Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

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

"I don't care what it costs. I don't care how many men you need." I leaned forward and emphasized each word with a jab at Leofric's chest. "But you will interrogate every servant - every retainer - every parasite who lounges around the castle claiming to do a full day's work - until you find the guilty man."

"Aye, sire." Leofric nodded respectfully at me and stepped back out of my reach. "And what will yer be wantin' me to do with him then?"

"Bring him to me." I smiled at the thought. "You need not worry about him ever again after I have finished with him."

"Aye sire." Leofric saluted me - a holdover from his crusading days, I suppose - and left the room. The door banged shut behind him.

I took a deep breath, let the air out in a rush, then took another. It was inconceivable to me that anyone even remotely familiar with the way I ran my shire would attempt to murder my wife practically under my nose - not only once, but twice. Surely the man was mad, whoever he was. Well, he would have plenty of time to regain his sanity as he spent hours in my dungeons being reminded who was in charge.

Of course, there were other people around who had to be taught the same lesson. The pity was I couldn't consign them to the same place. I grimaced at the memory of Locksley and Marion clinging to each other and shrieking at me in between tight squeezy hugs. Had I not been so worried about Joya at the time I would have enjoyed tossing both of them over the castle turrets.

Joya had not screamed or wailed at the situation. She'd remained seated, staring down at the carpet with a quizzical expression, as if she were trying to identify some hitherto unknown plant or rock. I'd hovered over her, prepared to offer comfort but not sure if I should wait until she looked more like she required it. Her total calm was rather unnerving. Finally she looked up at me and said, in a cool controlled voice, "George, I think I'd like to go to our room now, if you don't mind."

"Excellent suggestion." I responded. Then I bent over, hoisted her into my arms and swept out the door past the gawking servants and confused men-at-arms. No one impeded our progress as I carried her along the corridor and up the stairs to our secure apartment. One solid kick at the door had sent it crashing into the wall. One barked command in the direction of a cowering Bertha had sent her scurrying out for some restorative wine. One evil stare had forced the maid to taste the wine first before I allowed Joya to drink any of it. But it did the trick. After a few sips the colour returned to her cheeks and I felt confident enough to order the nursemaid from the room so we could be alone. With Richard in her cradle in the corner, of course.

"Well." Joya leaned back in her chair and sighed. "Just another quiet evening at home, isn't it?" She gave me a sidelong glance of inquiry. "Out of curiosity, what made you slap the cup out of my hand?"

"Just a feeling that something was wrong." I shrugged. "Sometimes it pays to have a suspicious nature."

"Sometimes it does." She agreed. A tentative smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "And I am very grateful for it."

All well and good, of course: I appreciated my wife's gratitude as well as any married man looking to acquire all the advantages he could. But I would cheerfully have forgone the experience if only our mysterious assailant was locked up in my dankest dungeon. Impatiently I stalked across the room to the fireplace and glared down at the coals. My fingers twitched on the hilt of my dagger. A lust for blood coursed through my veins and nothing less than murder - slow, long drawn-out murder - would satisfy it. But first I had to secure Joya's immediate safety.

I swung around and paced back to the bed where she was sitting. "Now then." I stopped in front of her. "Until this lunatic is caught, we're going to have to take even more precautions than before. We can't assume that he won't be able to get to any part of the castle he wants to. I think we're in agreement on that?" I waited politely.

Joya clasped her hands in her lap and nodded once.

"Good." I walked back to the hearth and turned again. "Then you will be pleased to know that I've decided to give Leofric total authority to investigate every single person in the castle and its environs who might know anything at all. You are pleased, aren't you?"

She hesitated, frowning, then nodded slowly.

"You're not pleased." I moved to the bed again. "What's wrong with the idea?"

"I'm not disagreeing with you." Joya bit her lip. "But I admit to having some - qualms, shall we say? - about this Leofric. What do we really know about him? Why is he willing to stay on here when he might sell his services to a more wealthy lord or even the king?"

Surprise knocked me off my feet and down onto the mattress beside her. "I told you Leofric's story. He's only staying here over the winter because he doesn't know anyone in these parts. And it's not as if he's not getting paid more than enough for his efforts. He's here because I hired him to be here."

Joya flopped over onto her back and stared at the canopied cover. "I know that. And yet I can't help but feel that there's something wrong about him being here." She glanced at me and quirked a brow. "Sometimes it pays to have a suspicious nature."

"Well, not this time." I got up and paced across the room. "He saved your life two days ago, in case you've forgotten."

"No, I haven't forgotten." She examined the canopy again. "But who were all those men who came into the hall with him tonight?"

"I - don't know." It galled me to have to admit it. A lord should know everything that goes on in his county. Eternal vigilance was the price he paid for being a lord. That a group of armed men were in my castle without my express permission was not acceptable. I would have called Leofric out on it if the rather more important issue of another attempt to murder Joya and Marion had not come up. But now I was not sure what I should do. And worried that Joya would sense my uncertainty.

Under the pretext of poking the fire, I bent over the hearth and didn't look over at the bed again. Of course I had to sort out the issue of the strange men as soon as possible; that was a given. Keeping in mind that Leofric had not given me any indication that he was abusing my trust or being in any way disloyal. I thought back to Guy of Gisbourne, my late unlamented cousin, who could be relied on to lose men on a regular basis through bad leadership or carelessness. Leofric was miles ahead of him in terms of ability and guidance. But what to do? I stabbed at the burning logs with the poker and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney.

First things first. Find out who had poisoned the wine - and with what - and then I would worry about the men. In order that Leofric should not in any way sense my concern, I would entrust him completely with the task. Then I would deal with the new men in my castle. I dropped the poker, brushed the soot from my hands and strode from the room. Joya watched me leave but said nothing to hinder me. Outside the bedchamber, I barked an order at a cowering clerk to send Leofric to my office immediately. As soon as he arrived I gave him his assignment and he left.

And so now I sat at my desk and stared unseeing at the papers and reports in front of me. Had Leofric's manner been different? Had he seemed wary of me or more watchful? I considered the question carefully and decided that he appeared no different than before. Surely if there were any change in his attitude it would show up in his demeanour? He was a blunt, honest soldier who probably had no talent for or patience with dissembling. There was probably a reasonable explanation for the men he'd brought with him tonight.

I don't know how long I sat there revolving these thoughts in my head but the candle had not lost more than an hour at the most. There was no further use belabouring the matter that night and I had just set my hands on the arms of my chair to stand up when I saw something that made me freeze. It hadn't been there the last time I had sat at the desk, of that I was sure. But it was definitely there now and I stared at the familiar object as if it were a snake.

Hoping my fingers weren't shaking, I picked up the small folded note on the desk. I opened it carefully and read the by now familiar threat.

"You have ignored previous warnings! Why do you not believe me? Can you not see that I can gain access to the smallest niche in this castle? Stay away from your wife - her bed, her room, her presence - or she will die in front of you. This is your last warning."

Magda
sorry for the delay; btw, isn't there some un-italicizing that needs to be done down below?, - Sunday, March 30, 2003 at 09:04:46 (PST)

A devout Alan Rickman fan first saw him as the Sheriff of Notingham and instantly fell in love with his temper tantrums and lunatic/comedic character. He brings a quality to his characters that many performers can only dream about.
L. Amanda Fortesque-Smythe <sheepshearer@tsn.cc>
Sydney, NSW Australia - Saturday, March 29, 2003 at 17:30:50 (PST)

Hey Claudia, I could help there too if you wish :-) Have 30 something years experience :-)
CJ <foxhound@equinesite.com>
- Friday, March 28, 2003 at 10:07:35 (PST)

APB for Therese!

Hi, re. the fictionalisation (?) of Mr Dev, don't think I was taking offence, just jibing a little in a jokey way. By the bye, if you're looking for any more historical/biographical detail to help with your characterisation of said Irish-American/Spanish dude, I may have a site online which includes such detail. I'll get back to you on that...
Prof of Etiqutte
And yes, I am Irish..., - Wednesday, March 26, 2003 at 07:26:54 (PST)

The Justice Chamber:

Sitting in the crowded chamber Cynthia closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was seated in the first row behind the swath of velvet rope, just to the left and behind the section cordoned off for witnesses, situated so she was at Anton’s right hand and with Colin and then Hans Gruber to her right. Anton’s familiar scent pervaded her senses, his cologne mingled with the sandalwood soap he favoured and the crisp warmth of a freshly ironed shirt. Colin Molyneux’s mélange of scent came to her as well, a sort of fruity clean smell overlaid with that of ink and freshly sharpened pencils. Cutting through all of that was an essence of what she thought of as masculine entrenchment. It was being emanated in abundance two chairs down from her and quite overpowered the other more subtle aspects of the scent of her boss’s son. The protective impulses vibrated off of him like notes just as tangible as those produced by Mary Anne’s Cantarian fabric. It didn’t seem to matter that his wife wasn’t present here, he was protecting her by proxy.

The room was also redolent of anticipation. While the Justice Chamber was well ventilated and spacious, and the chairs comfortably positioned, it was also quite full. There was no escaping the mingling of excitement, dread and fear that permeated the room. This was to be expected she supposed. What had caught her off guard was the now familiar scent of lavender water which wafted down to her nostrils from three rows over and two back. Not that she’d turned to look but she would have wagered her pay check that that’s where the Vicomte sat, his gaze from last night a burning memory.

Another deep breath and she opened her eyes again. She picked out the Brandons seated further down and closer to the Empress’s throne, ensconced within the protective bands of the velvet rope. The woman looked hell bent on being brave and Cynthia wondered what tale she had to tell that would cause her complexion, dove white in its natural state, to be a shade paler. Even as she watched she saw the Colonel lay a protective hand over his wife’s arm in enquiry and her answering look, presumably designed to be reassuring. Even from this distance it was obvious there was little reassurance to be had in either quarter. Cynthia fancied she could sense the male protectiveness echoing that of Herr Gruber’s from where she sat. Whatever ordeals existed in their past it was obvious the one’s in their future were to be faced together. A pang of might have beens shot through her at the thought.

When it was time for the Interrogator to appear Cynthia had to admit that she was far more anxious and tense than she would have thought possible. All of her research and reading suddenly seemed poor preparation for her first sight of HIM. The seats around her seemed to loom up as the floor below them opened and dropped away beneath them. She gasped as the dungeon disgorged its contents and felt Anton’s reassuring touch upon her own arm. She was grateful for the warmth of the physical contact. When the cage was in place it seemed as though the room, previously warm with the presence of so many bodies, was unheated and chill.

HE is magnificent.

Like a great cat caged but in no manner tame. These were her first thoughts upon seeing the man which had brought them all to the Palace. Her next impression was of fingers arched to clench around the bench upon which HE sat as if it were HIS own force of will which kept him contained rather than the manacles, chains and iron bars. HE somehow seemed to transcend HIS bonds as if they were of no import. Cynthia knew that if HE shook the chains she would have to fight the impulse to flee. It seemed excessive security until she remembered HIS last escape despite the best efforts of the Alliance Rose and U.N.I.T. Cynthia suspected those best efforts were being far exceeded by the Imperial Guard. This was, after all, their home territory and they had their Empress to protect.

At Rupert Cadell’s admonition, Cynthia tore her eyes from the prisoner to see who would be the first witness called.

Cindie
As if I could resist. , - Monday, March 24, 2003 at 18:54:07 (PST)

I almost forgot to add my homage and apologies to Paul Young and his song *Every Time You Go Away*.
Cindie
- Sunday, March 23, 2003 at 07:55:55 (PST)

Paragraph added.
(D.o.C.)

DoC, Help! Would you mind placing a paragraph break after "Would she go away when he appeared, really appeared?" That italicised song bit supposed to be down two lines.
Cindie
Is it any wonder I'm impressed with other people's html prowess?, - Saturday, March 22, 2003 at 18:48:12 (PST)

Mistral's flat:

Mistral was humming the song he’d heard in the clothing store in which he’d stopped on the way home as he opened the door to his flat. He placed his purchase on the counter and greeted his flat-mate who was now twined around his ankles and purring her welcome home. Opening another parcel he diced the turkey breast which had also been purchased on the way home and set it down next to the water bowl which he picked up and freshened. Scratching her under the chin and behind her ears he advised her of his itinerary for the evening. Annabelle merped her acquiescence and transferred her attentions to dinner. Drawing out the thin box and discarding the bag and the detritus from the poultry, Mistral walked back to the bedroom. He tossed the box on his bed and disrobed, carefully hanging the jacket and trousers on the valet chair and crossing to the bathroom to place all the other articles in the hamper. His shower was quick and thorough and, had she been interested, Annabelle would have heard more snatches of the song which seemed to have embedded itself in her man’s head.

When he emerged from the shower, refreshed in body and quite fresh in spirit, he dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist. He lathered up his shaving soap and applied an even coating to face and throat. Safety razor in hand, he removed all traces of stubble, cupped his hands under running water and rinsed his face, wiped all the stray lather and water off with another plumb towel and moved back to the bedroom. Opening his closet he paused for a brief moment before removing a suit bag on a cedar hanger and a dark shirt and placing them on the bed. He moved to his sock drawer and removed a pair of socks and a clean undergarment. He took his time dressing , glancing periodically at the photograph on his nightstand as he did so. After donning shirt and trousers and adjusting his braces he reached for the lacquer case which rested upon his dresser. One hand held it on the dresser’s top and the other opened it and remained poised over its contents. His fingers trilled as they passed over several sets of cufflinks, ranging from a green turquoise to a pair of tiger’s eye links, and paused to stray over a silver ring nestled in the black velvet. The fingers moved on and, at an empty space which should have held a pair of gold and onyx cufflinks, a smile began to form at the corner of his mouth.

She still had them. The smile turned to humming and the humming into words sung for no audience present in the room.

Every time you go away
You take a piece of me with you.

This refrain was repeated as his fingers trilled and then finally rested upon a pair of cufflinks of a dark purple amethyst which he scooped up and then began to fasten. He recalled something Mary Anne had told him around the time of the Great Proposal Scene, that amethyst was reputed to ward off violent passions. The smile formed in full now, as he thought that it held little more chance of working where he was concerned than it had for the newly affianced characters. The smile fled. No, not violent passions. Intense. There was a difference and he would never. . . The tune poured forth again,

Oh, and so you go again
When the leading man appears

Would she go when he appeared, really appeared?

Always the same thing
Can’t you see
We’ve got everything goin’ on and on and on

No, it wasn’t the same thing. Not this time. She wasn’t interested in him as a leading man and she wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was he. Without thinking he reached for the silver ring and, holding it between thumb and forefinger, read the inscription which ran along the inside to himself. His arm extended to replace it in the case but instead he snapped the lid closed and deposited the ring in the pocket of his shirt. Sitting back on the bed he stared at her photograph for a moment and then reached back for the box and pulled out the tie he’d bought on his way home. He continued to ponder her features as he secured the neck-tie and then stood to look in the mirror as he straightened it and then retrieved his jacket still nestled in the bag lying on the bed. After he was through buttoning and brushing the stray cat hairs off his apparel (how did Annabelle manage to deposit her fur on a tuxedo residing near the back of his closet, the door to which was always tight shut?) he paused to assess himself in the mirror. The shirt and tie looked as black as the tuxedo in this light, with the purple nearly invisible.

He would do. Would he do for her?

Cindie
Well, MA? ;-), - Saturday, March 22, 2003 at 18:44:57 (PST)

=8-O
in the gallery
- Friday, March 21, 2003 at 17:45:24 (PST)

The Imperial Palace:

The Interrogator waits in darkness.

HE runs one hand over HIS freshly shaven jawline and chin. But of course they would clean me up before the . . . Great Event. It would not do if I appeared to be maltreated. And the ones who had attended to HIM had been most carefully selected. HE smiles, thinking of the Palace valet who had been selected for the barbering, a man whose imperturbable composure gave the impression that he would cheerfully shave a grizzly bear if the need arose, and so a man-any man-is no great matter. Not that it was of any importance, for HE had been carefully restrained and watched throughout the proceedings.

Cleanliness. Decent clothes. For this, it had almost been worthwhile to maintain the pose of docility.

Almost.

HE waits, in darkness but not in silence, but he can hear the distant hum of voices, the rising and falling. And it is growing louder. Soon . . .

She is not far away; that much The Interrogator knows, as a man can feel the direction of the sun by its heat on his skin. Something in HIM strains toward that heat and HIS head tips back slightly, those golden eyes searching the darkness.

She will not come to me. I will go to her.

And elsewhere in The Palace:

Mary Anne waits in the Justice Chamber, glancing nervously about her. She and Brandon have been seated in a small area enclosed by velvet ropes, marked as reserved for witnesses in the proceedings. The large circular chamber is filling rapidly as people seat themselves around the perimeter, and she passes the time by studying the faces about her-many familiar, but just as many strange, stark reminders of the scope of HIS activities. But then, not all of these people are here to testify; there is an atmosphere like the approach of a thunderstorm, a tension in the air-a tension that, by the looks on some of those faces, is not altogether unwelcome. With a small shudder Mary Anne glances once more about the enclosure, thinking of Roman amphitheatres and gladiatorial combats. Some of these people are here for the entertainment.

And she, however reluctantly, will be a part of that entertainment. A detached corner of her brain wonders what some of these spectators might know of her, how they might be trying to predict her reaction when The Interrogator is brought in.

Mary Anne cannot help them, for she finds her own reaction impossible to predict. But the one recollection that recurs in pitiless detail is the memory of walking down that corridor in the dungeons, turning the corner . . . and there, The Interrogator, so much nearer than she had thought, barely six feet away, HIS mere presence a thing to cower from like a physical blow. The chill-she can feel it now, as if the blood had withdrawn from her skin, leaving her cold and numb-the chill and shock of how much she had forgotten about HIM, how time and absence had blurred those features in her mind, only to stamp them the more indelibly in that moment of confrontation.

I was not ready then. Am I ready now?

Mary Anne is not allowed time to wonder, for The Empress has appeared and all rise to make obeisance to her as she proceeds through the Chamber toward her state chair, the ivory-white throne on its dais flanked by lions: the Solomon Throne, symbol of the wisdom guiding all proceedings here.

The Empress continues her stately walk, looking neither to her left nor to her right, grave, ceremonial, clad in a flowing black gown with its cowled headpiece drawn up to frame her hair, crowned with the slim gold circlet of Imperial authority.

No music, thinks Mary Anne. In the short time she has been at The Palace she has become accustomed to an atmosphere pervaded by music, from the echoes of children’s lessons in the morning to the evensong from the highest tower at night, and the sudden absence of it brings home the ominous nature of this event in a way that her own misgivings could not.

Brandon’s touch on her arm, and a concerned look. “Are you unwell, my dearest?”

Yes, Christopher, as unwell as it is possible to be-thoroughly sick at the prospect of this. Those ranks of seats around the edge of the chamber, the open floor in the center where, presumably, the questioning will take place . . . Don’t look at that; look at something else. And Mary Anne concentrates fiercely on a sheaf of gladioli in one of the wall brackets. The sword lily, Imperial emblem of the beauty of justice-but beyond that, simply a lovely flower, and in a moment Mary Anne is able to nod to Brandon that yes, she is all right, as he holds her chair for her to resume her seat.

The Empress settles herself upon the throne and her advisers file in, taking up ranks around her. There is a moment of silence, and then Her Majesty’s cool, clear voice. “Let the prisoner be brought before us.”

Involuntarily, Mary Anne glances toward the door, bracing herself . . . but The Interrogator does not enter through the door.

There is metallic clash as of gears engaging, a series of thumps.

Startled, Mary Anne looks toward Brandon-who does not look at her. The Colonel’s eyes are fixed upon the centre of the chamber floor, the cleared area. Inquiringly, Mary Anne touches Brandon’s elbow and he looks toward her, then away, and she perceives in a flash that something is about to happen, something Brandon had known or anticipated-and had not told her.

A sound. Definitely mechanical. Gears meshed and functioning. Then a low, continuous scraping noise as . . .

The centre of the floor begins to open.

Panels of marble, perfectly blended with their surrounding stone, drawing back to expose a pit beneath. And from the pit-an iron cage, rising on mechanical supports, slowly appears over the lip of the marble panels. Slowly. There is a scrape of chairs, spectators craning their necks, half-rising from their seats to see . . .

The Interrogator.

Seated on a low bench in the cage, manacled, burdened with the weight of chains, HE is now in full view and the low murmur that had run through the chamber begins to build to a full-throated roar, cut short by the bang of a gavel from the advisers’ table and a command of “Silence!” from Rupert Cadell.

Stifling a moan, Mary Anne looks away from the cage. HE is still, utterly still, yet she knows those eyes are scanning the room and even in this press of people they will find her unerringly.

Some minutes pass as Her Majesty’s advisers attend to minor matters of last-minute business at their table, and Mary Anne steels herself. I was not ready then. Am I ready now? It doesn’t matter. Ready or not . . . And with that thought, she squares her shoulders and sits up straight in her chair, as The Empress turns to her advisers and announces, “You may call your first witness.”

MA--HE's heeeeeerre . . .
Well, Cindie? ;-), - Thursday, March 20, 2003 at 20:14:48 (PST)

Barbara--having seen the attempt in question, I don't think ANYONE could help, with the song or otherwise. Another reason I usually stay clear of the GB these days.

MA
Trying desperately to observe Suzanne's wishes and not sound off at some of these folks . . ., - Thursday, March 20, 2003 at 06:04:02 (PST)

*sigh*

Next door there's a filk who .... just doesn't have "the touch."

Should I help her?
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Who just finished verse 2 of "Never Set Baghdad on Fire", - Thursday, March 20, 2003 at 05:56:00 (PST)

Speaking of spam and other virtual offenses . . .

There was something in my junk mail folder just now entitled "You will love the attention" and the sender was listed as "Sherwood." I had to laugh--it reminded me of the Sheriff going on about "I could give your every need my personal attention!"

And a short time ago I got one entitled "Our date tonight" and the sender was listed as "Brandon." Much against my better judgment, I did open that one. And I should have listened to my better judgment. 8-P Colonel Brandon would have been absolutely aghast at the contents and might have been forced to call someone out!

MA
With loathing for spammers and inserters of pop-up ads!, - Wednesday, March 19, 2003 at 04:49:35 (PST)

FoF Set:

Echoes of Mary Anne’s “Sláinte,” went around the table. Therese noted with complete sincerity that they were fortunate not to have been served green beer with lunch and after a bit more chatting the three ladies reluctantly parted for various corners of the FoF complex. If one didn’t know better one would think they lived hundreds of miles apart and only managed to see each other but once a year for the warmth of their promises to meet up again as soon as their schedules managed to coincide. Quips of Hailey’s Comet aside, sometimes it was more difficult than one might imagine to align the three of them in the same place at the same time.

Cindie left for The Director’s office, her thoughts on the upcoming museum affair occupying her on several different levels, and as she rounded a corner nearly ran into Christopher Brandon. She really nearly did and it would have been her fault, too. Ever the gentleman it was he who apologized to her although the slight upturning at the corner of his lips might suggest that perhaps he did know that it was she who was the runner and he the hapless runee. “Yes, really, Christopher, you ought to be more careful.” Cindie couldn’t resist teasing him but he took it in his usual good grace.

“A pox upon me for a clumsy louse!” He exclaimed as he swept her a bow. “Shall I escort you to your destination, lest any other misadventures befall you?”

“You really are too good to be true, sometimes Christopher. But I expect I can manage to fumble my way to The Director’s office without doing anyone else or myself any lasting harm.”

“If you’re quite sure. I shouldn’t want you to be way-laid by an errant Highwayman.”

“I didn’t know we had those around these halls.” She checked around, ever hopeful, but there didn’t seem to be any lurking about. “But speaking of errant Highwaymen,” at this she smiled sweetly at him and earned a raised eyebrow from him, “I think Therese enjoyed her last scene with you. I need to write something where I get held in your arms for hours on end, unless you think Mary Anne would object.”

“And what of Mistral? What would he think of you longing to be held in the arms of another?”

“I never said anything about longing, but fair’s fair after all, Mary Anne has scenes with Mistral… speaking of which, if you have a razor on the set you may want to hide it.”

“Hide my razor, whatever for?!” Clearly this non sequitur was too much for even his intuitive mind.

“The appeal of a bristly Mistral has been noted by your Miss Mary Anne and she threatened to hide yours. I think she has ideas for a Bristly Brandon.”

A cloud seemed to pass over Brandon’s features at this comment but the shadow was gone almost immediately to be replaced by his look of gentle good humour. “Ah, so whiskers are de rigueur for the day are they? Hans and Anton will be well pleased.”

Cindie had reason to believe Anton was already pleased. Earlier in the day she had heard him fixing plans for the evening with some of the extras who were portraying Ed’s handmaidens. Three of the ladies to be quite precise. Perhaps the Siberian Tiger was part Tigger if he had all that much energy. But she only said, “I expect you’re right.” Then she added, “I’d better get a move on, it doesn’t do to keep the boss waiting too long.”

“Good day, Miss Cindie. Have a safe trip.” He smiled but unconsciously rubbed his hand across his smooth and stubble-free chin as he resumed his own journey.

Cindie
It's a wonderful homage. , - Tuesday, March 18, 2003 at 18:36:26 (PST)

MA, you're right! I highlighted that pseudo anti-war message and its full of links for dubious financial services. That's disgusting.
Cindie
We should get together for lunch more often, that was fun. :-D, - Tuesday, March 18, 2003 at 17:24:45 (PST)

Oh, well, so long as you're amused, Barbara! 8-)

MA
- Tuesday, March 18, 2003 at 05:56:58 (PST)

What amuses me most about MA's post is that it isn't Silvert who would file How the Irish Saved Civilization under "fiction."

Graff would....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Tuesday, March 18, 2003 at 05:28:00 (PST)

Of course, I didn't offer any spam on the buffet--because you can get plenty of that in the post right before mine! Sheesh . . .

MA
Spam, spam, lovely pseudo-inspirational spam . . ., - Monday, March 17, 2003 at 20:16:00 (PST)

FOF set, the cafeteria:

Mary Anne, Cindie, and Therese all pile through the door at once, giddy with the unusual timing that has allowed the three of them to have lunch together-a rare thing with their busy schedules. But then, Mary Anne takes one look at the buffet line and screeches to a halt.

“Good grief,” she says. Weakly.

Cindie and Therese look as well and gulp in unison at the huge mound of mashed potatoes . . . dyed green in honour of Saint Patrick’s Day.

“Oh, my,” exclaims Cindie. “It looks as if the fishsticks will have a rival.”

“The potatoes are definitely out.” Therese steps closer to the table. “What are the other choices?”

Having gotten her gag reflex under control, Mary Anne scans the table. “Well, there’s the spinach pasta.”

“It’s green, too,” points out Cindie.

“Yes, well, spinach pasta is supposed to be green,” laughs Mary Anne, “and since I love spinach and pasta, I suppose I can tolerate them both.”

“Or . . .” Cindie waves to the end of the table, from whence delicious aromas are wafting. “Corned beef and cabbage, anyone?”

“Yum!” Mary Anne scoops up a plate. “Now this is civilized, at least.”

“Why, Mary Anne,” teases Therese as they fill their plates, “are you hinting that the Irish are uncivilized?”

“Not at all!” protests Mary Anne with a broad grin. “ Although detective Silvert might, after the hard time Dev gave them with his interview. And wasn’t there a book a few years ago about how the Irish saved civilization?”

“That Silvert woman would shelve it in fiction,” mutters Therese, spooning extra cabbage onto her plate as if in defiance of the absent Silvert.

“Well, never mind her,” soothes Mary Anne as they make their way to a table. “Dev’s a big boy and he can look after himself, no matter what she thinks. And speaking of Dev being a big boy, Therese, that was some scene he just had with Suzanne and Victor and the rest of them-“

Cindie shakes out her napkin. “Too bad she’s out cold on the floor for the whole thing!”

“No, that’s the best part,” chuckles Therese. “They’re the ones working so hard in that scene, and all I have to do is lie on the floor and enjoy it.”

There is a lull in the conversation as the ladies dig into their steaming plates, though Mary Anne and Therese do not neglect to tease Cindie about whether she appreciates the bristly appeal of the unshaven Mistral, with Mary Anne hinting that she might have to hide Brandon’s razor. But finally the plates are pushed back with a sigh of contentment.

“Dessert, anyone?” Mary Anne glances at the cart. “Hmmmm, let’s see . . .” The choices appear to be limited. Sugar cookies cut into shamrocks and frosted with a sickly green buttercream. A green gelatin concoction. Mary Anne wrinkles up her nose. “Well, we could always have dessert in my cube, if you two have a few minutes.”

Therese looks intrigued. “And what have you got hidden away in there?”

“Hidden is right.” Mary Anne lowers her voice. “How about some green M&M’s?”

Cindie sips her tea to hide her smirk. “Well, you know what they say about the effect of those.”

Therese rolls her eyes and Mary Anne is on the verge of a snorfle. “Is that what causes it? I’d have thought it was the, ah, wonderful scenery around here and now you tell me I can blame it on green candies.”

Cindie, with her vivid and recent recollections of Mistral’s kiss and the feel of his unshaven cheek against her skin, does not argue, but looks regretfully at her watch instead. “I’d like to, Mary Anne, but I have to get back in just a few minutes. The Director wants to go over some of the details of that museum gala. But don’t worry, I won’t tell him about your secret stash.”

“Awfully decent of you. Therese?”

“I’ll have to take a rain check, too. Eamon and I still have to work out what happens when I wake up . . .” An evil grin.

Mary Anne laughs out loud. “And his character thought it was painful to be separated from Therese-oooo, has he got a lot to learn about pain. Oh, well, some other time, then, ladies.” Mary Anne lifts her cup. “Sláinte. ”

MA--just a piece of silliness that suddenly came to me. Oh, well, AR is part Irish, after all. 8-)
Happy Saint Patrick's! To our Jewish readers and posters, Happy Purim!, - Monday, March 17, 2003 at 20:07:36 (PST)

Hello Ladies...remember me? I was writing about David Friedman and his "friend" Courtney. Well, I promise more to come. Things got busy after my break from college. Such as finally got a boyfriend (yay) Within 3 weeks had been dumped by boyfriend. (not so good) Though I think my life reflects that of "Bridget Jones" (Though no sight of a Colin Firth-like guy in my future) Plus the horros of midterms and other fun things. But I promise more, that is if you still want to read more....let me know =)
Courtney
- Saturday, March 15, 2003 at 14:45:25 (PST)

I try not to anticipate those Barbara. She only shows up if she's not expected. ;-)
Cindie
Yes, I am still in awe of your html-ness. , - Saturday, March 15, 2003 at 10:52:27 (PST)

Cindie --

You forgot guest appearances by Renie....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Do I still have superpowers ?, - Saturday, March 15, 2003 at 09:28:46 (PST)

O.K. then, lets take stock. Mary Anne, check (and inspirational as always); Claudia, double check (Wow-write more); Therese, check, check (write faster); BtW, check; Diane, check (We'll miss you Diane); Magda, check.

Now who is missing?

Cindie
SANDY--give real life a rest and come back to us!, - Friday, March 14, 2003 at 17:31:49 (PST)

FoF, On-Set:

“You look positively disreputable!” Cindie’s eyes swept over him as they took in his grime grey cuffs and stubbled cheeks and chin.

“Like it, do you?” Mistral drawled as he leaned back in his chair and rasped a hand over his chin. They were on set but it was between takes.

“Very scratchy I should think,” she considered him with her head cocked to one side and her hands on her hips as she stood before him. “Is that all you or is it make-up?”

“Come and see for yourself, my dear.” He bared his teeth looking quite the big bad wolf.

“I just might do that.” She stepped a little closer but didn’t move in for the kiss. “Perhaps I ought to simply give you a shave. There must be a cut throat razor and some soap lying about somewhere.”

“What and shatter all this cultivated verisimilitude? Such a waste that would be!” His hands went up in the air in mock dismay.

“I suppose you’ll tell me that I’d be in trouble with the Continuity Girl if I tamper with your beautiful disreputableness.”

He didn’t answer immediately but settled himself more firmly in his director’s chair and narrowed his eyes. “Come here.” His voice had gone to that low smoky tone that was resistible if one happened to be made of cast iron. Cindie was not and had no wish to be. She moved closer and placed her hands on the arms of his chair. They were quite alone, a break having been called, and he now leant forward and wrapped his arms around her to gather her close. He felt her arms reciprocate and one hand slide up to caress the back of his neck. Pulling her to his lap he bent to his task.

It was all him and the kiss was indeed scratchy as he made sure that she experienced all the tactile stimulation he could offer. She made a sound low in her throat that led him to believe his unpolished state was not without its appeal to her. When she had recovered sufficient equilibrium to speak he was rewarded with a breathy, “That’s not fair. If you can be unkempt and unshaven and still…”

“Still what, my dear?” If a wolf could purr.

The sound of approaching voices told her the interlude was over and she stood and reassembled herself into a state of relative composure. “I’ll see you after work.” There was no attempt to couch this as a request. She began to move away and then turned to look over her shoulder. “And don’t shave just yet.”

“As you command, my dear lady.”

Mistral rubbed a thoughtful hand over his roughened jaw-line. He would have to shave, or be shaved, more like, but this was not a problem. After all, this represented only a weekend’s growth.

Cindie
I couldn't just let those whiskers go untested or unmolested. , - Friday, March 14, 2003 at 17:24:51 (PST)

Italics fixed.
Okay, but they're really hard.
D.o.C.

Oh dear! Hit me with a scone... I seem to now lie in the "people who have italicised the guestbook" category- for some reason I accidently pressed enter before I was done adding my HTML! *sigh* I sincerely apologize, and now, I shall rapidly flee...
Me again
Er... oops?, - Friday, March 14, 2003 at 17:07:32 (PST)

Jamie sat, dwindling, alone in a half-awake stare at completely nothing. The once a-blazing fire had now grown to nothing more then a few pitiful glowing embers. He had been sitting there like that for over a day now, stiff as a board: he never moved, he never shifted.

What exactly was he waiting for? News? A change in life, or, we should say, afterlife? Something exciting and marvelous to come pounding through his down? A gateway to adventure swing open at his very own command? What was it that he was demanding?

He drew his hand into a ball and thumped it on the chair, anger rising like fumes. He knew what he wanted and could never have- life. Just like Nina. She wanted a life. She wanted to be free. And she had gotten it. She was now happily married and had two kids of her own- kids that could have been his own son and daughter- and a husband of whom she loved dearly. His eyes began to water at the thought of her contentment. People say that ghosts stay behind for one reason, to accomplish one task that they had not been previously been able to. His task, however, could not, in any possible way, be ended. He wanted life… he wanted to live.

It was the same time that the fire disappeared in a last burst of sparks that the doorbell to his small apartment rang. He sat like a log until the third ring and he clamored upwards, eyelids heavy, cheeks puffed. He opened it to see a man dressed in black from head to toe. The man gave a solemn bow.

"This, sire, is for you. I’m terribly sorry." Jamie gave once glance at the stranger and took the envelope that matched the deliverer’s clothes. He didn’t need to read the letter to know what it contained inside.

To Whom It May Concern,

Miss Diane Ivon Ferra, age 23, passed away this morning at exactly 8:03 A.M. The cause of this death is unknown, since she seemed to be recovering in the hospital at a moderate tone.

Jamie did not read on. He did not want to, did not have to. He crumpled up the letter and threw it into the ashes. Then he re-positioned himself in his chair and continued on staring… and staring…

Diane <snapescauldron@aol.com>
And thus, sadly, ending the storyline., - Friday, March 14, 2003 at 17:05:42 (PST)

Precisely what both Dev and The Interrogator are worried about . . .

The empress's RULES!
That cyrptic can't stay in hiding for long.
- Thursday, March 13, 2003 at 17:25:32 (PST)

Re: "lug-headed Irishmen." No offense to the Irish contingent here--after all, my blood has a touch o' the green in it as well. Dev, as Therese has written him, is a lug-head (well, sometimes . . .)who just happens to be Irish as well. After all, lug-headedness knows neither race nor country nor creed. *grin*

MA
The Empress RULES!! ;-D, - Thursday, March 13, 2003 at 17:03:07 (PST)

Prof of E,

This type of comment has risen before, and I tend to (attempt) to explain it like this: Eamon Devalera, unlike most of the other characters in our continuing story, is not fictional. He really existed, and so because of that there are some things that can't be changed about him. That said, I've sort of 'borrowed' this real person, and placed him fictionally within the realm of FoF. So I do try to maintain the integrity of the man, but am fully aware that in this regard he's a completely fictional character. With that in mind, I've taken all sorts of liberties with him such as making him a widower so he was available for Therese, etc.

In the world of FoF, ain't nobody outranks The Empress!

Therese
It's true, too, Suzanne! , - Thursday, March 13, 2003 at 11:23:05 (PST)

Well that's not quite what was said, but, you know what I mean...
Prof
- Thursday, March 13, 2003 at 08:02:21 (PST)

Yes, yes, that's very well, but would you really have an Irish head of government bowing to another (I assume the Empress is head of state of something? forgive me, I'm not up to date)? Even under the admittedly lowering circumstances... (Unless it's Bertie Ahern you're talking of, but that's another story...)
Professor of Etiquette
And enough of the lug-headed Irishman bit, even if it is nearly St Patrick's day! :-D , - Thursday, March 13, 2003 at 08:00:04 (PST)

Therese--my fault? My fault? What'd I do?! Dev is your thickheaded lug of an Irishman, after all! But if I somehow inspired you to post, I suppose I'm willing to take the blame . . . ;-D

MA
Poor, poor Dev! I wonder if he'll behave now . . . ah, who am I kidding?, - Thursday, March 13, 2003 at 05:03:07 (PST)

The Palace Dungeons-still in flashback

The sound of Her Majesty’s last words had hardly left the still air when the cell erupted into action. The guards, all of whom had bowed low at their ruler’s approach, straightened and quietly moved closer toward the slight figure, as the entourage who had accompanied her had been halted at the door to the cell with a slight hand gesture. Scout straightened, then turned to his prisoner, the tiny key flashing quickly as the manacles pinning his wrists clicked free. Eamon Devalera stepped forward slightly, flexing his broad shoulders as he stretched aching muscles. He barely had time to react before two guards stepped to each side, and grasping hold of his upper arms sent him to his knees on the unyielding floor. “Bow before your Empress,” the older of the two hissed savagely, his affront clearly evident.

“Gently, Victor,” the Empress said, her soft, clear voice both soothing and powerful, conveying her knowledge of those sworn to her service, her respect for them, and her gentle censure, all without obvious intent.

The powerful guard bowed his head slightly, acknowledging her word, his loyalty blazingly obvious in his regard. Both men eased their grips slightly on the shoulders of their captive, though he was still held securely to the floor. The Empress took several additional steps forward, and when her guards would have followed, she again held them with only a tiny gesture. She stopped when she was within arm’s reach of Devalera, then crossed her arms in front of her body, the edge of her golden silk gown gently pooling at her feet. When he would have looked at her, the same guard who had moved before placed his hand on the back of Eamon’s neck, forcing his gaze to the floor.

“Release the prisoner, please, and step aside.” The command was gentle, but the Empress’ soft, feminine voice allowed for no hesitation, and each guard took two steps back and away from their captive, their concern for her safety projected in every stride. There was no guard in the castle unfamiliar with this man, who wasn’t fully aware that he had not only breached their impenetrable security, but had deliberately harmed one of their own. The air bristled with their animosity as Devalera knelt before their Empress, each man coiled and prepared to strike.

”My men seem to believe that you are a threat to me, Mr. Devalera,” the Empress began in her most imperial tone, “is this true?”

Eamon Devalera turned his head slightly; he was almost as tall as the woman standing over him, even though he knelt before her, then lowered his head once more. “You are in no danger from me, Majesty. I would not do you harm.”

“Yet you do wish to harm to one of my subjects, am I correct?” Piercing, intelligent eyes gave her subject no quarter.

“The one I wish to. . .” there was a slight pause as the politician considered his wording, “. . .detain is no loyal subject, and one who would do you considerable damage if given the opportunity.”

“You have such little faith in my ability to protect my subjects then? Or even myself?”

Eamon felt the stillness of the room press against him, every person present waiting for his next response. “I have every faith in your goodness, Empress, every belief in your just actions, it is the inherently evil creature we discuss who I doubt. Who I would choose to see unable to cause harm in your realm again.”

”Who you would choose, Mr. Devalera?” Her simple question rang through the cell, though her voice had not risen in the slightest it took all of Eamon’s not inconsiderable skill to avoid flinching. She paused long seconds before adding, “I was under the impression that such things were at my discretion.”

Eamon slumped forward slightly, head bowed. He had begun this in an attempt to protect his beloved Therese. It had seemed obvious to him that sacrificing himself to rid the realm of HIM was a worthy offering. He knew, and felt, that if HE lived, there was danger. It had seemed too simple, so obvious. Now in the harsh light of the cell, amongst the gathered men, the chill of the cement floor biting into his knees, and the woman he had pledged to protect slumped on the other side of the cell, nothing seemed clear to him at all. His voice when he spoke this time was barely audible. “I wished only to protect her.”

“And how has this attempt fared thus far?” she demanded, turning sideways to indicate the prone form. “How well have you protected your Therese, now that you kneel here in front of me, seeing her unconscious before you, unable to even go to her?”

He did flinch then, statesmen or not, as the wounded gasp at the Empress’ direct words stole from between his lips. She allowed him no respite, but continued.

“For the crimes you have committed in my home, Mr. Devalera, I would be wholly justified to keep you locked away from the very woman you tell me you wish to protect. Should I decide to I could have you taken away even now, without so much as a final word or touch.”

Eamon Devalera rocked back on his heels, as if the very effort of remaining upright had become too strenuous. He had expected this, known it was the only possible result, but had weighed the death of HIM against the cruelty of separation from his betrothed. Her safety had been worth that, but now he had sacrificed the one without benefit of the other. He covered his face with both hands, his breath ragged. “Please,” he said, his deep voice barely audible. “One final good-bye, please?”

“No.” The Empress practically spit the word out, her voice rising slightly for the first time. No guard dared to raise their eyes to look at their sovereign or the man prone before her, even Brandon bowed his head at the seemingly palpable pain emanating from the man he had begun to consider a friend. She paused after her sharp response, wanting to be certain that the man before her understood the power she held over him, wanted him to understand the capacity with which she could hurt him. She stepped forward again, then gently placed her slender white hand on Devalera’s broad shoulder, feeling him flinch beneath her fingertips. The two guards she had ordered to step aside strained at the contact and their distance from their rular, their muscles taut as they prepared to intervene at the slightest hint of aggression. “Do you find this punishment cruel, Mr. Devalera? Do you regret bringing this upon yourself or simply find me to be unjust?”

Eamon’s voice was ragged with strain when he finally lifted his head and made a response. “I knew there would be consequence to my action, Majesty, I do not question your punishment, even if I find myself ill prepared for the pain it causes.”

The Empress removed her hand from his shoulder, crossing her arms before her once more, then stepped back several paces. Turning sideways, she consulted Dr. McCoy. “Your patient, Doctor?” “Simple exhaustion, coupled with dehydration, Empress. She had not recovered fully from her previous ordeal before suffering the strain of this one.”

“Should she be in hospital?”

“I don’t believe so, ma’am, so long as she rests and takes the time to eat and drink as she should.” The doctor leaned over her patient again, the scanner whirring softly as she consulted the reading. “There’s nothing here to indicate anything serious, though that could change if she isn’t cared for properly this time.”

“I see, thank you.” She turned back to Devalera, his relief at the doctor’s words clearly obvious to any observer. “Go to her,” she stated, indicating the prone woman.

There was a startled moment of hesitation as Eamon looked up at the Empress with surprised relief and gratitude. “Thank you, Majesty,” he breathed, executing a hasty half bow from his kneeling position before he quickly moved across the length of the cell, and lifted Therese into his arms.

“Lt. Sifuentes, you will escort Dr. McCoy, her patient and Mr. Devalera to Miss Gellert’s room where Mr. Devalera is to remain until I personally indicate otherwise.” She turned toward Dev, “I assume there is no need to tell you what awaits you should you do anything at all to make me regret this leniency, Mr. Devalera?”

“No, Majesty, I am well aware of your generosity, for which I am most grateful.”

The Empress turned, and began to cross to the door of the cell, her guards filing out behind her in a precise and orderly fashion. “Remember that gratitude, Mr. Devalera, for I believe you may expect me to call upon it over the next several days.”

Therese
Cindie--fast enough? Clods--good to see you back in the Realm, we'll have to catch up soon. MA--this is all your fault, you know. , - Wednesday, March 12, 2003 at 14:13:11 (PST)

" I hope its not gone, when we go back, or we're all screwed." mutter Claudia under her breath.

"Where is here, exactly?" asked Anton. "The Tardis seemed to think it had not moved."

Ed shrugged. "Not exactly sure, but the natives are very friendly." He winked suggestively at Anton. As long as he didn't look at HER, he'd be all right.

A handmaiden appeared at Ed's side, and lovingly started to dab the water from his body with another large fluffy towel. Ed turned to her. "These are my friends," he said. "Make sure they are comfortable, while I go and get dressed." He grabbed the towel and walked away.

"Yes, my lord." The woman breathed, lowering her head, and batting her eyelashes. When she looked up, she was immediately studying Anton and the Doctor - a clinical appraising look. She tilted her head, and smiled. "Friends of Ed - this way." And she moved off, hips swinging, the flap at the back of her skirt swishing, seemed to hypnotise, as Anton and the Doctor followed after her.

Claudia continued to stand still, watching, as they crossed the room. She couldn't believe it. "My lord, my foot!" She decided to follow so she didn't lose them all completely, and jogged after them. "Men!"
Claudia
There you go, Cindie, must be my quota for this month ;), - Tuesday, March 11, 2003 at 16:50:17 (PST)

Claudia watched as he rose slowly out of the bath. He moved towards the edge, where some steps were hidden beneath the water, and almost liquid himself, flowed up and out of the pool. Her lips parted in anticipation of the view, but unfortunately, a strategically placed potted fern hid all but his glistening chest and upper body. Two handmaidens rushed forward, holding out a towel and wrapped it expertly round his lower body, tucking in place at his waist.

He shook his head, and water droplets spun in all directions. It should have reminded her of a shaggy dog, but it didn't. She missed him. She was reminded of their last time together, when he'd come to plead her case with the Empress, and she'd allowed them time alone together. Claudia had tried to push him away, to keep him from hurting any more. To cut herself off. But she couldn't. "No matter what I've done, how lost I seemed, the one thing that's kept me going… I love you, you have all of my heart. You always have." She'd bared her soul, and his kiss had be the best of her life. One that would keep her going no matter what happened from here on in.

She realised now, that even though the thought of the Interrogator's touch made her go weak at the knees (and how much of that was a conditioned response?) she loved Ed, and love wasn't stagnant or boring, it was new and renewed with each touch, sight or sound.

She was lost in her dazed thoughts, and hadn't realised that Ed had moved across the room to her, and passed her. He took Anton's hand and shook it, then moved passed her again to the Doctor. He'd ignored her completely.

"Doctor, I'd almost given up hope. I've been here nearly 2 weeks!"

"But I saw you only yesterday, my boy." The Tardis, it was a time machine after all. "A glitch in the Tardis, maybe? The same one that brought us here?"

"There was some problem with the lights, going funny. Power cut I thought. Went outside for a wander, and ended up here. When I went back to find the Tardis, it was gone."
Claudia
MA: So - who gets to help the Interrogator get ready?, - Tuesday, March 11, 2003 at 16:01:13 (PST)

*peals of laughter*

And apparently, make a hash of it!
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Monday, March 10, 2003 at 21:57:31 (PST)

MA

What? Brandon still hasn't shown you his cryptic?

What is that man thinking?
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Demonstrating my stunning ability to italicize AND underline at the same time., - Monday, March 10, 2003 at 21:48:26 (PST)

The Palace Dungeons--slight flashback

There was a slight hesitation, and several startled intakes of breath as Therese was observed to waver unsteadily, then fall. Her descent was gradual, seemingly in slow motion, as if even in losing consciousness she still struggled against her fate. Brandon had been in mid-stride when he saw his companion waver, and checking his pace he fell to one knee in order to retrieve the fallen form. He might not have been quick enough to catch her, even given his alert response, had not Rupert used the walking staff that was so much a part of him to brace diagonally across Therese’s upper body, supporting her so that she landed gradually in Colonel Brandon’s arms.

Scout Sifuentes, the tall, lanky head of security, turned quickly at the disruption, though no words had been specifically voiced, there were several gasps of dismay from the assembled personnel, as well as the solid thump of Rupert’s stick as it was planted firmly to the cold, solid floor. The sounds and movements were suddenly punctuated by Eamon Devalera’s horrified gasp, followed by a hoarsely shouted “Therese!” as he watched the slender woman fall into Brandon’s grasp. With a half crazed lunge Eamon threw himself forward, desperate to go to Therese’s side, but was stopped by the cold, solid steel bars around which his arms had been secured in handcuffs. He flailed and threw himself against the unyielding metal restraint, oblivious to the damage he was inflicting upon himself in his futile effort to get to her.

Scout used his entire upper body strength to shove Eamon back against the cell bars, pinning him there as the man struggled frantically. “Mr. Cadell, page Dr. McCoy please, Colonel, do you need assistance?” he indicated the four guards lining the cell wall, all ready to act at the merest hint of command. At Brandon’s reassurance, Scout renewed his assault upon the still struggling Devalera, finally forcing him to grow still. “Enough, Eamon,” he growled, frustrated by the Irishman’s lack of cooperation, and his adamant refusal to say anything until Therese had been brought forth, despite the reservations of Rupert Cadell and all of the guards. “You’ve brought this upon her yourself by insisting to see her.”

Eamon grew still at the other man’s words, slumping forward slightly, but silent as he watched Brandon cradle the slight figure of his betrothed, shifting her carefully so that she was more comfortable in his arms. It took only moments, though it seemed an eternity to the collection of men gathered in the cell before the steady, quick step of Dr. McCoy could be heard, not even the regimented footfall of the accompanying guards able to drown out her frustrated mutterings.

She turned into the cell abruptly, dropping her bag near Brandon’s knee, and taking in the prone form of Therese. “What in the world is this woman doing here?” she demanded, hunkering over her patient, hands moving quickly and efficiently as her verbal assault ran unchecked. “It’s bad enough that she left Delaford, something, I might remind the lot of you, which I strongly suggested as being unwise. Then if she had to be brought here to testify, it was with the strictest instructions that she remain on bed rest throughout her stay. Bed rest. Not traipsing around in prison cells. I can’t see that there should be any confusion in that, can any of you?”

There was continued silence among the gathered men, punctuated by only gentle throat clearing, and wiping of brows under the assault. These were military men, highly trained and skilled for all types of combat, the best of the best, and all of them were completely unwilling to deal with a prone woman and an angry female who obviously had appointed herself as protector.

The doctor continued to work for several moments, her hands never slowing as they moved from the patient, to her bag, and back again. “Dehydrated,” she muttered aloud, “and likely hasn’t eaten much either, not to mention the incredible amount of stress she’s been under. Doesn’t anyone around here believe in rest? Doctor ordered rest, I might add.

Eamon lunged forward again as McCoy looked up from her position over the prone Therese. “How is she?” he implored. Joanna McCoy rose from the floor and crossed the cell, her steps purposeful as she approached the shackled man. She ignored his question, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed as moved in front of him. Moving to one side she brushed her fingers softly over his right wrist, wedged tightly against a heavy bar as he leaned forward, her hands outlining the vivid red outline of broken skin that promised to show deep bruising before long. She completely ignored Devalera’s quick intake of breath and arrogant scowl at her presence. Completely ignoring his response, she turned to Scout. “Lt. Sifuentes,” she turned quickly, stabbing her finger at the chest of the much taller man. “Given that I haven’t brought splints or casting materials, I don’t suppose we could release him before he manages to fracture a wrist?” She indicated the line of armed guards along the cell, "it's not as if he's going anywhere."

“I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with that decision-“ Scout began, but was interrupted by a feminine, regal tone that caused every head save that of the unconscious Therese to turn quickly in the speaker’s direction.

“Oh but I believe that I am, Lieutenant, now please do as the good doctor requests.”

Lt. Sifuentes bowed low, clasping his fisted hand to his chest, holding the obsequious gesture until he was released by the nod that signaled acceptance of his service. “As you wish, your Majesty.”

Therese
- Monday, March 10, 2003 at 12:33:13 (PST)

I'm not sure which impresses me more... Barbara's writing or the fact that she italicizes and underlines all at the same time. Seemingly without a net. Dang, she's good.

Cindie
Have I mentioned lately that I love this place and its people?, - Saturday, March 08, 2003 at 16:58:47 (PST)

I didn't think that was a snarky comment, simply a statement of fact. Everyone has a hobby or an "occupation" and Mrs. Brandon's is fashion-sounds like she has the figure for it too....
ACC <so does he, for that matter-prefer him with his clothes on anyway>
- Saturday, March 08, 2003 at 16:12:18 (PST)

Whoa, Nellie! I mean, whoa, Barbara! Heehee! I can just see the look on The Director's face. 8-D

"She would not forget what she was wearing for such an exchange as that." I wondered who'd be the first to pick up on that. An unusually snarky moment for Brandon--not a side of him we see very often. ;-)

MA
But he still isn't showing anyone his cryptic . . . , - Saturday, March 08, 2003 at 08:14:28 (PST)

FoF Sets
Afternoon of Day Eight of the Investigation

Barbara stormed up the hallway, blind to the FoF employees jerking out of her path. Everything was clothed in a red haze. She completely missed Trudchen Njalson, the Director's icy assistant, flatten herself, wide-eyed, to the wall as Barbara raged past.

How dare he? The phrase played like a litany in her mind, as unconsciously murmured as an Ava Maria. How dare he? Each word was a stride up the corridor. How *stride* dare *stride* he? *stride* How *stride* dare *stride* he? *stride* How *stride* dare *stride* --

Crash

Barbara bounced off a black-clad chest and swift hands gripped her shoulders, preventing her fall. She shrugged them away, irritably, and opened her mouth to give what for. She looked up.

Bloody h*ll.

The Director.

She nodded to him briefly and stepped sidways. He slid sideways with her; she stuttered to a halt and attempted the other side. He blocked her way there, too. She grappled briefly with her temper and halted. "What," she bit off, snarling. She did not meet his eyes.

"Mary Anne wants to add a scene to the Interrogator's defense filming -- tell me how long it would take to design and build," the Director replied, acerbically. "As soon as you're finished having your pout, come and see me in my office."

Pout? Pout!? She was tired of being belittled and told she was somehow wrong for being angry. She'd had a nice, safe, comfortable life planned. Friends, good friends, to surround her; good work for her hands; good food, good wine, for her body; good books for her mind. Why did everyone act as if there was something criminal about wanting a quiet, uneventful, dull, boring and prosaic life? She'd had enough excitement already. She'd liked her life: it was an airport, people always arriving and leaving. Well, she wasn't taking anymore flights in. They could just go find somewhere else to bloody land. But, of course, that was "pouting." How dare they?She threw caution, temper and tact to the wind.

"Oh, certainly, Sir," she snarled softly, glaring up at his face. "As soon as I overcome my petty, unimportant, hardly life-shattering, nonsensical and stupid notions, I will crawl up to your office and make my obesiance. Now," she said, "if you will excuse me," and she shouldered past him and stalked down the hall to her office.

The Director's eyebrow shot skyward as he wheeled on his heel and watched her go..

Barbara the Wallpaperer
She would not forget what she was wearing for such an exchange as that. Well, it's nice to know MA's reputation as a clotheshorse still goes unchallenged :D, - Friday, March 07, 2003 at 22:44:43 (PST)

Imperial Palace, the Brandons’ suite:

“If Madame is quite ready now . . . ?”

”If,” indeed, thinks Colonel Brandon as he watches his wife examine herself in the mirror after the ministrations of the two ladies’ maids who had assisted her on the evening she was formally presented to The Empress.

This, too, it occurs to Brandon, is an occasion every bit as important, though far more sombre, and it will require more than assistance with her hair and gown to make his wife ready for what she must face. The solemnity of the event seems to have occurred to Mary Anne as well, for she has chosen the gray silk with insets of lace at the neck, a modest and respectable gown befitting the lady of an estate-and, as Brandon notes with unease, the same gown in which she had confronted The Interrogator down in HIS cell. Does she remember this? For HE almost certainly will.

One look at his wife’s steady gaze into the mirror removes Brandon’s doubts as to her memories. This is Mary Anne, after all. A smile that is hardly more than a narrowing of Brandon’s eyes. She would not forget what she was wearing for such an exchange as that. And how, the Colonel wonders, does a gray gown radiate such dash and drama simply on account of its wearer? It is a plain garment, but the light plays across the smooth folds in ripples of silver and lavender and lilac as Mary Anne turns slightly before the mirror, adjusting the fall of the luxuriant skirt that flatters her willowy slenderness. One of the maids assists with the adjustments, then gives an extra touch to Mary Anne’s hair as she pronounces herself satisfied and turns from the glass toward Brandon.

His heart swells with pity-and pride, for his wife, who had seemed so frail and delicate in profile, faces him now with that look of resolve that will balk at nothing. Her eyes . . . yes, meeting his own look without flinching, but there is something, a plea for reassurance and assistance to take that first step, the one that will carry her through the whole bitter business.

Brandon steps forward.

For this event, he too is clothed with the utmost regard for gravity, his black suit carefully examined for every speck of dust and brushed clean by a palace valet, his white stock starched to shining brilliance; in these, the plain garments he most favours, he seems to embody for Mary Anne not the sympathy that might weaken and undo her, but the authority that is his natural gift. Veteran of many campaigns, Brandon is no less a commander now and stands ready to lead her on to a battlefield of a different sort, setting for her the example of courage that must fire her to emulation.

To emulation, yes, and to admiration as she draws near to lay her hand lightly on his outstretched arm.

And elsewhere, in a different part of The Palace . . .

They will be coming.

Soon.

The Interrogator rises from his bed, carefully putting away the books HE has been examining. Pacing about and stretching, enjoying the luxury of still unencumbered movement, HE finally draws near that mirror and stops to examine HIS reflection.

Not HIS best appearance, in a white shirt beginning to gray at the cuffs and collar, and that beard growth . . .

HE steps nearer the glass in cold assessment, tilting HIS head back slightly to examine the stubble along the chin and jawline. A thin smile as HE recollects that memorable night when HE had passed for Brandon-perhaps he should attempt an imitation of Hans, next? Or even Ed? At that thought, HE laughs openly, with an expression that would leave no observer in doubt that this, whatever the slightly bedraggled appearance might suggest, is a predator. A panther on stalk, a shark cutting his way through the dark waters.

The Interrogator drags one hand down the left side of HIS face, feeling the rasp of skin under HIS fingertips. No matter. They will be coming, and HE will doubtless be prepared as befits the spectacle to come. After all, nothing less will do for Her Majesty The Empress than a perfect sacrifice.

Steps in the outer corridor. HE knows the routine and turns, HIS expression composed into utter submission, to obediently extend HIS hands to the guards who enter the cell.

The wait is over and the hour has come.

The battle is joined.

MA--Cindie, does this count as "another?" ;-) Ah, the inspirations of the chat room!
And Clods--"That insufferable love." Ow. Tears. *sniff*, - Friday, March 07, 2003 at 20:26:15 (PST)

Thank you, Claudia.
Cindie
May I please have another?, - Friday, March 07, 2003 at 19:27:14 (PST)

Flashbackwards, Ed, in the bath:

He opened his eyes under water, looked up through the rippling surface. The water was very milky with soap, and he could only make out moving shapes and colours. Not who they were, or what they were doing.

He'd been stranded here for ages, wondering where the Tardis had gone. Now, just as he'd begun to relax into the situation, and accept he was stuck here, SHE appeared. It was as if she'd sensed he was letting go of the hurt, of the tension - the insufferable love. Letting it all flow away in the waters. Let the women here take care of him, soothe him, see to his every want.

It wasn't real life, but it was better than going back to the painful reality that the person he though was his best friend had become entwined with the Interrogator. No matter how she explained it, she'd slept with HIM. She'd… and he was thinking of it again, damn her.

As the pain in his lungs began to match the pain in his heart, he shut his eyes, pushed down with his feet, and broke through the surface of the water, dropplets splashing from his hair and beard. He opened his mouth and loudly sucked in air.

Now standing in the centre of the pool, he opened his eyes. She was still there, staring at him. He wished she wasn't.
Claudia
For you, Cindie, - Thursday, March 06, 2003 at 18:29:51 (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

I truly believe that the bane of modern existence is the infuriatingly complex and yet never really resolved issue of precedence. We live in a hierarchical society - and I personally wouldn't have it any other way - with firm standards of conduct and carefully delineated distinctions of rank. And yet the relatively minor question of which lady occupies the place of honour at table can make any meal a trial.

Joya was the king's half-sister while Marion was only a royal cousin but Marion was legitimate while Joya was the result of the late King Henry's love affair with the beautiful Rosamund Clifford. (And if the Fair Rosamund was even a tenth as lovely as Joya, the late king's infatuation could be readily understood.) Put another way, Marion was the mother of a prospective heir to the throne while Joya's children could never hope to reach so far. On the other hand, Joya had inherited great wealth in lands and treasure from her mother that had been given to her by the king. Marion was the immediate heiress to a fraction of the lands held by her father and was married to Robin of Locksley, a minor baron and knight who didn't come close to outranking me. And so on and so forth.

It was a complex tangle that was capable of giving genealogically inclined souls many happy hours in front of the fire arguing over their wine. In the practical, real world of Nottingham Castle, however, it was just a major aggravation. In the interests of peace between the households, we had settled it by the usual forms of international diplomacy - that is, we hadn't settled it at all but simply ignored the issue most of the time.

The arrival of the Poitevin ladies had shredded that compromise. The laws of hospitality as well as natural wariness of King Richard's temper dictated that the Ladies Suzanne and Christina be given precedence over every English-born lady. Their departure to the goldsmith's house allowed us to relapse into our earlier practice. Or so I would have thought. But apparently Marion had other ideas on the subject.

Thus it was that as I made my way to the great hall for the evening meal, I was surprised to be greeted by two men: one in Locksley livery, the other wearing my household's colours. They stood on either side of the doorway and bowed low to me. I regarded them with some disquiet and passed through to the hall itself. It was more of the same. Retainers in full colours stood behind each chair - Locksley and Nottingham interspersed - like statues waiting for a signal to come to life. As I eyed the display, the Locksleys swept into the room to take their seats at the table.

Marion spied me and nodded regally. "Good evening, Lord Nottingham. I trust you will forgive the liberty I have taken tonight of instructing the servants to keep up precedent at table. Since the king will be here in another two days, I thought it best to give them as much practice as possible."

So she'd banished from her mind the recent presence of the Poitevin ladies. It gave me an insight into Locksley's persuasive talents - or lack thereof. I advanced to the table and examined the settings. Two of the settings had been removed and the rest were spread out along: two settings with the chairs close together, then one more setting at each end of the table. Locksley and Marion sat side by side so he could carve her meat. I took my seat at one of the other paired chairs. As I looked out over the crowd taking their places at the common tables, Joya entered the room. Like me, she was a little taken aback by the formality but didn't bother commenting on it. She slipped into the chair beside mine. The steward and the bailiff took their seats at either end and the meal began.

I was relieved to see that our retained formality did not extend to the bill of fare. Multiple courses with several wines and delicacies would have been quite expensive for just the six of us. Fortunately for my treasury, we dined on roast pork with vegetables and breads from the bake-house. To my rather droll amusement, Marion kept up a steady flow of inconsequential chatter throughout the meal, commenting on the weather, the amenities of the castle (much superior to Locksley Manor, she hinted; I could tell her husband was less than pleased), the opulence of the recent harvest and the possibility of the French king seeking a bride from Spain now that he was again a widower. Of our recent guests from Poitevin, she spoke not one word.

I was carving meat from a rather tricky bone with my dagger when Marion leaned over to attract our attention. "Lady Joya, I am sure you cannot help being just a little intrigued about meeting Baron Abelard again. We all wish to resolve this unpleasant conundrum as soon as possible, of course, but still you must feel a bit curious about your first husband."

"Well, it won't be 'again', Lady Marion, as I've never met him before." Joya smiled. "But, to answer your question, yes I am a little curious about him. I remember that he sent letters to me - or rather, to my mother - regularly reporting on his activities. It will be interesting to see how the years in a monastery have changed him."

I lowered my knife and raised my brows. She had never mentioned to me this curiosity to see her former husband. I was about to ask her how long she'd had this interest when the door at the far end of the hall burst open and a group of men pushed into the room.

There weren't enough torches to get a really good view but there seemed to be at least a dozen men. Large clumps of mud and leaves fell from their bodies as they marched up to the empty space before our table. They didn't look familiar to me and I had just rose to my feet for a better look when the ones in front fell back and Leofric pushed to the fore. He nodded respectfully in my direction. "Good evening, sire. Sorry to disrupt yer meal like this but I thought you might want to know we caught some outlaws. They put up quite a battle but we got them right enough. The boys here did good work fer it being their first time on the job." He stuck his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels, the picture of pride in a hard job well done.

I don't know what surprised me more, the announcement of the capture or the casual way in which I'd just been informed that a group of strangers I'd never seen before were in my employ. I didn't recall authorizing any hiring of new men for security purposes; if anything, there were already too many of them lying around the castle eating their heads off. Resolving to discuss the matter with Leofric on the morrow, I sat down slowly and hoped my consternation wasn't too obvious. In the meantime, I'd better look as though I was in charge. "This is excellent news you've brought us. Tomorrow we shall interrogate these outlaws and find out how many are still in the forest. I am well aware that left unmolested," I shot Locksley a quick look. "They can become quite a menace to society. Have your men take their seats at a table to enjoy what's left of dinner."

Leofric nodded and signaled his men to obey my words. They marched over to the table farthest away from the light and sat down in a group. While they occasioned quite a bit of scrutiny from the other diners, they neither looked at nor addressed anyone but themselves. I resolved again to ask Leofric for an explanation as soon as possible. I did not like strangers in my home.

Joya must have sensed that something was the matter with me. With her usual instinct for soothing over a troubled moment, she rose from the table and nodded at Marion. "I believe that we should leave the men on their own if they wish to discuss such distasteful things as outlaws. Would you join me in my solar, Lady Marion? I'm sure our babies will have need of us shortly."

The two women left the room surrounded by a cloud of waiting women and maids. As if on cue, the crowd out in the common area was starting to break up as those servants whose chores were done departed to find places to spend the night and others with work still to be done began to clean up the hall. The steward had followed the ladies out of the room and the bailiff slipped away too. Locksley and I were left looking at each other from half a table's length away (not nearly far enough, in my opinion). I could think of better things to stare at just before going to bed so I pushed back my chair and headed for the stairs. Perhaps Marion wouldn't stay long in the solar and Joya and I could have some time alone with Richard.

It was a fond hope, of course; not only was Marion still in the solar but Locksley came padding in shortly after to take up a protective stance beside her. No doubt he was concerned lest I ogle his wife as she nursed his whelp. I sat down beside Joya and was soon totally engrossed in my own family. It never ceased to amaze me how beautiful they were in such different ways. As if she read my mind, Joya looked up at me with a smile and an unspoken promise. My pulse began to race at the sight and the entrance into the room of the nursemaids to collect the infants pleased me even more. Bertha lumbered across the room and wrapped Richard in a large blanket that almost swallowed her whole.

"Now then, lovey, here we go. Upsa-daisy!" She cooed moistly into Richard's face. "Say night-night to everyone."

Mercifully this revolting display was not prolonged and after holding Richard's hand up and flapping it at everyone in turn, Bertha turned to go. She paused at the door and looked back at Joya. "Excuse me, my lady, but did you want to have your wine now?"

"Wine?" Joya looked up from adjusting her gown. "We ordered no wine."

"Just as well, my lady." Bertha adjusted the bundle that was Richard to gesture at a small flagon on a tray with cups. "'Cause there's only two goblets anyways, unless you want me to send a girl up with more." She thumped out of the room and banged the door shut behind her.

"Nonsense, we can share with our husbands." Marion looked roguishly up at Locksley. "Let us have some wine."

One of the maids retrieved the tray and brought it into the room. We watched her remove the stopper and pour out the liquid into the small goblets. They were a matching set, all of cut glass that glinted in the firelight. I could not remember seeing them before. The maid handed the first cup to Joya and the other to Marion. Joya gestured grandly with hers in a toast to Marion.

Perhaps it was a residue of the unsettling feeling that had come over me when Leofric brought his band into the hall but there was something about the situation I didn't like. Who had ordered the wine? How had they known we would come to the solar? The feeling grew stronger by the second. Joya lifted the cup to her lips. Without a moment's thought I slapped it out of her hand.

"George! My gown!" She jumped to her feet and patted ineffectually at her dress. She almost danced with rage. "Oh you impossible man! What were you thinking of -"

"My God! The carpet!" Marion stared in horror at the floor, clutching Locksley with both hands. "Look at the carpet!"

We all followed her gaze to the expensive rug from the far east that covered the floor. A large portion of the wine had landed on an elaborately woven flower. As we watched, it slowly began to eat away at the fabric until it dissolved completely, leaving the wooden floor clearly visible beneath.

Magda
Spam remover required below, - Wednesday, March 05, 2003 at 06:14:27 (PST)

Spam removed.
D.o.C.

The Palace:

Anton was distracted from his telephonic conversation with the Emir by the sight of her, intent on her own business being conducted with one of the auction houses. It was his business actually, another gem stone purchase, this time a collection from India from which he’d wanted only three particular items and then the resale, at a profit, of the remaining pieces. He was perturbed by the way things were going. Not with the transactions, she was handling those with her usual deft grace, but with …her. Too much of her time was being spent in the company of that Frenchman.

Her colour was up. That had to be admitted. His assistant hadn’t been this vibrant since that long ago trip to Wagensburg. This vibrancy, however, was tinged with something not quite right. Just off from being natural to her. It resonated like a string pulled too taught as if one feather touch would undo it and leave it shattered.

Cynthia replaced the receiver in its cradle and looked over at him and smiled.

“Ja,” he said into the mouthpiece of his telephone, “Your Grace, he is the best.” His eyes rolled heavenward and her grin broadened. She couldn’t help but be glad Anton was dealing with the fussy Sheik this time around. There were a few more calls to make and she returned to her task at hand.

A short time later they both rung off and both stood up and stretched. “Shall we go and watch the changing of the guard?” she asked, glancing at the mantelpiece clock. It was late but she pushed the thought of sleep away feeling restive. “We might not get the chance …later.” The air of their makeshift office seemed suddenly stuffy and she wanted to get out, even if only into the interior expanses of the Palace. She also noticed that her boss was looking particularly fine today. It seemed that whatever business had occupied him in the Palace yesterday had invigorated him for his eyes sparkled even more than usual as they considered her suggestion.

He offered his arm in reply and they headed for the entrance hall where three times a day Palace guests and day tourists were treated the sight of Imperial Guardsmen in flowing capes and polished jack boots going through their paces in the ritualistic Changing of the Guard. Even the last late hour ceremony was drawing spectators as Anton and Cynthia were not the only Palace inhabitants making their way to the hall. In reality whatever shift changes occurred deep in the environs of the Palace were conducted very quietly and at irregular intervals so as to minimize potential security breaches but the public presentation of the more evident security personnel was a treat.

“Oh good, we’re not too late.” Cynthia remarked, intent on the formation of guardsmen before them. If Anton were inclined to wonder at the need for shoulder to floor cloaks indoors the rapt expression at every flutter and flap on his assistant’s face would prove sufficient answer. For himself the precision of movement, each boot striking the floor and each snap of the cloak at precisely the same time and each cuffed gauntlet presenting its sword at the same exact angle, was a thing of beauty. The turnout at this late hour surprised him. Thinking it through he thought that perhaps the routine of it was welcome in light of the coming events. The adherence to tradition an antidote for nerves on edge with anticipation. Perhaps it was thinking of nerves on edge that summoned him. As he stood arm and arm with Cynthia he spotted Valmont moving towards them.

Cynthia felt Anton’s body stiffen next to her and looked up at him in enquiry. He was looking off to one side and following his gaze she saw the Vicomte walking in their direction. She smiled at him and Valmont flashed his teeth and the sketch of a wave, breaking off into another direction. She felt Anton’s muscles ease and wondered what had caused him to tense. It was easy enough to put that to the upcoming trial. Everyone seemed a bit edgy and there was a strained tone to the thrum of activity in the Palace.

The last of the guards had departed but the groups of people stood there for a moment as if unwilling to leave the communal atmosphere of the ceremony. Finally they began to wander off to their rooms, to find what rest they could. Cynthia didn’t feel much like sleeping and said as much to Anton.

“Ach, but you must rest. Tomorrow…” He began in reply.

She simply shrugged her shoulders and they walked back the way they had come . Even though their rooms both connected to the office they had set up they still used their private entrances. Cynthia was just entering hers when a hand reached past her to rest on the door frame.

The hand was framed by a silk cuff and attached to a long arm belonging to the Vicomte de Valmont. He didn’t smile but skewered her with a gaze both dark and intense. The sort of gaze that could pin a butterfly to a piece of felt.

“Good night, Cynthia.”

He had given her name the French pronunciation and his back was at the end of the hall and turning the corner before she’d even registered his use of her name. Perhaps she was more tired than she’d thought.

Cindie
Renie, I could *swear* I hadn't taken my eyes off that letter..., - Monday, March 03, 2003 at 18:55:00 (PST)

sorry to break the pattern so early but the next George-and-Joya will go up on Wednesday morning rather than today.
Magda
- Monday, March 03, 2003 at 06:23:56 (PST)

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