and now approached Dev warily, hackles raised, and head lowered as the tip of her tail fluttered nervously.

Dev turned to the animal, eyes flashing. "Go dtachta cúnna ifrinn do chat!"

"Eamon! She's just a dog."

"Aye, and you didn't abandon her, as has already been pointed out to me, I might add.

Therese sighed, and pointed back to the corner. "Tory, go lie down," she told the animal. "Now. And stay." The dog looked from her owner to Dev and back again, then did as she was told. Her whine of protest as she settled herself was audible in the small area.

Therese turned back to Eamon, and reached toward him, touching his forearm gently. He stood stiffly before her, arms still tightly crossed, and flinched slightly as her fingertips made contact. "A ghrá mo chroí. . .love of my heart, I'm so terribly sorry. I believe that's what one says when they have hurt the man they love more than any other."

He continued to stand there impassively before her for several long moments, and Therese began to think that perhaps all was lost. When she could take it no longer, she turned away from him, tears blurring her vision, thinking that she should leave, that the office should be cleaned up of the mess, and that she must find her way home to her dreary, empty flat before she allowed herself to cry long into the night.

She was barely cognizant of his movement, of the startling, blindingly quick movements of which he was capable when he wished, and her thoughts evaporated quickly after that as she found herself clutched tightly to his chest. His mouth closed over hers, desperate and hungry for the physical reassurance of what she had told him, demanding her response. And respond she did, clinging to him with equal fervor, her senses reeling with the renewed onslaught of taste, and touch, and scent. They parted momentarily, gasping for air in their passion and longing before continuing their kiss, touching, tasting, and simply being near one another.

Tory, now content with the progression of matters between her two people, picked up the raw hide bone, and once again chewed contentedly.

Many long minutes later Eamon still held Therese close against him, his fingers stroking her hair, as she leant into him, arms tightly clasped around his waist. Resting his chin atop her head, he sighed, hugging her tight. "We still must talk about this, you and I."

Therese nodded, "I know. But can we go back to my flat first, or yours, I don't care which if we're together."

"No, I imagine it doesn't really matter, so long as we are together."

Therese
For the record, Dev told Tory, "May the hounds of hell choke your cat." , - Monday, January 21, 2002 at 21:17:58 (PST)

The Imperial Palace
The formal dining room:

At dinner, Cynthia was watching Anton who was seated across from her and charming the booties off of the women to either side of him. Always impeccable in his attire he was particularly resplendent this evening. “Anton, how will I be able to concentrate on conversation at dinner?” Cynthia had been standing in the small sitting room and had been gazing out the window. The sun had begun to set and the sky was striped with swathes of red, orange and pink, the colours reflected in the snow. Then, the spectacle of her employer in formal white tie and tails, the gleam of emeralds at the shirt cuffs, had appeared and swept her attention from the natural to the man made and valet assisted. He had clicked his heels at her and twirled his silver capped walking stick before presenting his arm to her to escort her to their formal presentation and later to dinner. Now he was entertaining his dinner partners with some tale or other. He caught her looking at him and flashed her a smile. She smiled back and returned to her soup.

Cynthia was seated between the man she had encountered at luncheon and been introduced to at the reception, le Vicomte de Valmont, and another man of a melancholy disposition who, when he spoke, was always very witty in a world weary sort of fashion. His name was Mr. Chase and she had been attempting to discover if there was anything about which he was serious. It seemed there was not, but his remarks were certainly pointed and always very funny. He seemed very sad.

A servant whisked away one plate and replaced it with another. It seemed to be the fifth course with an accompanying new glass of wine. “It does seem as if we will be eating at this table forever, non?”

The Vicomte’s remark was whispered in her ear with a whiff of burgundy. She hadn’t spoken much to him all evening, he’d been very engaged with the lady to his other side, and she was startled at how much his comment mirrored her own thoughts. Stifling a chuckle she ended up coughing and the Vicomte handed her the newly placed glass of wine with his apology. “No, that’s quite alright. It’s just that I was thinking exactly the same thing.” Checking to make sure no one was paying them any attention, she continued, “everything is stunning and beautiful and delicious, of course, but why do these state dinners have to be so long?”

Her emphasis was on the last word and he smiled at the inflection. “I suppose we must all be assured of the prosperity of the Realm. Not that there is any doubt,” he amended hastily.

“Certainly not.” Cynthia had heard of the Vicomte, of course. His reputation preceded him like a herald. However, Mr. Chase now seemed occupied with the sweet young thing to his other side and Cynthia was quite happy to chat with the Vicomte on any variety of topics.

Valmont had been very careful not to engage the woman immediately upon the commencement of the evening. Best to let her anticipation for his attentions build. It had not been difficult to arrange the seating, the protocol secretary found him quite …charming. And the seating arrangement would doubtless go a long way in improving relations. He had made up his mind that she would be next when he first saw her this afternoon. It was clear that fool employer of hers, Gruber, did not know what to do with what was there before him. The wisdom of his choice was confirmed when he saw her at her formal presentation to the Empress. Her dress was of a bias cut emerald green fabric that clung to her every curve and contour. It was covered in beadwork of the same colour and the beadwork seemed to enhance her finer points and throw off sparks of emerald with her very breath. The sleeves were long and Valmont had had the pleasure of brushing up against them when reaching to pass the salt cellar. The neckline was simple and gave only a hit of the treasures which lay beneath but was set off by the choker, actually part of the dress as it was connected in the back, made of the same fine beadwork. Her feet were clad in slippers that at first glance were black but upon further examination were a deep green-bronze. She wore no jewelry at all save a simple gold band on her right ring finger. This intrigued him. Now that dinner was well under way and having made certain that the lady to his other side was being attended to by the gentleman two seats over, he turned his full attentions to her.

Cindie
There *is* something about that panelling. Please pass the pepper. , - Monday, January 21, 2002 at 18:47:12 (PST)

Same day, FoF Offices

Erika was led past all the cubicles, nodding her head shyly in greeting to the various people Cindie introduced to her. Continuing down the hall, the somewhat starstruck young woman shook her head. "How do you get used to it?"

Cindie gave her a benevolent smile, "Get used to what?"

For the second time that morning, Erika felt red creep slightly onto her face. "Well...just being around all these people...I really don't know if I'll ever get used to it."

Cindie gave a musical laugh, "They're all really great people, Erika. Don't worry too much...you'll be fine. And you'll have that Jaques to help you out." Her mouth twisting into a slight grimace, Erika thought back to their first meeting. And yet...she had no idea why she thought it wasn't the first time she had seen him. Shaking her head and freeing some strands from her messy bun, they continued the 'tour.'

"I wonder where Mistral is...I'd like to introduce him to you..." As if a light had clicked on in her head, Erika whipped her head around. Although she was new at the Flights of Fancy workplace, it did not mean she didn't watch the show.

"Mistral..." her mouth felt suddenly dry, "You mean..uh..the..." words failed her, and it was obvious to Cindie the word Erika wanted to let loose. The Interrogator

Letting out a laugh, Cindie continued to walk as Erika, more subdued, followed quietly. "Come on...maybe we'll find him."


Carmen
Feeling slightly more nervous now...:), - Monday, January 21, 2002 at 09:26:01 (PST)

The Imperial Palace—dinner with Her Majesty The Empress:

Shallot, thinks Mary Anne, and white pepper. And they must have reduced the stock at least twice. She closes her eyes, the better to concentrate, and tastes another spoonful of her soup, marvelling at the velvet richness of flavour in a simple clear broth. I wonder if I’ll have time to have a word with the chef while I’m here?

Smiling a little at her own absurdity, she opens her eyes and glances up and down the table. It appears that dinner with Her Majesty is a great favour : there are not nearly so many guests here as there were in the throne room. And in a still higher mark of favour, she and Brandon are seated nearest The Empress. But Mary Anne, feeling a bit overawed by her surroundings, is content to let her husband engage The Empress in conversation while she surveys the room.

Her eyes stray further down the table to Anton Gruber, who is seated across from Cynthia. Mary Anne cannot repress a grin: the Gruber taste in women runs true in both father and son, for Cynthia is undeniably stunning in that emerald-green gown that shimmers with her every breath and movement. But the elder Herr Gruber has on his best old-world manners for this occasion, and his glances at Cynthia, though clearly appreciative of her beauty, are gentlemanly and are directed mainly toward her eyes.

Not so with Valmont, who is seated to one side of Cynthia. Mary Anne’s lip curls. He would be here, of all places—at the worst possible time for me. Just look at him—practically undressing that poor woman with his eyes. An inward chuckle.Just so long as he doesn’t try it with his hands! Cynthia looks like she can take care of herself. She’d probably knock him cold, to say nothing of what Anton would do. And it would serve him right.

Fortunately, Valmont appears to have some competition. Seated on her other side is a man Mary Anne had only heard introduced as "Mr. Chase," but judging from Cynthia’s laughter, she appears to find Mr. Chase’s conversation delightful. I hope for her sake that this Mr. Chase isn’t another one like the Vicomte. That would be rotten luck for any woman.

Still . . . there is Anton Gruber. Mary Anne turns her attention back to her soup, but she cannot help feeling glad that Anton is there. A friend, someone who understands—and someone close to a very dear friend. In the few words she had exchanged with Anton during the "treasure hunt" in the throne room, he had assured her that Renie was well, that everything was progressing finely, and that Renie’s thoughts were with her at this time . . . along with the best wishes of Hans. "You will understand, Frau Brandon, why my son did not feel he could leave her at this time—"

"Naturlich. And quite right. There must be someone to see that Renie takes proper care of herself."

And if Renie were here, she’d probably say the same about me, thinks Mary Anne, smiling to herself. With another glance at Anton, she privately marvels once more at the added feeling of security she has in his company. After all, Hans had been an intimidating presence in her life for a long time, until his love for Renie had changed his life. And mine, too. I don’t know how I could have forgiven Hans, otherwise, for having given me to . . . HIM. A slight tremble in her fingers, and Mary Anne sets down her spoon for a moment until her hand steadies, the resolutely picks it up again. But we DID make our peace. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, that Hans and Anton would ever be my . . . friends. But they are, now. Is it too much to ask, then, too much to hope . . .?

Not liking the way her thoughts have turned, Mary Anne is only too glad to be distracted from them by the soft, clear voice of The Empress. "I hope you have been enjoying your first day with us, Mrs. Brandon . . ."

MA--careful, Cindie, or you'll make Renie wild with all that paneling! ;-)
Therese--Mistral curling that gloved hand into a loose fist . . . *ACK*!!!, - Sunday, January 20, 2002 at 19:08:20 (PST)

Word changed.
Rupert might have something to say above that.
D.o.C.

DoC: please change "The rope" to "The ropes" at the beginning of the second last paragraph. Thank you.
Magda
- Sunday, January 20, 2002 at 12:06:09 (PST)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

For an eternity, no one moved; then someone screamed and shattered the silence. The room became a madhouse of loud voices. Servants ran over to stamp out the small fires in the rushes. I regained the use of my faculties at the same instant that Locksley did and we moved on shaking legs towards the middle of the table where the wheel had fallen.

It lay in three parts, half on and half off the table. Joya and Marion had to be under it. I grasped the first piece I could reach and heaved it out of the way. Locksley struggled with another portion until one of his soldiers ran up to help him. They shoved it over and it landed on the remains of the chairs. Some of the servants grasped the last section and lifted it away from the table. I took a deep breath, longing for and dreading the sight that awaited us.

Just as the last piece fell, the table jerked and rose into the air, dragging the tablecloth with it. Goblets and other utensils crashed onto the floor. Once again all noise in the hall ceased. We stared at the apparition. Then one trembling hand emerged to push the hanging tablecloth to one side and Joya appeared. She held back the cloth for the closely following Marion. Once they were in front of us, the table gave a final shimmy and fell over with a bang. Leofric pushed the trailing cloth off one shoulder and dusted down his hands, looking around him at the damage.

"Marion!" Locksley leaped the distance between them in one bound and clasped her in his arms. "Marion!"

"Oh, Robin!" Marion sagged against his chest. "Robin!"

"Marion! Marion!" Locksley repeated, eliminating all doubt in the matter.

I seized Joya's arms and yanked her against me. She looked up at me, veil hanging down her back, hair a tangled mess, dust streaking her cheek. A faint smile curved her trembling lips. "Well, hello there, lover. Miss me?"

"Shut up," I replied and kissed her hard, determined not to let her go again.

We were deep into shared breathing, when I became aware of a muted roaring that seemed to be growing closer. I lifted my head and looked blearily around.

Locksley was standing beside us, flailing the air with his arms and bellowing. "This is your doing, Nottingham! By God, by the time I get through with you there won't be anything of you left to answer to the king!"

It was a dramatic moment and it would have been worthy of the mesmerized attention of the crowd if he'd only remembered in time that he wasn't wearing a sword. It's hard to maintain an air of bloody retribution if you're groping blindly at your belt. I noticed some of the servants look away to hide smiles.

"Lord Locksley, I can certainly appreciate your feelings right now." Joya brushed her hair out of her eyes; her hand was trembling slightly. "But to accuse George of somehow arranging this terrible accident -"

"Accident!?!?" Locksley stepped forward, fists clenched in rage. His eyes were almost popping out of his head and he was flushed an unhealthy puce. "Did you say accident? This was no accident! Was this not the very threat contained in that letter? Was there not just an attempt made to murder my wife?" Apparently reminded of her existence, he reached behind him and groped until Marion was clutched to his side again.

I wasn't about to let this pass. "And why on earth would I want to murder Marion?" Joya clutched my arm tightly but I patted her hand to reassure her.

"How do I know why? To ensure that you don't have to marry her and adopt my son, I suppose." His lips twisted into a sneer. It didn't work; he really doesn't have the skill for it. "Who knows how your twisted mind works?"

"Well, twisted it might be but not entirely irrational." I didn't bother to hide my contempt. "In case you didn't notice, my wife was also in danger. Are you suggesting that I would attempt to murder my own wife as well as yours?"

He blinked. "Well, no, not really but - uh, that is -" He fumbled to a finish as Marion urgently tugged his arm. He squeezed her tighter.

Joya pinched my arm hard. "Now really, my lord. Isn't this just a trifle melodramatic? I suspect the truth is far more prosaic. We rarely use these lighting fixtures and it is entirely possible - nay, I might even say extremely likely - that the servants did not secure it as well as they should have. Very careless of them, of course, and rest assured they will be punished, but really nothing to get this worked up about."

Locksley didn't respond. He eyed Joya warily, shaking his head slowly, but I could see that her arguments had had an impact. Marion was whispering urgently into his ear. I opened my mouth to add my own support to her suggestion but Joya pinched me again and I remained silent. Everyone in the room was staring at Locksley waiting for his response.

Or rather, almost everyone. Behind me came the sound of a discreet cough. I glanced over my shoulder. "Yes?"

It was Leofric. He was holding a rope coiled in his hands. "Beggin' yer pardon, my lords, my ladies, but I don't think it were no accident. This here rope was tied to an empty torch sconce on that pillar there to hold the chain fer the wheel. Somebody took a lit candle and stuck it in the sconce so that when it burned all the way down - Well, look here."

He held out the ropes. They were charred for several inches and burned clean through at the ends. We stared for long moments, then looked at each other. One thought occupied our minds. Someone had deliberately burned the rope knowing that when it was weak enough the wheel would fall.

And kill whoever was sitting underneath.

Magda
- Sunday, January 20, 2002 at 12:02:31 (PST)

Flashback
Gruber Glassworks:

Cynthia was whisked away again, this time to what Frau Schmidt referred to as the powder room. It was as opulent a bathroom as she had ever seen. A lounge with a sofa and chairs, a counter with a complete array of grooming supplies, and perfumes. There was even a shower with fresh towels. She resisted the temptation to use the shower but had the feeling that not an eyebrow would be raised if she had. She did take advantage of the quiet time to use the facilities, wash up in the sink, loving the towels hung there instead of paper, and utilize some of the products provided. When she was done she felt a good deal calmer and able to handle just about anything. When she left the little sanctuary she was escorted through the doors from which she’d seen Gruber exit.

Anton Gruber moved out from behind a huge mahogany desk. Cynthia found it hard to take her eyes off it – beautifully carved it gleamed in the sunlight that was streaming through the windows. Her appraising eye took in random details as Gruber moved around to greet her again: the Persian carpet laid over wide planked oak floor boards, authentic and elegant, the Chagall, original and perfect for the east wall, the door tucked in among the paneling. She had visions of her host as an international spy making a quick getaway through the recessed paneling.

His greeting was formal but warm. Frau Schmidt brought forward a tray with biscuits and finger sandwiches. There was tea as well but Cynthia’s eye had been caught by the little bar and refrigerator tucked in the back corner. Anton thanked the woman who nodded and withdrew. The door closed behind her with a quiet snick, and she was left alone with Herr Gruber. He smiled and indicated to the bar, “Would you perhaps like something a bit more bracing?”

Cynthia smiled, “Yes, I would. You don’t happen to have a beer in there do you?”

Gruber’s expression answered hers, “Yes, I would. What would you like?”

Choices. “Any lager would be fine. Unless you have a Lambic?”

His eyes glinted, “No, no Lambic here. But I can offer you Hefeweisen with a shot of cherry.”

Now it was Cynthia’s turn to be intrigued, “O.K., what is it?”

Gruber began his explanation of the laws of German beer making while they enjoyed its results. They talked for a time of their preferred beers and found a growing rapport in their mutual enjoyment. After a time Gruber asked, “Would you like to see it?”

“Is it here?”

He nodded.

“Then, of course.”

“Come.”

He stood up and walked over to his desk. Cynthia followed and stood in front of it while he went around. On the blotter of the desk sat a flat box, roughly the length and width of a large manila envelope and about three inches deep. He lifted the lid and Cynthia let out a gasp. The sun was going down and light was streaming in the west facing windows. The light should have been blinding and uncomfortable, but whatever the glass of the windows was, it allowed the light to enter, allowed a clear view of the outside, but filtered the harsh rays of the sun in a manner which left the room’s occupants squint free. This light caught the gleaming gold of the cross and was refracted by the gemstones. It was nestled in velvet of a deep blue colour and had not been done justice by the crude polaroids Cynthia had seen. She stood for some time, simply looking at it, and finally said “I wasn’t completely sure she even had it.”

“She had it right enough. My question is from where did she obtain it?” Gruber sat back in the burgundy leather chair behind his desk and steepled his fingers.

“You don’t think she was who she claimed?” Cynthia had thought the same thing herself. She sat in one of the two chairs placed in front of the desk for guests.

“No. I do not.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out an unmarked folder, “I’ve had some checking done.”

Cynthia got up and retrieved her case, opened it, and pulled out a similar folder and placed it on the desk next to Gruber’s, “So have I.”

They exchanged a long look. “To Wagensburg?” He lifted one eyebrow.

“To Wagensburg.” She nodded definitively.

Cindie
- Sunday, January 20, 2002 at 10:56:25 (PST)

---------

FoF offices, later that day-The Directors Office

Cindie, Erika and Jaques trooped into the office, the Director wearily looking up at them as his assistant gestured at two chairs in front of the desk. It wasn't that Erika could tell he was tired, only the air he held around him and the expression in his eyes made her pick up on it immediately

She watched as Jaques took off his peacoat, revealing a dark blue, button down shirt that hung untucked over his charcoal slacks. And although she didn't want to admit it, Erika slowly felt much more self confidant sitting next to him.

"Investigation going that well?" She grinned at the Director, Jaques raising an eyebrow out of surprise, annoyance, or disdain (she didn't know which), and the Director pulled a file closer to him, smirking wryly at her.

"Of course, Ms. Astra. Keeping up with the gossip, are we Erika? That is right, your name? There seemed to be some confusion over your records." He looked down at the file and Erika felt herself flush slightly as she settled back into her chair.

"Yes, Erika. It's my middle name, but I've just answered to it for a long time. However, I have no objections to whatever you want to call me." She offered as he shook his head down at her file.

"That's fine. As long as you work when you hear it, Erika." He quirked an eyebrow and Erika felt suddenly very meek as he observed her.

"So...does that mean I get the job, sir?"

"Well, yes, of course. All your recommendations and follow ups were high, and your credentials are a long list. Stage management, stage makeup, production assisting on other jobs. And...dance?" he asked amusedly and Erika smiled proudly.

"I dedicated a lot of my time to it. It deserved to be on the resume!" Cindie laughed behind them and interjected, "We will have to introduce her to Sei..." The Director smiled, and it was at this moment that Erika realized that Jaques had been rather quiet, almost brooding in his seat as he observed everything through his heavy-lidded, dark eyes.

"And you, Jaques? Your schedule hasn't changed?" The Director asked mildly, and the man sitting next to her straightened as surprise flickered across his face.

"Pardon me sir, but I was under the impression..." He said quietly, almost in a disdainful drawl, the first words Erika had heard from him.

"Oh, right. I've probably confused you. Well, you see, as two of our assistants left quite abruptly, and with all the new business happening lately, I've decided to hire you both. You qualify above and beyond and besides that you both seem very trustworthy and able to handle this job." The weary Director sat back in his chair, observing them both. Jaques shot a glance at Erika, as if trying to study under her skin and study the thoughts going through her at that moment.

"So." The Director broke the silence, and Erika jumped in spite of herself, making Jaques smirk somewhat unpleasantly. "I'll give you some paperwork you're to turn into the receptionist, I'll get you shown around and introduced somewhat, and show up bright and early tomorrow at 7. I hope you'll be very happy working here, and try not to strangle the investigators if they come after you." He sighed, and Erika smiled. Gesturing for them to come out, Cindie watched as the Director quietly called for Jaques to stay in his office. Erika followed her, watching as Cindie closed the door.

"Did I do well?" The new P.A. asked as the petite woman gave her a smile.

"Better than some of the others." Erika tucked her coat under her arm and peered at the door, wishing she could see through to the other side, and the two men speaking.

"Why...why does he look so familiar?" She murmured aloud and Cindie glanced at her.

"Oh Jaques? Well, he's in a production of "Midsummer Night's Dream" nearby. The Director knows him from a while back."

Somehow, that was not what Erika was thinking but she was still confused. "If he's an actor, why's he doing this?" The Director's assistant shrugged.

"Ask him yourself."

"I wasn't planning on it." Carmen grinned, blowing a strand of deep brown-black hair from her face and the woman laughed as they waited. Finally, after around five minutes, Cindie spoke.

"Perhaps I'll just show you around here a little. We can come back and pick up Jaques in a few minutes." Erika smiled and nodded, pushing her anxiety and shyness back into the depths where it had come from as they began to walk around the offices.
Carmen <DharmaChamelian@yahoo.com>
Oooh! Thanks for the kind comments all! Here's hoping I'm doing an okay job! And I always knew Mistral was a nice guy..:), - Saturday, January 19, 2002 at 22:32:36 (PST)

FoF--Behind the Scenes

Therese slumped back in the passenger seat, the buttery soft leather cushioning her as she tried to calm herself. "You do realize she sheds, don't you?" she asked after several moments, taking in the immaculate condition of the dark green Jaguar with its spotless beige interiour.

"My Jag?" Mistral asked innocently, "I shouldn't think so. I mean she has her personality quirks, but I don't believe--"

"Not the automobile, you wretch, the dog!"

"Well, I had thought about strapping her onto the boot, but our departure was a bit hurried, and I thought she might scratch the finish with her claws. . ."

Therese rolled her eyes, and reached over to thump Mistral on his shoulder. "You're completely impossible," she accused. "Tell me, how is it that such an irrepressible goof manages to affect this dark, sensual persona?"

"Irrepressable goof?" he repeated, turning to her briefly so that she could see one brow raised in question. Lifting a gloved hand from the gear shift, he stretched the fingers toward her, then curled them slowly into a loose fist. The effect was both menacing and provocative, and Therese involuntarily shrank back into her seat. Mistral allowed her several moments before he continued. "Made this mistake once before, if I recall?"

"Yes, right, well I remember," Therese replied, raising her hands in surrender. "It was when we were staging the initial fight scene with my character and HIM, and I suggested that you were more of an uncle or big brother figure."

He pushed the indicator downwards, and eased to the side of the road, the same hand that had moments ago seemed so menacing, merely engaging itself by moving the gear shift into neutral and setting the parking brake. Turning to face Therese he laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder. "Well this time I do wish to be the elder brother, all right? We've been worried about you, the whole lot of us, and Dev has been like a wounded animal. . ."

Therese swallowed, and tried to form her words, but nothing seemed to arrange itself. Except for a disturbingly watery sensation from the vicinity of her eyes and nose.

Mistral looked slightly alarmed, then decisive. "Stop crying!" (homage) he commanded.

"I am not crying," Therese replied shakily.

"Good." Revving the engine slightly, Mistral eased the Jaguar into gear, and executing a thorougly illegal u-turn, continued back the way they'd come.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to our cubicles."

"I can't go there!"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you can go there." Mistral pulled his sleeve back from his wrist, and consulted his timepiece. "No one would still be about at this hour, and you've all sorts of fan mail piling up upon your desk. I noitced I've got behind on my own as well, and I can't imagine anything which would better serve to cheer you up a bit."

He was correct, Therese noticed, as she followed Mistral down the darkened coridoor to the bank of cubicles, in that the place seemed to be completely abandoned. The night watchman did wander over to them, flashlight in hand, but seeing that the intruders were simply cast members, he tipped his hat and started to turn. Pausing a moment, he looked back. "Right glad to have you back, Miss Gellert, me wife 'as been worried about you, she has. Tiny little thing like you, 'aving to recover from the likes of. . ." the watchman glared at Mistral for several long moments, ". . .HIM."

Therese controlled herself with great difficulty, and could almost feel the indignation eminate from Mistral. "Well tell your wife that she's a dear to be concerned, and that my character is going to be just fine."

The watchman tipped his hat, gave one last hard look at Mistral, and departed. Therese couldn't contain herself, and started to laugh.

"Glad you find that so amusing," Mistral groused.

"I think he wanted to take after you with his stick, actually, it's probably a good thing I was here to protect you. Well, Tory and I, that is."

"There is a distressing lack of recognition between reality and fantasy in the general public, I'll have you know. And speaking of such, let's get started on sorting through that mail."

"My cubicle or yours, big fella?" Therese winked at Mistral, and placed on hand saucily upon her hip.

"Oh, so now you're coy?" Mistral gazed down at her from his superiour height. "Well it won't work, not after hanging me out to dry with the watchman." He thought for a moment, "However, you still haven't gotten a proper kettle, have you?"

Therese shook her head in agreement. "Nope, I'm afraid not."

"Fine, you can at least bring the tea," he moved to the corner of Therese's office, and took the large, grey mail sack from the corner before disappearing down the hall. Opening the top drawer of her filing cabinent, she grabbed the box of Twinnings, and her favorite blue stoneware mugs, and followed.

By time she arrived, Mistral had already laid a thick wool blanket on the floor, had dumped the bag of fan mail in the middle of it, and if the sound of running water were any indication, was now filling the kettle. "What kind of tea?" Therese called to him.

"Earl Grey," he responded, as he returned to the office and plugged in the kettle.

"Tory, go lie down," Therese commanded, as the dog looked to Mistral expectantly.

Looking rather sheepish, Mistral walked to his desk, retrieved a large, partially chewed rawhide treat, and handed it to the expectant animal, who then went to lie contentedly in one corner.

Taking opposite sides of the blanket, Therese and Mistral sat down amongst the assorted letters, studiously working their way through the pile, sorting out the inappropriate, and setting aside those which would receive the typical response of a form thank-note and a signed 8x10 glossy. Occassionally one or the other of them would happen upon something too good not to be shared.

'Therese--leave the Irishman, and run away with me, please!'

'I can't explain it in words which make sense to even me, but I feel a calling, a kismet, if you will, and I know that we were meant to be together, you and I. I can save you, and make you a good man.'

"Seems to be a recurring theme with you, that," Therese said, pointing a finger at Mistral. "They all want to save you."

He held up another letter, by one corner. "Or bear my children," he replied distastefully, laying it atop the 'inappropriate' pile. "They don't even know who I am."

'Mr. Interrogator, you and I could make beautiful music together.'

"Not terribly original," Therese replied.

'If you had been with me, Therese, I wouldn't have let you fall into the clutches of The Interrogator.'

"He would if he wanted to keep his job--was right there in the script, every line of it."

Therese froze at the response, the pile of letters she had been holding floating to the blanket around her. "E-Eamon," she stammered, turning to regard him as he leant casually against the door frame.

Therese
Carmen--welcome! So glad you decided to join in. . .and don't worry, you'll become accustomed to all of the famous faces 'round here. , - Saturday, January 19, 2002 at 10:10:43 (PST)

"Mr. Nott is so deeply under her thumb, he could put out a root system." Excellent, Barbara.
Magda
- Saturday, January 19, 2002 at 07:03:25 (PST)

By the way Carmen, good luck on your interview.;-)
Cindie
- Saturday, January 19, 2002 at 04:15:22 (PST)

Flashback:
En route to the Glassworks:

So it was that Cynthia found herself the sole passenger on a flight more comfortable than she could have ever imagined. The pilot and co-pilot greeted her as she boarded the jet. One of the flight attendants made sure her luggage was stowed, a drink was in her hand, and she was as comfortable as possible. On the way she took advantage of the in flight office and checked her e-mail and returned some phone calls. The plane had everything, there was even a bedroom. A person could get used to this style of living. It occurred to her that the Steel Fox might have had the same idea, he had said he wanted to hire her, but then thought it uncharitable. He didn’t need to gild the lair to make it look attractive. It already was.

When they touched down she was assured her luggage would be handled for her. She exited the plane and was immediately met by a young stocky blond haired blue eyed man who looked very out of place in a dark blue serge business suit. The collar of his white shirt looked uncomfortably tight. The man introduced himself as Dieter, a driver for Gruber Glassworks, and personally charged with her safe delivery to Anton Gruber.

The bags were already at the car when they reached it. He held the back door open for her and made it a point to see that everything was secure. He spoke little on the journey but was very watchful of their surroundings, other vehicles on the road, and her. Apparently the young man’s job description encompassed far more than chauffer.

Cynthia hadn’t given much thought to what a Glassworks would look like, or just how big this one would be. If anything she’d imaged corporate offices of some sort in a tall building with well dressed people running around talking about …glass. What struck her upon Dieter’s announcement that they had arrived, was that they’d arrived at a village. An interconnected village that was humming. She asked him to slow down, they were still driving, the place was huge, there were one and two story structures that were almost entirely made of glass. She thought those must be the artists’ studios. There was a large building made of glass and steel which looked modern but classic at the same time, like something out of *Metropolis*, which she supposed must be the main factory. On the outskirts had been what looked like bungalows and she wondered if some of the employees lived in them. There were trees and flowers everywhere. It wasn’t at all a bleak picture of industry, it was beautiful with landscaping and fountains, the kind of place you’d like to walk around in or have a picnic. She was being driven to what would qualify as the tall building, it was tall but it was also beautiful. Made of granite with pink and black veining and marble that had a pink cast to it that rendered it less austere than it might otherwise have appeared. It was a timeless classic, it could have been built yesterday or been standing there for two hundred years. If it had been there that long it was certainly kept clean. That was the other thing she realized, everything was clean and well kept, it gleamed like a house with a proud owner.

Dieter exited and opened her door for her. She had kept her handbag and valise with her, holding them in one hand and taking Dieter’s assistance with the other. He escorted her inside, past the nodding guards, past the elevators, and into a small room with an exit and another elevator. He used the same card he’d swiped in the access panel to the door of this room to call the elevator. There were no buttons on the outside. When the doors opened he motioned her in, followed, and hit the top button. These buttons had no designations, and Cynthia assumed they must be for the executive offices. This was not a towering office building, she had to guess twelve floors or so, although it had certainly looked big from the outside. The elevator stopped and the doors opened.

The sight which greeted her was quiet bustle among beautiful surroundings. The walls were of gorgeous wood paneling. In the paneling was a set of doors which opened just as Cynthia stepped out, followed by Dieter. Through the doors came Herr Anton Gruber, his face alit with what seemed to be genuine delight at her presence. “Fraulein Cynthia, I am so glad you have made it here safely.” He turned to Dieter, “Thank you for discharging you duties admirably.” Dieter nodded and left, disappearing back into the elevator as the doors whooshed closed. “I will give you the tour of our little Glassworks later. For now, I am sure you would like to have a brief respite, and then perhaps join me for some refreshment?” He nodded to a woman who came forward, “Frau Schmidt will show you the way.”

Cindie
- Friday, January 18, 2002 at 19:21:42 (PST)

Later that Morning, FoF offices

Walking from her small car across the parking lot pavement, Erika keeps a brisk pace. It was nippy out, and besides, she has on a skirt for the occassion. Eyeing another shadow falling across the pavement, she watches as a man heads in the same direction she is. Reaching up involuntairily, she fingers the security pass that had been issued to her at the gate. She already knew of course that the show had had a break-in, she does her research. Letting the pass fall against her chest, she walks under the awning where the man who has been walking at a distance from her, steps after her and opens the door. For one swift second, she peers up into his eyes and in a flash falls back into her dream. Dark eyes, brooding and smoldering with fire behind them, specks of gold in the pools of deep hazel-brown. She blinks it away, and watched as he holds the door for her and observes her with a kind-of scrutiny that makes a ghost of a shadow flicker across her face.

"Thank you." She murmurs and they walk to the desk that sat in the foyer. The woman at the desk gives them a kindly smile before stepping out, holding a clipboard. "Mr. Faun? Ms. Astra?" Erika gives a nod, observing the man next to her. His black peacoat went to just above the knee, and his elegant hands are folded in front of him. Mr. Faun, she assumes, gives a slight nod and the woman graces them with a smile as she steps back by her desk and picks up the phone. "We'll get Mr. Rickman's assistant down here so you can speak with him." Erika holds back a sharp breath that wants to escape and watches as an unreadable expression flickers across her companions face. Both standing, she examines her long, suede, fake-furry coat that makes her appear the most eclectic that she can be. Wearing a more normal skirt, and long black boots that came to her knee, she gave a warm smile to the receptionist and tried to