Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

On the yacht-at a certain deck chair facing the sunset:

Mary Anne gives a little shriek and tries to pull her feet up under the full skirt of her dress. "Oh no you don’t!"

"Oh yes I do," retorts Mistral, as his slowly advancing right hand makes a sudden dart! and seizes her left foot. His reward is a squeal of pretended outrage as Mary Anne tries to scoot further back in her chair, but Mistral simply smiles at her and retains his hold on her foot, firmly enough to make it clear that she cannot escape until he decides to release her.

He looks at her. Looks down to study her foot . . . then, back up at her with an insinuating smile that electrifies the fine hairs on the back of her neck. "Mistral, don’t you dare . . ."

That raises his eyes to hers once again. "I could dare . . . but I won’t." A grin, so roguish and irresistible that Mary Anne laughs out loud with enjoyment. It is a rare sight, the very-much-adult Mistral looking so like a devilish little boy up to mischief, caught in the very moment of manufacturing some excuse for his behaviour. "Would you believe me if I told you I simply wanted a closer look at your beautiful shoes?"

Mary Anne rolls her eyes as Mistral turns her foot slowly from side to side, admiring the sparkle of the white beadwork on her sandals. "Now, that I could believe. I’m beginning to think you have a genuine foot fetish, you know."

"Nonsense." One finger traces the curve of the strap that crosses her instep. "I simply believe that every lovely part of a beautiful woman should be paid its proper homage."

Mary Anne is on the verge of replying that there is nothing lovely or worthy of homage about her feet, but she catches herself in time. I’m learning. Indulgently she watches as Mistral cradles her foot and she finds herself admiring his hands, the clean, firm shape of them, the long fingers, elegant and efficient . . .

"Remember the pool party, Mistral? The Pirates of Luuuv?"

"Remember? As if I could forget."

The way Mistral had "claimed his spot . . ." My foot looks small when he holds it like that. She has long consoled herself for what she considers her oversized feet by reminding herself that tiny feet on a tall woman are quite literally a pain, or by telling herself that her feet, though large, are at least well-shaped, with their high arches and slim toes. Or there are the times when she reprimands herself more firmly than even The Director could: There is nothing WRONG with them; quit obsessing. If it wasn’t feet, it would be something else. However, it is a small shock to see how dainty those much-maligned feet appear as Mistral examines her sandal. The physical electricity of his presence makes her look sharply at her own arms and legs, as if they might fade away from exposure to him.

"Mistral, I’d like my foot back now, please."

He promptly releases her foot. "Of course. When one borrows an appendage from a lady, one should always return it the moment she asks."

"And in reasonably good condition, I hope."

"That is always my intention." (homage)

Looking down at her left foot, she can tell precisely where each of his fingers had rested.

"Mary Anne, you’re shivering."

"It’s the wind from the sea." If Mistral notices the smooth calm of the water he makes no sign, but simply watches the sunsparks in the silver threadwork of Mary Anne’s cardigan as she hurries to fasten the buttons.

"Well, then, why don’t we go and get you some hot coffee from the buffet? Or something of the sort-it will warm you up. And some dinner, too. Have you eaten anything since you caught that creature?"

"No, I was too tired. Thank you, Mistral. Dinner sounds lovely."

"And the sooner, the better. We can’t have you getting all peaked, not with the Trial and all of our other big scenes just ahead . . ."

That is good for a laugh as Mistral assists her from the deck chair and offers his arm. Turning their backs on the flaming western sky, they make for the staircases to the upper decks.

Seconds later, a tall figure emerges from the shadows of another stairwell, one that leads below.

Christopher Brandon stands for a moment, gazing after the departed figures of Mary Anne and Mistral, before moving to the railing and watching, with blank and expressionless eyes, the sun about to sink below the horizon. A hand’s breadth, a sliver . . .

There it is. Brandon has heard of it before-the green flash, that momentary flare of emerald light in the setting sun. He has never seen it, had never thought to see it. Beautiful and brief.

The sun is gone.

For a few more moments, Brandon watches the darkening sky, and then turns away.

MA--Jasmine, everything around here seems normal-sized. Except Valmont's ego, of course.
Cindie, is this painful enough? ;-), - Monday, September 30, 2002 at 21:23:18 (PDT)

Um, seems fine to me, must be your computer Jasmine.
Diane
- Monday, September 30, 2002 at 20:26:06 (PDT)

Is this just my computer or is everything really BIG??
Jasmine
**scratches head**, - Monday, September 30, 2002 at 18:54:45 (PDT)

On the yacht:

"Mistral!" Mary Anne lets out a long breath. "I didn’t know you were there. You’re as quiet as a cat!"

Smiling, Mistral deposits himself at the foot of Mary Anne’s deck chair. "One of the side effects of living with one, I suppose. Now, what was it you were saying?"

"Oh, that." Mary Anne gazes out to sea, where the sun meets the horizon in a pool of molten gold. "One of my professors at university. It was a composition class, and he always claimed that it’s a fault to use too many adjectives that don’t pull their weight. He’d quote from Matthew Arnold:

Who ordered that their longing’s fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cooled?
Who renders vain their deep desire?--
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea."

Mary Anne smiles reminiscently. "He’d point out that last line and talk about how every one of those adjectives serves its purpose. Put them all together, of course, and the line’s an absolute blockbuster." A chuckle. " He'd tell us to search for the inevitable word. Even though I don’t always follow his advice, I’ve never forgotten it. Or that poem."

Mistral grimaces. "A superb line, indeed, but the poem sounds awfully depressing. Not my idea of fun."

"What is your idea of fun, Mistral?" Teasing him, of course. Too good an opportunity to pass up-but Mary Anne surprises herself with her own desire for a straight answer to the question. What does this reserved man consider fun, in the sense most people intend when they use the word? This is, after all, Mistral: the man who had asked her if she thought he was "secretive." And she had teased him on that occasion as well, claiming that he was so secretive he made Professor Moriarty look like Mrs. Jennings.

If Mistral is aware of her internal questioning, he gives no sign of it. "Fun." As though it were foreign vocabulary. "I have not had so much time, recently, for what you would probably call fun."

"But when you do?" persists Mary Anne.

His eyes glint at her. "Oh, the usual." Grinning as though he refuses to take the question seriously. "Terrorizing the innocent, pursuing virtuous women with the worst of intentions, ensnaring my victims and carrying them off to my dark lair . . ."

"Sounds more like HIS idea of fun," retorts Mary Anne, when she can stop laughing. "And don’t go telling me they’re one and the same, because I know that isn’t true!"

Mistral shrugs. "Then I am glad someone does."

They are quiet, then, for several moments, watching the sun as it deepens to ember-red.

"Mistral."

"Yes?"

"I’m glad you happened to come by. There’s something I want to tell you."

"What is it?"

"That-that I’m sorry. For that story I told about you singing in your cubicle."

Any other man might act puzzled or say that there is nothing to be sorry about. Not Mistral. Instant recognition. "Yes, that wasn’t the sort of thing you would usually tell."

"I . . . it’s petty of me, but I was feeling a bit snippy from when you said my reputation as a ‘fashion maven’ was still intact. So . . ."

"I see."

And he does. No need for further explanations or apologies, but it is a bit unnerving to be pinned to the chair by that keen scrutiny that is so unconquerably curious about her motives.

"Oh, Mary Anne, stop looking so miserable. I don’t bite, you know . . ."

"Drat!" mutters Mary Anne, with a finger-snap of disappointment, before grinning at Mistral and being rewarded with an alarmingly arched eyebrow as he strives not to smile too obviously in return.

"That’s more like it. I’m not angry with you. So you heard me singing a battle song like a good Welshman, what of it-"

Mary Anne swallows. "Well, I just said Men of Harlech because I didn’t know the one I did hear you singing. I thought it would be less embarrassing than saying you were singing a lament . . ."

A puzzled frown. "A lament? What did you hear?"

Mary Anne hums a few measures, and his expression relaxes. "Suo Gan is a lullaby, not a lament-"

"Not the way you were singing it. So, you’d rather have everyone know that the grim and terrible Interrogator was singing a lullaby . . .?"

It is not often that Mistral so abandons his reserve; at this, however, he throws back his head and laughs heartily. "Yes, that would be ‘torture and misery,’ wouldn’t it? I thank you for sparing me that much, at least."

"My pleasure, Mistral. And I am sorry if I caused you any discomfort."

"You’re making too much of a trifle, Mary Anne. But I’ll forgive you if you think you need forgiving. And no, I won’t be spiriting you off to the Valley of the Moon set to wreak my vengeance upon you."

Mary Anne shakes her head sadly. "Darn it. I just can’t catch a break today, no matter what I do."

Mistral’s eyes narrow. "Ahhhh, you tempt fate, do you?" The full theatrical treatment, the VOICE up to three-quarters Interrogator, causing Mary Anne to laugh in delighted recognition of his talent even as she nervously squirms further back in the deck chair.

Mistral leans forward a little, fixing his eyes upon hers. "Very well, then, if my vengeance is what you desire . . ."

And with sinister precision, his right hand begins a slow spider-walk across the chair, toward her feet . . .

MA--morning on one side and evening on the other--my, this IS a big ship! ;-)
Barbara: smasher of a post, dear. "The smooth stone of old worries, the sharp shards of betrayal," great stuff. But "fetid" puns? Fetid?! Awwww, c'mon . . . Maybe you meant "fete-d" instead? *grin*, - Sunday, September 29, 2002 at 09:05:48 (PDT)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Morning of Day Seven of the Investigation

Are you happy?

Barbara looked at Renie's pendant -- as piercing a blue as any of Mary Anne's glances. She looked down into her empty glass, rolling the stem between her fingers. Are you happy? The question rolled around in her head like dice in a Pop-o-matic.

So, am I happy?

Barbara looked over to Reie, who watched her with knowing eyes. She lowered her gaze to her wineglass again, then turned it inward.

She felt around, picking up emotions and ptting them down again once she identified them. She found prickly nervousness, sleek excitement, the smoth stone of old worries, the still-sharp shards of betrayal. Hard-shelled hollows of abandonment. The cold heft of despair. She found all those easily enough.

Unbidden, Phil's words came back to her: The world'll be making us small enough parts of it. We don't have to be pounding ourselves flat to be fitting into it. It was a sun-warmed stream flowing over the hard stones of memory, smoothing them away. The Vanders Touch floated up, too, making that stream of though warmer, deeper, stronger. Eroding more stone.

Thought cascaded into memory: Melyssande, joking with her about Carmen Miranda; Sandy, laughing, Oliver on her lap; Fingall, master of Properties, tossing her a salute and a crisp "Good morning, Fortune's Daughter!" There was Kevin and Nicholas in Security, throwing water balloons at each other in the parking lot while she laughed so hard she fell off the stairs. Meagan and Fearga, emerging from Costuming in a flurry of giggles, in her office to check colors. Mary Anne, glancing over designs and making suggestions, along with fetid puns.

Each memory made the stream deeper, wider, warmer, stronger.

So... she thought, Am I happy?

Warm memories and cold jostled for precedence. She met Renie's straightforward gaze.

"I am.... content."

Shaped brows arched over green-flecked eyes. "Content," Renie repeated.

"Yes." Barbara said, nodding slowly. "Content." She'd long ago given up on happy. Content would have to suffice.

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

"Poor Annie," Melyssande said. "Dale couldn't be here, so she's all down and stuff." She exchanged kisses with the tall blond man beside her.

He shrugged. "Dale's no big loss," he said.

Melyssande gripped his hand. "Hey, I'd be all bummed out if you weren't here, Marcus."

He shrugged again. "I wouldn't have bothered coming if you weren't here." He wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head, and they stared out on the water.

The police officer stationed by the foremast barely kept from rolling his eyes.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
C'mon, brain.... you can do it....:), - Friday, September 27, 2002 at 22:05:35 (PDT)

It was the last straw. Actually, it had been the last straw over two hours ago. And now at this time, Diane felt like a volcano ready to explode. (Though, she did admit to herself, even though it was violence, kicking that French twit felt rather pleasurable.) She believed she’d break down and scream if anything else was to happen. So she edged along the walls, heart pounding within her ribs, just waiting for the next catastrophe.

She walked with caution, her shoes flopping against the soothing green-blue carpet, eyes averting in all directions as if some madman could leap out and grab her. She couldn't’t help herself- but her hands had been balled into tight little fists. Her muscles tensed with every step, and her breath was short and hot. Her mind raced, so many questions and worries flowing rapidly like a Hoover Dam breaking. What will happen, why why why, what’s next, why why why, Lucas… Lucas… why why why… next… next…….

It never occurred to her the state of her looks right now until she appeared on board, and the few people around her stopped to stare. Most of them were dancing, including Alexander and Sandy, coupled up and looking like they were having a very good time. A band played near the corner, and a few lights flickered neon colors to give it a bit of a glow. Diane turned her face down ashamed- she probably looked like something the Devil had just conjured up from Hell. Her body felt hot enough, and skin toned red. Even the figure in black raised an eyebrow at her appearance, but she didn't’t care. Beauty was nothing to her, not really. It was the eye of the beholder and what was within that counted. But so much for those old sayings now- inside she felt colder than death in a grave.

Away from the crowd she hurried, turning down all the stares and snickers. Diane clenched her fists tighter, waiting for someone to DARE her to strike. And strike she would, if it must come to that. Diane was never afraid to fight. Never. And sometimes words just didn't’t help. Nor emotions. Or feelings. Or love.

She even passed by Jasmine, who looked at her as if lost for words entirely.

"What’re YOU looking at?" Diane snarled, and flipped her hair behind her shoulders. She left Jasmine even more speechless than before.

She soon found herself back with Jamie, who was snoring horribly. Flaring her nostrils in disgust, she grabbed one of the bags she had left with him, and opened it to reveal a…

A folded piece of plastic. Or so it looked like. Diane tucked it carefully under her arm then grabbed a book, pair of sunglasses, hat, and hairbrush all from the same bag. She withdrew and snapped it shut and slid it under a chair. Now that the ship had stopped to be moored for a bit, she was going out from the crowd to have some real leisure time to herself. It seemed that she was the only person she could trust anymore anyhow.

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

After scurrying past the normal pedestrians walking along the beach, she kneeled down and un-folded her plastic parcel. Once laid out flat, it revealed itself to be a one-man blow-up tube. Pursing her lips, she drew in a deep breath and placed the stem in her mouth. Then, clenching the tip just barely with her teeth, she pushed out and blew. After repeating this several times, the tube was inflated and set to go. She looked to her watch. The yacht wouldn't be leaving the harbor for another two to three hours- plenty of time to drift by the bay and read.

Diane walked down the shoreline, dragging her tube behind her, and her book held by her teeth. She knew she looked like a complete idiot by doing this, but she just didn't have enough hands to carry everything all at once. Finally she reached a shallow area not TOO far from the yacht, but a good distance. It wasn’t like the boat wasn’t still in view- the thing was huge! Yet… as she sighed greatly… it was beautiful, all the same. She wished she could appreciate this trip more, and have it be relaxing. Diane snorted. If it had been relaxing, she wouldn't’t have gone from yacht cruise to inner-tube.

Setting the tube in the water she pushed it off into the water until it became afloat. She suddenly grimaced and thought it might have been wiser to change into her bathing suit. Shrugging, she dived on top of it, and had to cling on for dear life to prevent it from capsizing. She at least breathed with relief that she had changed into her black stretch shorts and cool tie-dye tank top from that short dress she had been wearing earlier.

She turned herself around and positioned her body correctly and got snuggled in. Thankfully, unlike many water tubes made these days, this one had a bottom. It provided a nice, comfortable seat for reading. But before she began to stick that over large nose of hers again in a story, she stretched and let a hand curl through her hair…

Hair. Hat. Where was her hat?

"Ahh… Damn."

The snazzy blue baseball cap was nowhere to be found. Not on the beach, not in her tube, and not on her head. Most likely the wind had blown it off somewhere, and she fumed, grumbling to herself. "And to think… I paid 40 BUCKS for that thing… I just hope whoever finds it is grateful…" She murmured a few more naughty words under her breath then again took up the book. But, for some reason, it now didn't’t seem to interest her anymore. Sleep sounded much more inviting… yet… her previous nightmare almost scared her of the thought of shutting her eyelids for a couple of hours- or minutes.

"I’ll just close my eyes and listen to the waves…" she whispered to herself, laying hands behind her head. Her feet were slopped over the edge of the tube, and dipping into the crystal clear water. And the waves did sound very soothing, lapping alongside the tube… the seagulls in the sky, over-circling the vast endless ocean… the swaying of the palm trees on the beach… Awww…she thought, this is MUCH better… much better… yes…

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

Back onboard the yacht…

Jamie opened one feeble eyeball, the last rays of the western sun blinding him for a moment or two. He sat up and popped his back, then cracked his neck as it had grown awfully stiff from sleeping there so long on that lawn chair. He attempted to smooth down his hair a bit with his hand, then stood up and went in search of nourishment. But the sound of music to his ears drew him towards the band, where many couples were dancing to a slow, rhythmic beat. But there was once face he did not see.

"Excuse me Sandy, Alex?" he said, politely cutting in after the song was finished. Alexander turned around raising two eyebrows and wearing a lopsided smile. Sandy just looked a bit worn out. Perhaps too much tango?

"Hmm, yes?"

"Neither of you have seen Diane lately, have you?"

Sandy looked to Alexander, who shook his head. "Can’t say we have," she replied.

"Last time was about oh… four, five hours ago. Back when the ship was harbored in. Girl looked a bit edgy. Then again, she always looks a bit edgy." Alexander snorted.

"Do you know anyone who has?"

"Nah. Probably bundling herself up in her room, taking a nap or something. Or putting a giant bag of ice on her foot. Take your pick."

"Ice?" Jamie questioned, imitating Alexander’s eyebrow.

"Yeah. She got into a bit of a… mess. Say she did an excellent job with the odds though…" Sandy mumbled, suppressing a laugh.

"Yes, but what about this ice?"

"Calm down Jamie," said Alex coolly. "Diane is a full-grown woman and can take care of herself. Especially after what she did today. Mind you, don’t stand anywhere with any chairs around when make her angry, ok?"

Jamie just stood there, arms flapping at his side. No one was telling him what was going on, and he didn't’t know now if he WANTED to know.

"I know perfectly well she is a woman but…"

"But nothing, Jamie. Stop tensing yourself up so much and take a...a..." Alexander's eyebrows furrowed together in thought.

"Chill pill," Sandy supplied.

Alexander nodded. "What she said. I'd bet you anything she’s down in her room, sleeping like a log."

Jamie just shrugged, and turned his head to sneeze. The night air was starting to make him shiver. "Well… thanks." It was all he could muster out. Something didn’t feel right.

"Uh-huh, anytime…" muttered Sandy, and turned back to Alexander. "He needs to lay off and give Diane a break… Honestly, if a guy was always on MY back like that…"

"Are you insinuating anything, Sandy, or just giving helpful tips for the future?"

"I’ll let you decide that one, love," she snickered. Alexander sighed, smiled, and pulled her closer to him.

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

Jamie had given up. He had spent the ENTIRE night combing the yacht for Diane and asking others if they had seen her, and all had the same answer: She hadn’t been noticed since back when they had been harbored. Now he was shifting down the stairs to the cabins, to the rooms where they slept. Jamie and Diane had gotten rooms right next to each other, and now, he was praying that that’s where she was. In her room, as Sandy suggested.

He came to the door and knocked. No answer. "Diane?" he called softly. Sleeping or not, he had to see if she was all right. "Diane, are you in there? Diane?" Still no answer. He frowned, and knocked again.

"You might want to try the handle…"

Jamie swore he then jumped two feet into the air, and the hairs on his neck bristled. But it was only a crew-member, delivering a cart of food.

"Is that for Ms. Ferra?"

"Oh no," said the man, who was adorned in a cotton white shirt with stylish black pants and a cap to match. "But I checked her room earlier. She’s never been in it. No one has. Not yet."

"You sure?" Jamie looked twice paler than he usually did- and that’s saying something.

"Affirmative."

"DAMN!" Jamie stormed up the steps, sputtering and muttering things under his breath. He passed by Sandy and Alex, STILL on the dance floor - but obviously the couple had taken a break somewhere along the way, for Sandy was now dressed in a simple spaghetti-strap mint green jersey slip-dress and Alexander was attired in navy trousers and his shirt from earlier in the day.

"Jamie, did you decide to have a dish of toothpaste for dinner or are you really foaming at your mouth?"

"It’s just that Diane is nowhere. Nowhere I tell you!"

"Hey, say it, don’t spray it! She wasn’t in her room?"

"She hasn’t even checked IN to it yet." He paused, sucking in a great amount of oxygen. "No one, not one person, has seen her for over five hours. I’ve even called the dock- she hasn’t been seen there either. Not one trace. Just like she WHOOSH… disappeared."

"Jamie…" Alexander muttered. "This is not a time to play Mr. Drama Queen. It’s not an emergency. She has to be around this ship someplace. If she’s not found by the morning, then we have definite cause for concern. As for now, go eat a watermelon or something."

Jamie just gaped his mouth open, and in turning his back, hanging his head low, mouthed, thanks-for-nothing. But he was too exhausted to argue anymore. It was his turn to sleep. Maybe a new day meant promise. And hope. Or disaster.

Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
And special thanks to Sandy for a great post!, - Thursday, September 26, 2002 at 18:24:19 (PDT)

Aboard the Party Yacht:

Alexander moved forward in his lounge chair, raising his arms over his head and stretching himself slowly. Behind her sunglasses, Sandy watched the muscles under his tanned back ripple in silence as she took a final sip of her drink. His lips curled into a soft smile when he heard the musicians start playing and he turned in Sandy's direction. "Would you like to go over to where the band is?" he asked.

"Sure," Sandy agreed readily, rising to her feet. She watched as Alexander rose to his feet and stood next to her. He offered the crook of his arm to her and she slipped her arm inside it. She turned to Chris and Hamlet. "Do you two want to join us?"

Chris and Hamlet exchanged glances. Chris wrinkled her nose slightly and Hamlet shook his head a bit before they turned back to the couple standing in front of them. "Maybe later," Chris replied. "You two kids enjoy yourselves, huh?" she teased with a giggle. Hamlet snorted with laughter as the two began walking away.

Sandy laughed and Alexander growled low in his throat. "Cheeky, isn't she?"

"I thought you *liked* cheeky, Alex. You constantly put up with it from me, don't you?" Sandy removed her arm from the crook of his and slipped it around his waist.

"True," Alexander admitted, turning his head in her direction as he slid his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her to him gently as they walked towards a lobby that was a shortcut to the other side of the ship. "But that's just a tiny part of your personality... There's so many layers..." A soft smile graced his lips.

"Like an onion?" was the immediate response.

"GAH!" Alexander roared with laughter and came to a stop. He gently turned her towards him and put both hands on Sandy's shoulders. She gazed up at him with a serene smile on her face. He murmured softly and lowered his head as she moved closer, slipped her arms around his neck and lifted her face up to glide her lips over his.

Alexander sighed gently as the kiss broke. "Ready, love?" he asked softly, leaning his cheek against hers for a moment.

"Mmmm," was the equally soft response. Sandy's breath fanned Alexander's ear and he closed his eyes briefly before he slowly straightened up to full height and smiled. She returned the smile as the two linked arms again and continued their way to where the band was playing.

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

Why, Lucas, why? Diane screamed.

Soft, evil laughter filled Diane's head. Why not? You've served my purpose - for whatever you were worth - and it wasn't much in the first place, my dear, he sneered.

Diane backed away from him, shaking her head in disbelief. She lost her footing and fell over the cliff. Falling... Falling... HELP ME, PLEASE! She woke up with a scream on her lips, eyes widening when she realized that she was falling - off the chair. She put her hands out to break her fall when a pair of strong arms grabbed her around the waist.

"Ah cherie, one must be careful when sleeping in a chair like that, n'est ce pas?" a soft, cultured French-accented voice murmured in her ear. Diane's nose wrinkled up slightly at the scent of wine on the speaker's breath and the powerful scent of his cologne. "Are you all right?" His hands slowly loosened around her waist.

Diane slowly turned around and stared warily at the man who had caught her from embarrassing herself yet again - even though there was nobody else in the lobby at the moment. He was very handsome, with a neatly trimmed beard and dark blond/light brown curly hair. He was impeccably dressed in white linen and his hazel eyes gazed at her piercingly. "I'm fine. Thank you..." she paused as she shifted position and slowly rose to her feet.

The man straightened up to his full height and he saw that she was almost as tall as him. He gazed at her for a moment before he took her hand in his and bowed elegantly over it. "I am Valmont, mademoiselle...?" he trailed off, an eyebrow raising interrogatively.

"Diane," she supplied in a strained voice. "I'm new to Flights of Fancy," she explained.

"Ah," Valmont nodded in understanding. He lowered his head and gently kissed her hand before rising up to full height again. He did not release her hand, but began massaging it with his fingertips. "You were hired to work with Lucas, were you not?"

Diane could feel her eyes begin to fill with tears of combined frustration and fury at the mention of Lucas' name. She pressed her lips together and blinked hard to stop them from falling down her cheeks. "That's right," she answered softly, surprised that she managed to speak in a relatively normal tone of voice. "I guess that things didn't work out for him the way he wanted." Just like our relationship, she thought to herself, feeling despair wash over her once more.

"So, you are without a leading man then?" Valmont slowly moved forward a couple of steps, stopping about two paces away from her.

"I don't know. Nobody's really said anything to me about what will happen with my storyline - or *if* I'll have one at all," Diane began to feel uncomfortable in the Frenchman's presence, but she couldn't figure out exactly why. He *was* charming, but something about him made her feel unsettled - and her head began swimming. Maybe it's that damn cologne.

Valmont shook his head. "I sincerely doubt that you would have been let go without being personally told so by The Director, cherie." He shrugged his shoulders slightly in a dismissive motion. "Actors are always re-cast. It's the nature of the business."

"I suppose you're right," Diane said, nodding slightly.

Valmont smiled at that. "Besides, I think that he would be a fool to let one as beautiful as you go."

Diane snorted derisively and she rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right! Tell me another one."

Valmont's eyes bored into hers. "Do not be so dismissive of what I am saying, cherie," he murmured, suddenly leaning forward and kissing her before she could move away from him.

Diane's breath came out in a harsh gasp and her eyes were huge when he moved back from her. Everything that had happened over the past 48 hours came rushing back to her head at that moment and she saw red. She reached forward and grabbed Valmont by the shoulders with a strength that he didn't realize she had. Before he could react, she turned him around and delivered a sharp kick to his behind, propelling him forward into some nearby chairs. He fell against them with a loud thud and he moaned softly. He blearily gazed up at her as she stood over him.

"If you ever do something like that to me again, you drunken fool, I'll... I'll... AUGH!" she hollered. Her eyes blazed with fury as she stared down at his sprawled form with a look of complete and utter disgust on her face. "And your cologne *STINKS*!" she finished. She pivoted on her heel and stormed from the lobby just as Alexander and Sandy entered it.

The couple stared at Valmont, who had a completely stunned expression on his face and then turned in the direction that the tall blonde had exited before turning back to him again. Alexander cleared his throat, his left eyebrow rising up. "It seems that you've been looking for lust in all the wrong places again, Valmont," he observed dryly.

Valmont swore in French and rose to his feet. He brushed himself off, and with as much dignity as he could muster, he stalked from the lobby and turned in the opposite direction of where Diane had headed. Sandy shook her head and sighed as she watched him leave.

"He's lucky he wasn't on deck. He might have been tossed overboard by the look on her face," Alexander murmured as they began walking through the lobby.

"I think he's already gotten a bit wet once today," Sandy replied cryptically as they stepped outside.

Alexander stared down at her with a frown on his face. "Something did happen down below... Sandy, what did you do?"

"Alex, love. I assure you that I did nothing that was violent in nature," Sandy replied, a slight smile tugging at her lips. Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of rose - or was it the beginning of the sunset? Alexander thought to himself.

"That means you're not going to tell me," Alexander's eyes began twinkling.

"A girl has to have *some* secrets," Sandy's smile grew wider and the blush deepened.

"Indeed," Alexander allowed, inclining his head slightly. He excused himself to request a song from the band and walked back over as the little group began playing a slow number. "Would the lady care for a dance?" he asked.

"The lady would," Sandy replied, slipping her arms around him. He followed suit and the two began swaying to the music, talking softly.

Sandy
A special thanks to Diane for allowing me to "borrow" her for a moment :-), - Wednesday, September 25, 2002 at 10:32:32 (PDT)

On the yacht:

Mary Anne emerges from belowdecks, shrugging into a fleecy, silver-threaded cardigan that conceals the fingermarks on her upper arms. The cold water treatment had helped, but there is a lingering redness that she knows from experience will turn into blue-green bruising within hours.

Ridiculous, to have such touchy skin! It has its uses for my character but in real life it’s such a bloody nuisance. Smiling a little at the absurdity of the situation-to be marked out as though she were some fragile butterfly, especially after having landed that shark-Mary Anne surveys the row of deck chairs for Brandon . . . and her smile fades as she realizes that he is most definitely not where she left him.

Well, you were down there for a bit. And you didn’t ask him to wait . . .

Still, it is with a definite sense of foreboding that Mary Anne scans the deck and then sets off walking, reminding herself that Brandon is a man of his word and she has his promise that he will not start any trouble with Professor Snape.

Maybe he didn’t go to start trouble-maybe he went to finish it.

Quickening her pace, Mary Anne mounts another flight of steps and is practically running when she emerges on one of the upper observation decks, glancing about for Brandon . . .

A sigh of relief: there is Snape, apparently deep in conversation with Joya. Someone really should warn him; George definitely IS the sort to make trouble, even if Christopher isn’t. Still . . . A sardonic smile. Remembering the strength of this grip as he had pulled her from the rail, Mary Anne concludes that Snape is well able to take care of himself.

Oh, he is, is he? taunts a voice from within. If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be so worried about Christopher going after him-unless, of course, you’re think it’s Christopher who can’t take care of himself.

A contralto growl is a rarity, but in her impatience and frustration Mary Anne manages one as she stalks away from the rail to begin a circuit of the upper decks. There is still no sign of Brandon, and her search for him gradually devolves into aimless pacing as late afternoon fades into early evening. Finally, tired of walking, she installs herself in a deck chair and glowers at the sea.

There is the promise of a magnificent sunset, but her beauty-loving eyes are for once blind to the prospect of it. The water is still, smooth as a mirror.

"The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea . . ." she murmurs to herself.

"What was that, Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne startles and looks up to see Mistral standing over her . . .

MA
Hmmmm, wonder where Brandon got to? All right, let's talk with Mistral . . . ;-), - Tuesday, September 24, 2002 at 18:48:04 (PDT)

“Chandos! I didn’t even realize you were on board.” Cindie looked at her neighbor and erstwhile co-worker, trying to place what was amiss with his appearance. Realizing what it was, she enquired, “where’s Rafter? You look practically undressed without her leash in your hand.

“I like your cheek.” Naturally exuberant, he didn’t do *annoyed* well at all. Giving up, he smiled. “She’s with Mansel and Tester for the day.” He looked around as if expecting to see someone and continued, “though I was hoping to see Therese. I thought we could arrange for our two pups to play together.”

Cindie tried to imagine the Director’s reaction to, not one but two, very large Alsatians running about their work area. It gave her an idea. “You know, we have quite a few animals at work. I wonder if we ought to designate an area for them to play when they come to the set.”

“Last time I stopped in the place was swarming with beagles.”

Cindie laughed. “Those were borrowed. Ands it’s a bouquet of beagles, not a swarm. But I suppose Sir John might have occasion to bring one or five of his dogs to the set too.”

“There is quite a bit of unused room on some of the outdoor lots. What about the one that housed the outbuildings of the Wagensburg set? I fancy we could come up with a very nice run for the dogs and some nice benches for their people.” He considered a moment. “I’ll have Hanbury draw up some plans. He’s a quiz at that sort of thing.”

“Do that Chandos. Then I can figure out the cost and what would be involved. By the time I approach the Director it will be for all practical purposes a fait accompli. It’s much harder for him to say no that way.”

“I heard about that nasty business in the parking lot. How is the old boy doing?”

Cindie didn’t think that the Director would particularly enjoy that moniker but knew Chandos concern was real enough. He’d had enough adventure on his own involving cars of various sorts and well knew the adrenalin inducing thrill of danger and the heavy let down of its aftermath. “Frankly he seems rather distracted. Edgy. He did seem better when he came back from his unscheduled outing.”

“Being a little bit naughty is good for the soul.”

“Chandos, is that your philosophy of life?”

“I hadn’t thought about it but it might do in a pinch.” He looked around again. “Where is Therese? I thought she would be here.”

“She’s here somewhere. I saw her and Dev earlier, but they’ve been keeping to themselves.” It took great effort, but Cindie did not smirk.

Inclining his head and arching an eyebrow, Chandos didn’t either. “And where is your Mistral? For I am not the only one going about without my usual companion.”

“Chandos! I’m sure Mistral would be flattered at the comparison to Rafter. To answer your question, I left him talking with one of the crewmembers about flies and lures and things.”

Chandos eyes lit up. “Trout fishing! I didn’t know Mistral was a trout fisherman. I wonder if he’s ever been to Carinthia? There are some really nice spots. . .”

“William. Why don’t you ask him.” She indicated back from the way she had come. “He’s back there somewhere and I’m sure would love to compare fishing spots with you. I’m going to go find myself a lounge chair by that little jazz band that I heard . . .and lounge.”

“All right then. But you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Yes I do. If I see Therese, I’ll tell her that you’re looking for her.”

Chandos gave her a kiss on the cheek. “See you later.”

Cindie
- Tuesday, September 24, 2002 at 18:02:39 (PDT)

Diane had had enough. After her slight blow-up with Jasmine, it seemed her fury was endless, yet it left her emotionally exhausted. All crew members who saw her distorted look quickly backed away as she thundered through the hallways, pursing her lips and eyes flaming red. She tripped once and fell and clutched her elbow as a strain of red blood trickled from its cut. Groaning, she pushed herself up again and came to a lobby. It was empty with not a soul in sight. Diane came and settled in a comfy burgundy chair with fine english oak. Even the arm-rests were cushioned, and she let her head swiftly fall backwards. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply, then out again heavily. It was a good way for her to relax and calm down.

But she couldn't calm down. Ever since she accepted her job at FoF it had been one thing after the next. She could still feel the sting of Lucas's eyes piercing through her like arrows. She would never forget that cold look he gave her on the night he left her. It had been the same night he poisoned her.

She shuddered. Poison. That was supposed to be a Dark Ages thing. It wasn't supposed to happen to nice, quiet women like her, and it scared Diane greatly. It wasn't supposed to happen at all! It was supposed to be some fairy tale told in murder mysteries! And Even though her eyesight had finally restored to normal vision, the thought of it happening again lingered in her mind. But what had she ever done to Lucas? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

And now Jamie. What was he hiding from her? It seemed odd, now, that he just *happened* to be there on the night she ran away into the storm. Was he out to get her too? And Jasmine... so much different from the girl she once knew in High School. It seemed her world was falling apart, and she didn't have the courage or the strength to take any more...

She yawned, and snuggled into the chair even more. It was feeling more and more comfortable every minute... maybe just a little but of a nap... would be... nice...........................
Diane <imaalanrickmanfan@harrypotternetwork.zzn.com>
Next! , - Tuesday, September 24, 2002 at 14:34:23 (PDT)

Joya stretched her legs out and propped them against the railing of the yacht. The sunshine was almost as hot as her temper. The hypocrite! How dared he complain about her attire in public when he couldn't wait to see her out of it in private?

She leaned forward and rubbed her knees. It wasn't as if she'd ever given any other man the slightest hope that she would respond to any approaches. She was a one-man (at a time) woman and certain people should know that. Joya glared at the ocean. A shadow fell across the deck beside her. "Excuse me."

She started and looked up. The man was a complete stranger. She'd seen him on deck, hovering around the edges of various groupings of FOF staffers but he'd not seemed to actually belong to any of them. With his long black hair and wardrobe, he almost seemed to be a caricature of George. Now he stood beside her lounger and gazed down at her with disturbing intensity.

"Excuse me." He swooped down so that they were on the same eye level. Not a hint of a smile on his face. He looked at her with controlled savagery.

"Yes?" She leaned back warily.

"I was talking to that man over there." He nodded across the deck to where George glowered at them both. "He said something interesting about you."

"Oh really?" For a moment she wondered if this was some trick of George's to catch her off balance but dismissed it. He was looking far too fierce to have put the stranger up to something. "In what way?"

"He said that you are a witch." His gaze became even more fixed and intense. "Is that true?"

"A witch?" Joya looked over the stranger's shoulder again and glared back at George. Name-calling was definitely breaking the agreed-upon rules of conflict. Well, if that was how he wanted to play, then she would go along. She turned back to the stranger and gave him her most dazzling smile. "Yes, it's true. On occasion, anyway."

"I am very glad to hear that. We have something in common then." He shifted position slightly. "Perhaps you've heard of me? Severus Snape? I'm considered something of an expert in my particular field." A modest cough accompanied the claim.

"Snape?" Joya kept smiling while her mind raced. "I'm afraid not. My fault, I'm sure. I've always had the worst memory for names. Ever since I was a child."

"I see." The Snape person looked mildly disappointed. "No matter. My area of expertise is quite rarified. Few even of our kind are really familiar with it."

"Our kind?" The smile was becoming harder to sustain. Then the penny dropped. Our kind. He meant actors. Before she could respond, he was talking again.

"Yes." With a sudden movement that should have been clumsy but wasn't, Snape slipped out of his crouch and sat on the deck. He brushed down his trousers where they'd bagged over his knees. "I did not expect to find another one here. It is a relief in a way."

"Oh, I don't know." Joya smiled with more warmth. He was a stranger in a strange place. Probably a stage actor with no film experience. It was only natural that he felt out of place. "I think you'll find that many people here would understand. They might not have first-hand knowledge but they'd be sympathetic."

"No one must know!" Snape jerked forward like a vulture attacking prey. "Surely you have not told anyone about yourself?"

Joya leaned back again, as far away from that stare as she could. Where was everybody else? She felt completely alone with this strange man. "Uh, I'm not sure what you mean."

He was frowning now, his brows furrowed with surprise. "Perhaps I was mistaken. But the other man seemed so sure of his information. What spells do you know?"

"Spells?" Joya's mind whirled.

"Or potions? No," he answered his own question. "If you knew anything of potions, you would have recognized my name. Do you have the second sight?"

That was the moment Joya decided that even her first sight of this stranger had been one sight too many. With a determined smile and a grim "Excuse me", she swung her legs over to the far side of the lounger, stood up and inched along the railing until she was on the deck proper. Then she nodded once at the now standing Snape and hurried across the deck to George.

Magda
My what a quiet group!, - Monday, September 23, 2002 at 14:29:48 (PDT)

I embrace him in a hug, and he softly whispers in my ear. "I'm sorry Gill..."

"Sorry?" I blink, stepping back a bit. "Sorry for what?"

"I left you a long time ago. And I'm not coming back either."

"You've got to be kidding my darling." I looked up at him, smiling and making sweet eyes.

He looked more stern than on the day he had left me to shiver in the rain. There was something different about him, like he was hiding some dark secret in the back of his mind...a place where no woman could ever go. "No..." he softly breathed, carmel hair flapping in the slight breeze as he took two paces backwards. He turned his head to release a sneeze then looked me in the eye. "It's over. And I came down to clarify that."

I turned my head away. Had death taken over his soul? Yet the yacht cruise should've made him cheery, more pleasant. There must have been some explanation!

"But Jamie dear... why?" I choked, clutching the small box I hid in the palm of my right hand. It was going to be a gift for Jamie... a charm of a cruise ship. But I feared he would not accept it. Nor did I have the courage to give it to him.

He turned his back, as to make way into the yacht again. "If you must know... I found comfort with another. Someone who needs just as much love as I. Someone who is loyal and... well... different. She's an individual." He paused to faintly smile. "But I wish you luck in the future, Gill. It was nice knowing you while I did. But's it's all in the...past." He faced me... for the last time. "Good-bye, Gill."

I sat on a bench and cried as I watched him re-board the ship while hunching my knees together and burying hands in my face. And I still had the box in my hand, the last reminder of what I thought was meant to be. But apparantly not...
Diane <crescentmoonluna@aol.com>
Sorry Gill, but Jamie's mine! :), - Monday, September 23, 2002 at 14:13:53 (PDT)

The piece of paper with the crucial directions to the harbour was now scrunched in my clammy, shaking, vulnerable young hand. Sweet Jamie had managed to scribble them between sneezes, insisting I join him. It had been far too long since those strong arms had steadied me against the thick woollen coat when he'd said goodbye. The yacht cruise had been a godsend for him. At last, in sub-tropical climes, he'd been able to shed his clothing and stay warm, though the sneezes persisted. He'd even shaved off his moustache, he said in his last letter, to get a better tan... Do ghosts tan?! Anyway, his death is a minor point as I approach the jetty where the yacht is moored because there he is, Jamie, Jamie, Jamie - God how I've missed you! And yes, the moustache is gone, his face and torso are a rich golden colour, his dark eyes sparkle with mischief and a smile teases those full lips. He breathes against his fingers and touches his lips - ahhhh....he's warming them... AWAIT NEXT INSTALMENT
Gill Ranson <gillmr@dialstart.net>
- Monday, September 23, 2002 at 10:19:44 (PDT)

Thank you, Cindie...I found it.
Jasmine
- Saturday, September 21, 2002 at 11:51:22 (PDT)

Metatron was at the anniversary party in 2000 but Miranda began to write him sometime after that. It seems she's abandoned him, however, so I suppose he's up for grabs.
Cindie
- Friday, September 20, 2002 at 18:51:33 (PDT)

Does anyone have any idea as to when "Metatron" was first introduced to the FOF. It would be of great help. Thank you
Jasmine
- Friday, September 20, 2002 at 18:29:32 (PDT)

On the port side of the Dakota . . .

If conversations may be said to idle, they rarely idle for long, if at all, among this particular set.

"You're wonderful at your work, Barbara--your set designs are so well-conceived--and carefully crafted. Everything in its place." Renie slipped off her black and white three-quarter jacket to reveal a matching black and white halter, which met her slim pants patterned in the reverse just below her waist. Falling loosely in a straight line, the pants had a generous unexpected ruffle of sheer silk at the ankles. Below the silk ruffles, a pair of black silk sandals sported rubber soles to hug the decks.

As Renie spoke, Barbara found herself gazing at a geometrical shape of bright blue, encased in silver, about Renie's neck. It seemed nearly neon, in the bright sun. The necklace had a calming, hypnotic effect.

This wine was good, too. And the sun. And the party.

"Do you know what he calls it?"

Barbara shook her head.

"The Vanders touch".

Barbara couldn't have been more gratified to hear it.

Renie's smile was warm, and Barbara rightfully felt pleased at the compliment. It was true; her designs had worked well, and the Director had liked her ability to execute her many-faceted tasks, even on the fly.

Barbara relaxed, as the tones of Anton and Hans floated behind her. A bit more talk, and a few more sips . . .

"So . . . are you happy?"

Barbara blinked at Renie's question. Happy? With her work? At FOF? At the party?

Her eyes fell to her white sandals, the laces, crossing this way and that.

Laughter, from another part of the yacht.

Renie's green-flecked eyes gave no elaboration, and Barbara realized the question was meant to be open-ended. "I--" She stopped, and seemed to come to decision.

Barbara drained her glass.

Renie only smiled, waiting. The lengths of her hair still dancing in the ocean air.

Below and above them, cast and crew toured the decks, stopping to talk to one another, or admire the sea, which wore the sunshine like Grace Kelly wore diamonds.

R
Right then, Barbara., - Wednesday, September 18, 2002 at 12:13:47 (PDT)

There, now. All spam has been banished from the Realm.

Suzanne
Many duties, indeed. Rupert, some assistance, please!, - Monday, September 16, 2002 at 21:09:16 (PDT)

George is always ready for anything. Go for it Cindie. Maybe it's time for Joya to get jealous.
Magda
- Monday, September 16, 2002 at 10:57:38 (PDT)

Perhaps Mistral ought to look into a home equity loan for the Manor House.
Cindie
Is George ready for an on-line dating service?, - Monday, September 16, 2002 at 09:07:20 (PDT)

Suzanne--no need for you to apologize! 8-)

MA
After all, The Empress has many, many duties . . ., - Monday, September 16, 2002 at 06:16:22 (PDT)

Sorry about all the spam. I've been a little behind, but I will ZAP them tomorrow.
Suzanne
- Sunday, September 15, 2002 at 22:45:37 (PDT)

See what I mean?

MA
- Sunday, September 15, 2002 at 19:36:30 (PDT)

On the yacht:

Upon hearing George refer to Joya as a "witch," Snape feels the sudden blaze of hope in his heart and is just about to try and pursue the matter when he is distracted by a voice directly behind him.

"Professor Snape."

Snape turns. It is the one called Brandon.

"I would speak with you for a moment, Professor."

For an instant, Snape hesitates. He has, of course, seen Brandon around the set. When they passed each other in the corridors, Brandon had always taken notice of him with a cordial nod or a quiet "Good day," but no more than that-which had earned Snape’s approval. This Brandon was obviously not the sort of annoying Muggle who would force himself upon one’s attention; Brandon kept a discreet distance and behaved sensibly.

With this in mind, Snape concludes that there should be no difficulty in speaking with him now and follows Brandon to a spot under one of the awnings.

"Yes, Mister Brandon?"

Brandon’s gaze locks with his. "Mary Anne has just told me what happened-when you pulled her away from the rail."

Snape lifts an eyebrow in that expression that, as he remembers, could reduce any student at Hogwarts (and not a few of the professors) to a quivering bundle of nerves-though why he should suddenly feel the need to try and intimidate Brandon is a mystery to him. Something in that quiet, fixed regard makes him nervous, more nervous than he can remember since the day he abandoned the Death Eaters and sought the help of Albus Dumbledore. But this man is no Dumbledore; he is not even a wizard. Hear him out.

"I trust she is quite recovered," murmurs Snape, in a tone less imperious than he had intended.

"Quite recovered, though there are a few effects-"

What a peculiar stress upon that word "effects."

"-that she may feel for some time, yet. At any rate, you probably saved her life. I came to thank you."

Abruptly, Brandon puts out his hand and Snape, knowing what is expected of him, takes it in a brief handshake. "The lady has already thanked me herself."

"I know she did, but I am grateful, as well. It would have been wrong not to tell you so."

And you WILL do what is right, at all costs. You are grateful . . . then why do I have the suspicion that you would knock me flat if you could? And then, from deep inside, the cold flash of warning: Don’t be so certain that he can’t.

"-and I want you to know, Professor, that if need help, count on me for anything I can do."

It is on the tip of Snape’s tongue to reply that he certainly will not be needing help from a Muggle, but he controls that sharp tongue just in time and nods his acknowledgment. After all, Severus, you are a Muggle, too . . . now. Thanks to Voldemort. And you never know when an offer of help might come in useful.

Brandon apparently expects no further response, for he promptly turns and walks away, leaving Snape to ponder the exchange. No stranger to hostility himself, Snape had taken note of the almost visible aura of it around Brandon-and yet the man had thanked him and offered . . . well, not friendship, exactly, but an alliance of sorts. Interesting.

With a grim smile, Snape turns back toward the group he had just left. If I ever make it back to Hogwarts, I may be equipped to teach Muggle Studies, with all that I am learning. Perhaps one day I shall even thank Voldemort for giving me the opportunity to learn all of these lessons . . . just before I kill him.

MA--and no, Brandon would NOT lie to Mary Anne.
But the question about spammers remains a mystery!, - Sunday, September 15, 2002 at 09:11:28 (PDT)

Well, that answers my question about the bold print! 8-D

MA
- Thursday, September 12, 2002 at 19:27:31 (PDT)

On the yacht:

"-no real harm done, and can’t we just leave it at that?"

Brandon leans back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. "If you insist."

Mary Anne’s heart sinks. Christopher Brandon, legendary for his even disposition in the volatile cast of FoF, is as close to seething as she has ever seen him. It is one thing for The Colonel, as she has written him, to be angry or upset; away from the camera, however, it is an even more alarming spectacle. The same mannerisms, the same clipped precision of bitten-off syllables . . . but this is not a script.

Mary Anne sighs. "Look. I leaned out too far over the rail because I was trying to see what was happening with Joya and George. I almost fell overboard, and Professor Snape-"

She sees Brandon’s eyes narrow and hastens on.

"-saw me and pulled me back from the rail." Mary Anne looks down and grimaces at the rings of red fingermarks around her upper arms. Going to be some nasty bruises from those. "So." A try for lightness. "Would you rather he’d just walked on and let me take a header right into the drink?"

To her great relief, Brandon’s expression has softened to concern and sympathy. "I was afraid you might have had to fight off Valmont or something of the sort. I was ready to go and throw him overboard. Or whoever had done this to you."

"Well, now you know." A strained little laugh. "I hope you’re not going to throw me overboard for being silly and careless."

"Of course I’m not-so long as you don’t do it again." A flick of that lethal eyebrow, and this time Mary Anne’s laugh is genuine. "Of course," Brandon continues, "you’re going to have a devil of a time explaining that when you report to Costume and Make-up tomorrow."

"Well, I could always say that I was rehearsing with Mistral and things got a bit strenuous-but that might get back to Cindie and she’d read him the riot act for marking me up. And there he’d be, wondering what in heaven’s name was going on! No, I don’t think I’ll do that to him." Mary Anne smirks, imagining how it would all play out. "Besides, my arms are usually covered. And even when they’re not, Make-up has worked out some good matches to my skin tone. But I don’t think I have any scenes coming up where my arms will be showing . . ."

"What?" counters Brandon, with a sparkle of mischief in those warm amber eyes. "Not even one of our, ah, special scenes?"

Mary Anne blushes, as Brandon had intended. "In those scenes, the focus is NOT on my arms!"

"My dearest, your arms are among your many charms."

"You’ll be making a ballad to my eyebrow, next." She raises the eyebrow in question at Brandon, though she cannot hope to achieve the classic Brandon Look of Reproach. "But I want you to promise me, Christopher, that you aren’t going to go and start any trouble with Professor Snape. Promise?"

"I promise." Without an instant’s hesitation. "But Mary Anne, I think you had better go and attend to those before they get any worse. Some cold water, do you think? Perhaps the bruising will not be so bad, then."

"That’s a good idea." Mary Anne rises from the lounge chair, assisted by Brandon. "I have a wrap down in the cabin, too; I’ll go and put it on. I can always tell people that it’s to keep the sun off! I’ll see you in a bit, Christopher."

Brandon watches her go, waiting long enough to be certain she will not be coming back in the next few moments. Then, his features set like granite, he turns and goes in search of Professor Severus Snape.

MA
Questions: Brandon wouldn't lie to Mary Anne, would he?! Who turned off the bold print? Why are spammers permitted to exist?!! ;-), - Thursday, September 12, 2002 at 19:26:00 (PDT)

Lol...
- Thursday, September 12, 2002 at 18:21:12 (PDT)

Or not.
- Wednesday, September 11, 2002 at 16:34:46 (PDT)

Jasmine flinched at Diane's quick movement. She had not expecected that reaction. The noise of the sliding chair made everyone go quiet. Silence fell over the room.

The conversations stopped and everyone was looking at the 2 woman.

It was Alexander who broke the silence, "Are you two ladies alright over there?"

Jasmine gave a smile as she turned to face him, "We are fine, thank you." She heard a small clicking and turned around. Diane was making her way out of the room and around the corner.

Jasmine touched her forehead in slight frustration. Should I go after her? No...she needs time to cool off.

Her chair creaked as she leaned back in it. Her eyes fell on a small shot glass at another table. She sat there, thinking, zoomed out of reaity, for a few minutes. The conversation had picked up again in the room.

The only thing that made her feel uncomfortable was the man, dressed entirely in black. Everytime she looked at him, she saw his eyes dart away from her. What is with this guy??
Jasmine
- Tuesday, September 10, 2002 at 18:32:13 (PDT)

Diane looked up from her head cradle into the gleaming eyes of Jasmine, who was looking pretty sporty in her newly changed outfit. "Looks nice…" she mumbled, shading her own eyes from the glowing sun.

"Thanks," said Jasmine, and pulled out a chair. "Mind if I sit down?" Diane carelessly motioned in the air a slight hand wave, and Jasmine took her seat, folding hands neatly in her lap. "How come you aren’t with Jamie?"

"Well… he WAS asleep. I thought I heard someone talking to him a moment or two ago…"

"There’s no one there now."

"I know. And that’s what I thought when I looked over there. Who knows? Maybe I’m becoming delusional."

Jasmine shifted her gaze to the heavily bundled man in the lawn chair, and snickered when she saw a bit of his tummy being revealed. Next to him was his own small bag he had brought on deck, and on the other side, some sort of pewter pail with a ivory lid on top. He had placed a hat over his face and had hands placed on his chest like he was waiting to be buried- which was a very Jamie-ish thought all together. "Seems he’s asleep again… why don’t you go and talk to some of the others around here? Come on, I’ll go with you."

"Jas…" Diane started, bringing in a deep breath, and began again. "Jas, I don’t feel secure."

"What?"

"I don’t know anyone… and even you seem so…so… distant."

"Diane, I don’t think I’m understanding you…"

"I’ve been an outcast all my life Jasmine. I have never gotten along with others very well. It happened all through my childhood, teen years, and even now, here, at Flights of Fancy on a beautiful yacht, I feel suppressed and alone. Everyone here knows one another, except you and I. But look at you!" She waved a hand at Jasmine’s gorgeous, slimming figure. "You’re gorgeous! Plus, you can just go up to someone and TALK to them- I can’t do that Jas."

"I just think you’re feeling sorry for yourself Di."

"So what if I am? Call me immature, but look at the fun they are having! I want to have fun too- but its hard to when the guy you are with talks nothing of the weather."

"Oh, so I see," Jasmine bristled. "I’m not good enough either, eh?"

"No, its not that… its just… I don’t want to be a burden to you, and I am getting the impression that I’m becoming a constant thorn in your side. Jas, go off and have your own good time. You don’t have to just hang out with me, you know."

"But your all alone."

"It’s alright, really it is. Maybe I can get some of my writing done, or something…"

"Di, you are not a burden to me." "Then why do I feel like we are now so far apart? What happened to those good old days back at High School, laughing and talking about anything and everything? I feel like there is a wall between us Jasmine, and I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been good at brick climbing."

Jasmine sighed. She, too, had felt a bit more distant from her old friend. The days of long ago were fading into a silver gray, a horizon of what was once, but no longer. A shadow blocking their paths, and they turn away, too scared to confront the feeling within. They had both changed- Diane had become more secretive, not to mention, reclusive. Jasmine had made many new friends over the years and was living a good life with frequent parties and nights out. Diane often locked herself up in her own little room, writing her stories hours on end, while Jasmine smiled and had some guys gawking at her wherever she went. They had become two completely different people.

"You’re digging this hole yourself Diane," said Jasmine after a long pause, softly, almost silently. "You are just being that same, self-centered depressing girl I knew in High School."

Diane said nothing. It wasn’t that she was self-centered- it was that she longed to feel one of the crowd, part of the group. She was sick and tired of being that one black sheep, the girl always picked on, the woman struggling on diet after diet. Adulthood hadn’t changed any of those facts, and she had found that in her stories alone could she be truly happy- and that is where she intended to stay.

"I’m not like you Jas. I don’t do well at gatherings, I’m not a people person, and you know that."

"Yes, but here, now, when we are both adults, is the time you decide to end a certain slight friendship between us?"

"I’m just being stupid and silly, I know. Hit me." She took another sip of her soda. "But admit it- something doesn’t feel right."

Jasmine twisted in her seat uncomfortably, not being able to lie. "Well, yes. But I still think you are being very immature about this Diane." Diane stood up, knocking over her chair. Everyone in the room turned eyes on her, and even Jamie rustled in his slumber.

He watched with great satisfaction at her anger, he whom was in the shadows. Almost like a real-life Mr. I, who loved to play with its prey before the… hmm… perhaps kill? No, a bit of something before kill. But two eyes piece from the darkness, seething from within. Her fury he delighted in. Time was clicking, the clock was endless. Soon. But he doesn’t like to wait. It better be soon.

Or he’d make it soon.

Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
Tsk tsk tsk, Diane's got a temper! Anyone want to help cool her down? , - Monday, September 09, 2002 at 20:24:34 (PDT)

FoF Party -- The Yacht
Morning of Day Seven of the Investigation

Barbara sipped from her glass. Anton was leaning on the railing, watching crew members assist Hans, Renie and the Director on board. Renie's dark hair blew wildly in the sea air, the Director brushing it from his eyes with habitual grace. Hans looked up and saw his father; he leaned over to murmur in Renie's ear. She smiled and glanced upward, waving. Anton raised a hand in greeting. Hans gave a nod.

Trudchen was at the Director's side in a moment, handing him his cellphone. The ease faded from his face. He pulled the antennae of the phone up and lifted it to his ear. Barbara could see his face go stony from two decks up. "... this is inexcusable..." The Director's voice floated up. "No, I am perfectly..." His voice fell. "... I am quite cognizant of that, thank you, Detective..." The wind whipped his voice away for a moment, then brought it back. "...don't bloody care..." A hissed exclamation: "What?!?"

The Director stalked up and down the promenade, as Trudchen watched him, hands clasped in front of her. Hans put his hand on Renie's shoulder. She placed her palm on the back of his hand and smiled up. They looked up at Anton and Barbara. Anton and Hans exchanged nods, then the couple made their way up the stairs to the third deck.

Barbara smiled at Anton and nervously eyed the stairs. After so many years, she would finally meet the couple responsible for the first great love story of Flights of Fancy: Renie and Hans.

She could already tell that this was going to be nerve-wracking.

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

"Last night, when they were questioning us about what happened to the Director, the officer said the most peculiar thing to me about Detective Graff," Cindie told Mistral with a hint of puzzlement in her voice.

"Oh?" he prodded.

"He told me, 'Remember all those old fairy tales where the king tries to get rid of his only daughter's unsuitable suitor by giving him three impossible tasks?' Of course, I did -- I do. I read them all as a kid. So I said, Yes. And he said, 'Don't try that with Miles Graff. Just -- don't.'" (homage) Cindie shook her head and shrugged. "I don't know whether to be impressed or concerned."

"Which officer was it?" Mistral asked.

She thought a moment. "Illyan, I think," she said. "Yes. Captain Illyan."

The wind carried her words back to the police officer stationed by the foremast. Cindie didn't see his face crease with a grin. That's Miles all right, he thought.Blimey, does Simon have him pegged!

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

But the introductions went smoothly, and soon she was making idle conversation. Renie was apologizing for missing last year's anniversary party.

"I would have loved to join you all," she said, "especially to see Mary Anne and Christopher's presentation." She shook her head, mildly, and continued bemused. "Christopher as Death. What did you think of it?" she asked.

Barbara froze. "It was... ah -- interesting."

Anton watched her with clear, steady eyes. "Why 'interesting,' Barbara?" he asked. Vhy interrrrezting.

"It's --" she paused to swallow welling tears "-- not my favorite film."

"Ah." The silver head turned back to the conversation with Hans. Renie mouthed a silent 'Oh.'

Barbara sipped wine. Hurdle One, cleared she thought.

Then Renie threw her for a loop.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Renie.... CATCH! :), - Monday, September 09, 2002 at 18:18:16 (PDT)

Aboard the Party Yacht:

"Valmont. What a pleasure to see you," Sandy said flatly. "I didn't see you come onboard."

The Frenchman's hazel eyes glittered as he leaned down towards her and picked up her right hand, kissing it gently. "I was on board early. Other business, of course." He did not let her hand go, but continued to caress it with his long fingers.

One can only imagine what that business entailed, Sandy thought to herself grimly, suppressing a shudder of disgust. She could smell the bitter tang of wine on his breath and his cologne... Her nose, always sensitive to certain scents even with taking medication to relieve allergy symptoms, suddenly went off the itchiness scale and her eyes started to sting. "Of course," she agreed evenly. "You'll be joining the others shortly then?" she asked politely. "I'm sure that Dev would be more than happy to see you."

Valmont's smile slipped ever so slightly then widened again. "I'm sure, cherie," he replied huskily. His eyes raked over her body, slowly taking in her attire. "You look trés bon, Sandy. Perfect for an afternoon in the sun." The eyes darkened. "I do hope that Dane appreciates what he has," he finished with a sniff.

Sandy's eyes narrowed, their color turning a slate gray and her nose twitched uncomfortably. "My relationship with Alex is *my* business, Valmont," she told him in a soft, frosty voice, hoping he'd get the hint behind the tone.

An eyebrow rose. "Of course, cherie. I would not expect you to say anything else," Valmont allowed gracefully. "But - why *him*? His past reputation of being difficult..."

"That's just it - the past is the past, Valmont. I'm not interested in that. I'm interested in the here and now," Sandy told him. "That's what is important to me."

Valmont leaned down, his face just inches away from hers. "Ah cherie, are you sure about that?" He reached out and ran a long finger down her cheek.

Sandy's eyes widened and her face turned scarlet then went white with fury at his audacity. Unconsciously, her left hand clenched into a tight fist. "I'm *extremely* sure about that, y... ACHOO!" she violently sneezed before she could stop herself, tears running down her cheeks.

Right in Valmont's face.

Sandy blinked and sniffed loudly, horrified at what just happened. Valmont released her right hand and he stared down at her, his mouth slightly ajar. She mumbled an apology and rushed by him, sneezing several times in succession as she strode to her cabin. She opened the door and shut the it behind her with a loud bang. He heard the sound of water running a moment later.

Valmont stared at the door of Sandy's cabin, blinking several times. Slowly, he reached into his shirt pocket and wiped his face with his monogrammed silk handkerchief before turning around. A tall woman in sailor whites finished descending the stairs and murmured a soft, "Hello." Valmont nodded curtly and she moved aside to allow him to go back on-deck.

Elena Bothari's eyebrows rose as she watched Valmont's lean form ascend the stairs before she turned around and stared down the hallway where the blonde writer had made her hasty escape. Well, I suppose that's one way to get rid of unwanted attention, even though the method was somewhat disgusting in execution, she thought with a note of amusement. She sniffed the air and her nose wrinkled. That cologne really *stinks*. Sighing, she made her way down the hall.

Sandy exited her cabin a few minutes later. She stuck her head outside the door and sighed in relief that there was no sign of Valmont. Shaking her head, she put her sunglasses back over her eyes and ascended the stairs to the main deck, re-joining Alexander, Chris and Hamlet. "Hey everybody," she said with a smile as she sat back down. "Where did George go?"

Hamlet made a vague gesture with his hand. "He went to talk with that new fellow - the one dressed all in black," he explained.

Sandy nodded, reclining back in her chair. Alexander turned in her direction. "I saw Valmont come up the stairs a few minutes ago, looking rather put out." he murmured. "He didn't..."

"Not really, Alex. He kind of got stopped before he could get any further," Sandy replied softly. Her cheeks colored slightly. Chris turned in her direction, raising her eyebrows at her friend in a silent question. Sandy briefly put her hand over her mouth, moving forward slightly and Chris' jaw dropped a little before she bit her lip and shook her head before she started to giggle softly.

Alexander turned in Chris' direction. "What's so funny?"

"It's nothing, Alex. Really."

Alexander and Hamlet exchanged puzzled glances, both of them feeling that they missed something rather important - and the two women weren't going to tell them what it was either.

Sandy - I'm not surprised that George would have taken that so literally, Magda ;-) And Jasmine, loved the "George has issues" remark!
My last post before traveling off to Europe tonight. See ya'll on the 23rd :-), - Monday, September 09, 2002 at 07:27:08 (PDT)

The wooden floor clicked under Jasmine's black flip-flops. She had just came from dressing. She was now wearing a white tank top and black shorts. The heat made her dizzy and tired. She walked to the front of the boat and looked over the white chipped railing.

She felt her stomach turn, so she turned back to see what the others were doing. She was very well known for getting sea sick. Why did I come again? she thought silently as she walked.

She chuckled slightly as she thought recalled the scene that took place right in frot of her between Joya and that incredibly rude man, George. He has issues. She smiled at her thoughts. Looking down at her feet, she kept walking. She could hear voices getting closer, so she knew she was going in the right direction. Her eyes looked around as she turned a corner.

" Excuse me, Mary Anne??"

Mary Anne turned from her conversation with Brandon, "Yes?"

"Have you seen Diane anywhere?"

"I think.." She hesitated for a moment as she thought. "... she went in there." She pointed to a door about 6 feet away.

"Thanks. "

"No problem." Mary Anne continued her conversation as Jasmine strolled to the door. In the room, she saw Joya with her legs stretched out, 2 men in conversation (one she had never seen before. He was dressed in black with his hair pulled back. She got the shivers just looking at him), George sitting and thinking to himself, and finally, Diane sitting at a table in the corner.
Jasmine
- Sunday, September 08, 2002 at 20:51:09 (PDT)

“Mistral?” Cindie placed her glass on the table and moved to occupy the chair that Snape had just vacated. “I’ve seen that man around before, in the cafeteria . . . who is he? He needs to fill out some forms and from what I gather he seems to be ducking Linda’s attempts to have him complete them.”

Mistral resumed his seat having replaced the bottle of whisky in the drinks cabinet. “He is supposed to have story line but I don’t know if its begun shooting yet. I overheard him telling Mary Anne that he’s a professor of chemistry.”

“A professor? I’d say that’s quite a leap to the world of acting but I know my background isn’t traditional either. He looked for all the world like a surly black greyhound following behind you when you came back with the drinks.”

Mistral considered his wine glass and pushed it aside, “he accosted me in the corridor and accused me of spying on him.” At Cindie’s incredulous look he continued, “to be fair, in a manner speaking, I was.”

“You were spying!” Her surprise gave way to teasing, “You’re going to make me look bad, I thought I was the spy.”

“Don’t worry, your reputation is safe enough. I was headed back with our drinks when I saw him grab a hold of Mary Anne. . .”

A low whistle emanated from Cindie’s lips, “Brandon won’t like that if he hears.”

“Well, since she was leaning over the railing and looked very close to going overboard I don’t expect he’ll be too upset. Snape pulled her back. I ‘d been going to say something myself but he had the situation well in hand.”

“Were you thwarted from doing your good deed for the day?” Mistral did not reply to this and simply leant back in his chair. Draining her glass Cindie turned thoughtful, “He has such an odd manner about him. . . those eyes. . . black and bleak, aren’t they?”

“Hmmmm, yes, I suppose they are.”

“But why would he be worried about being spied upon?”

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps industrial espionage with a chemistry project of his. We seem to have some of that going on ourselves.”

“That’s true enough. Still, he is rather …odd, isn’t he? Though he did seem very keen on Mary Anne’s shark.”

“Yes, he became quite animated when he discussed it. Even that had an odd quality to it …almost fanatical.” Mistral now picked up the untouched wine and swirled the glass absently.

“I do hope Mary Anne had her picture taken with her shark - that’s one for the scrapbook. I’d never heard of a porbeagle but the professor even knew the Latin name. I suppose that comes from being a scientist. ”

“I suppose it does. Mary Anne showed great skill and tenacity in landing that creature.”

“I’m afraid I’m not up for trying to catch anything that could turn around and eat me. I didn’t realize she’d actually landed one. I was too caught up in what was happening with George and Joya.”

There was a long quiet moment. Cindie leaned back in her chair and found her hand taken up by Mistral. She looked over at him. He was staring out over the railing at the water. It was a beautiful day, calm and clear, and yet so nearly had one of their number lost his life. It seemed incongruous, there shouldn’t be danger like that on such a fine afternoon.

“Shall we go for a walk around the ship?” She didn’t want to be still anymore.

“My dear, you have but to ask.” Standing, he offered his arm.

Cindie
Mary Anne, the F-word! This must be serious. . ., - Sunday, September 08, 2002 at 18:20:04 (PDT)

"Sometimes it's easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar." Sandy's words rang in his ears as George sipped the last of his drink. It was one of those statements that was true on the face of it - of course it was easier to catch anything with honey, just try to get something to stick with vinegar - but was probably also supposed to mean something profound. He pondered what it might be.

Flies were not pleasant things to have around, everyone knew that, so obviously it meant that if you were setting a trap for them, you should use sweet, sticky substances. That made sense - in a way. His brow furrowed. But why would anyone want to trap unpleasant things like flies? Wouldn't it be better just to shoo them away?

George shook his head. That was what he got for listening to advice from a woman - just more confusion. The way their minds worked was too much for him and always had been. Much better just to act on his feelings.

Of course his feelings were in a bit of a tangle at the moment, thanks to Joya's ridiculous response to his moderate and reasonable objection to her apparel. He'd thought he'd taken care of that little problem today by purchasing that dress. Not that he blamed her for falling into the water and probably ruining it; in hindsight, he should have waited until they were actually on board before springing it on her. Well, what was past was past. Now he had to get her back again.

He set his glass down and stood up. The other men halted their conversation and regarded him warily. He ignored them. They wouldn't understand - no one could possibly understand - the relationship between himself and Joya. It was far beyond most people's comprehension.

She wasn't in sight; probably down in one of the cabins getting into some real clothes. He frowned, wondering what she had packed. Even as he wondered, Joya came up the stairs and strode across the deck to one of the lounge chairs by the railing. To his relief, she was not wearing the tankini. A man's shirt hung loosely around her, the overlong sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the tails slapping in the breeze. He did not recognize the skirt that seemed to be a large colourful cloth wrapped sari-like around her hips and secured with a knot. After one quick glance in his direction, she pointedly averted her eyes.

He smiled grimly. So she would snub him, would she? The little minx had some lessons to learn in obedience. He trusted that he was a reasonable man but not a passive one. She would soon find out -

He stopped, his breath caught in his throat. Joya selected a chair and settled herself in it. Her magnificent legs stretched out to reveal elegant calves, slender ankles and almost ridiculously delicate feet. Not for the first time he wondered how such a tall, amazonian female could have such small perfect feet.

George looked around to see what other men had noticed. All seemed to be occupied with other women; he could detect no covert interest in any of them. His muscles relaxed, then tightened again when he saw a stranger just steps away, apparently staring at the horizon. At that moment the man turned and looked his way. For long moments they regarded each other with suspicion. The stranger almost seemed a caricature of himself, longish black hair and black wardrobe included. George wracked his memory. This must be the Snape person he'd heard some of the others mention.

The other spoke first. "Are you recovered from your ducking? The others were worried." He nodded across to Joya. "That one in particular."

A sense of grievance rose in George like bile. "'That one' not in particular, you mean. We're having a quarrel at the moment. She's a right witch, she is."

The man named Snape stared in amazement for a moment and then looked at Joya again. His eyes shone with an almost unholy radiance.

Magda
- Sunday, September 08, 2002 at 12:24:24 (PDT)

Well, i have no true story to tell, only that my heart belongs to Alan Rickman.... my age is only 13.
Jessica Swing <jswing8@comcast.net>
- Saturday, September 07, 2002 at 18:36:42 (PDT)

Laying in the shadows... waiting, watching its prey. And all seeing eye, but it cannot be seen. Invisible... master of disguise... playing his hand full of cards one by one, patience with his time, toying with other's minds... and he waits. And he watches. It's all just a game to him, a big game.

But he hates to lose.

But he will make his next strike soon, when all is caught unaware... they might gasp, even scream, and cry for mercy.

That sound would be music to his ears.

But for now he waits. He watches. He's ready. In the shadows... *********************************************************

Diane slowly made her way back up the stairs, slinging a towel over her shoulder. Jasmine had decided to stay downstairs, maybe check out the buffet line. She daintly pushed up, step by step, until rounding a right corner and coming back onto the main deck. She passed by a dark, black cloaked figure and Alex before coming out to the sundeck, but not without getting a few rather rude comments on the way.

She acknowledge the Colonel and Mary Anne politely with a nod of a oval head and then made left where we found Jamie all stretched out on a lawn chair, an inch of his belly showing. Surpressing a giggle, she sat down in an opposing chair and brought her soda that she had been carrying all the while to her lips. Jamie was as sound asleep as he could be, and she wished not to disturb such a peaceful slumber. So she rose again and left, but not without pecking his cheek slightly first.(Though it was cold to her lips.)

Diane was alone once more, and it made her frown to see everyone so happily aquainted but her. She felt like an outcast, a tag-along, a wanderer. Diane had always loved to be a leader. She was not meant to follow on the sidelines.

She went back to the bar, and sat down in the back, west table, drumming nails on the glass frame. After placing a simple order for another soda, she rested, setting chin in hands, and looked at the others groping about the place. Brandon and Mary Anne were still deep in conversation while Alexander and George were scowling at one another. Her, being absent for the whole scene of Joya and George, was now relieved that George had not gotten one of his legs bitten off or something- but then again, by the stories she had heard, he often deserved it. Sandy was no where to be found, which disappointed her, as she was lost for topics and Sandy could easily bring up any subject. It seemed the only character alone besides her was that arrogant tall black-haired man, whom she would very much be obliged to punch in his nose from the comments not too long ago he made.

Diane sighed in deeply, and stared at the staircase, wondering when Jasmine was to return. But even her old school friend seemed long, lost, and forgotten. What happened to their cheery greetings, friendly smiles, and continous laugh? It made her sick to think that all these years might have torn them apart after all- and she wondered if Jasmine felt the same.

Content for the moment but too shy to join any of the other couples tables, she waited to see if anyone came over to hers.

Then she perked up her head, eyes wide and alert. Someone was talking to Jamie, but, as she looked over, her eyes still a bit on the blurry side, she couldn't see who...
Diane <potions_masters_baby@snape-is.mine.nu>
Oh dear MA! At least you aren't TALKING to a fish! ;), - Saturday, September 07, 2002 at 13:42:27 (PDT)

On the yacht:

"Mary Anne, I hope you like-"

Brandon stops, takes a closer look, then sets down the icy glass beside Mary Anne’s deck chair. "Dearest, you’re shivering."

Mary Anne gives him a wan smile. "You know how I freeze to death all the time."

Brandon glances briefly at the punishing sun and then back at Mary Anne, who has scavenged an oversized towel from one of the deck chairs and wrapped it about her shoulders. "Even you could not ‘freeze to death’ in this heat. What is the matter?"

Mary Anne searches for a reply, but is saved the trouble when Brandon pulls up a chair and gives her a knowing look. "You must be tired. It was very hard work, fighting with that creature."

"Oh, but I couldn’t have done it without you, Christopher! You and Mistral and Dev helping me, that’s the only way I ever managed to land him. He would have been too strong for me by myself."

Brandon knits his brows. "But that heavy line, and that hook-you were trying to catch something big, I thought."

Mary Anne shakes her head. "Big, but not that big. Or that dangerous. It’s a wonder George and Joya are still here at all. I just wanted . . ."

"Wanted . . . ?"

Mary Anne ducks her head, bending to pick up her drink. It gives her something to do with her hands. "I just wanted to show I could do it, that’s all."

A wry smile from Brandon. "I am convinced."

"Good."

Mary Anne sips from the frosty-sweet drink Brandon has brought her, trying not to notice that he is watching her closely, waiting. Finally she turns and meets his gaze. "What?"

"Mary Anne, something tells me there’s more to this than wanting us to know you can fish."

"And if there is?"

Brandon’s voice is very low and still. "If there is-and if there’s anything troubling you-I would like to help. That’s all."

Mary Anne takes another gulp of her drink. "It’s silly. And worse, it’s petty. But-you know, when I liked Mistral’s shoes and he told me that my-" Mary Anne cannot help smiling a little, recalling the precise tone of voice. "--reputation as a fashion maven was still safe? Well, some people in the cast probably believe that all I know anything about is being a clotheshorse-"

Brandon smiles gently. "If you were to ask, I think you’d hear that they believe you dress well and enjoy it. You wouldn’t like it if they didn’t think that. Correct?"

Mary Anne grimaces. "Correct. It is nice that people think that."

"It is, indeed. And it is well-documented about the set that you are very proficient with languages-"

"Proficient." A noise that verges on a snort. "I manage fairly well in French, but to call what I do to German proficient--"

"Don’t interrupt me when I’m expounding on your virtues, my dearest. Proficient with languages-" A look, to be certain that he will not be interrupted-and Christopher Brandon the actor can be as stern with such a look as Christopher Brandon the Colonel could ever be. "Extremely well-read. Musical-"

Another of those low-pitched harumphing noises. Brandon does not allow this to deter him. "Beautiful with a sword in your hand-"

She has to laugh at that.

" Sweet-natured. Wanting people to be happy. Do you think that Dane has ever forgotten how you made him welcome on the set? If you knew anything about him you knew he had a reputation for being difficult, but that didn’t keep you from trying to make him feel at home."

Mary Anne shrugs. "He just looked so nervous when he was waiting on The Director, and I couldn’t let him sit there like that and not even speak to him." A sly grin. "Though I might not have been so quick to welcome him if I’d known he tried to murder poor Beaker!"

"He was driven to it," chuckles Brandon. "Let’s not hold that against him. Now, where were we?"

"I was hoping you’d forget." That full-on gaze, eyes wide. "Sir."

It is a game, a teasing game; Brandon knows this quite well but still finds it hard to resist. Mary Anne can look so demure when it suits her. Still . . . The shark never stood a chance.

Brandon clears his throat. "Don’t hold anything against Mistral, either."

"I wouldn’t dream of it," twinkles Mary Anne. "That’s really Cindie’s privilege, isn’t it?"

"I only meant-" splutters Brandon when he can stop laughing, "that I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. He was teasing a bit, but he was not making fun of you, Mary Anne."

"I know. I mean to speak with him about it, too, the first chance I get." A narrow-eyed smile. "But even so, torture and misery still await him."

"Ah, well. He would be surprised if it were any other way-and a little disappointed, I believe."

"Cindie is very lucky."

"So is Mistral."

Mary Anne looks up at Brandon. "And so am I. You left out the best point when you were holding forth on my virtues, you know: Loved by Christopher Brandon. At least, it’s the point I’m most grateful for."

An interval. The sunlight flashing from the water. The voices of their friends, echoes of laughter.

The insistent heat.

Mary Anne’s chill has passed, and she allows the towel to slide off her shoulders. "Time for some more bazillion and one-Christopher, what’s the matter?"

"How did that happen?"

Startled by Brandon’s frown and his obvious dismay, Mary Anne glances down at her bared arms-and then, seeing what Brandon sees, mutters an oath under her breath.

"Oh, fishsticks."

MA
Help! I'm swearing like a fish! ;-), - Friday, September 06, 2002 at 20:26:14 (PDT)

Anyone interested in reading a sequel to "Sense & Sensibility" based on the film and the novel? It may be too long to post here but could be e-mailed.
Lee
- Wednesday, September 04, 2002 at 13:04:46 (PDT)

Aboard the Party Yacht:

Alexander glanced in Sandy's direction, silently offering her some of the brandy. Sandy shook her head and mouthed, "Maybe later." He nodded and put the bottle down on the table after getting a polite refusal from Chris as well. He leaned back in the lounger and took a sip of the liquor, appreciating the smooth taste as it went down his throat and warmed his stomach.

George continued to sip at his drink with a pensive expression on his face. Alexander's eyebrow rose as he watched George's fingers lightly drum the snifter. He could visualize the wheels turning in the dark-haired man's mind - and it wasn't a pretty picture, to say the least. Hamlet caught his eye again and the two sighed. It was going to get very ugly indeed before things settled down.

Sandy leaned forward in her chair, gazing at George calmly. "Uh, George?"

George looked up from contemplating his drink, blinking in surprise. "What?"

Sandy rose to her feet and pulled her chair back. "Sometimes it's easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar, but that's just my opinion." She turned around and smiled down at Alexander, putting her hand on his shoulder for a moment. "Be right back. Need to freshen up a bit."

"Okay," Alexander returned the smile and watched as she walked towards the cabins.

"Dane," George's voice was a hoarse rasp.

"Yes?" Alexander turned around and saw that George was frowning fiercely at him. "What?"

"You allow your woman to say things like that?" George growled.

Your woman?! I guess that slap didn't knock some sense into you after all, Chris thought silently, sipping from her own drink. Hamlet also decided to keep silent at George's question, but rolled his eyes.

Alexander's lips quirked up at George's remark. "First of all, she's not - " He held up his hands and made air quotes with his index fingers. "- my woman in the sense that she's a possession. Second, I'd never stop her from saying what's on her mind. She'd tell me to stuff it where the sun doesn't shine, at any rate." Chris chuckled in agreement and he nodded in her direction. He picked up his snifter and took another sip of brandy. "Besides, I find it refreshing - and a challenge."

A challenge. That was something George could definitely identify with and his face brightened slightly as he took another sip of his drink. The three exchanged worried glances at this and Chris shook her head slightly.

Sandy made her way to the cabins, altering her course slightly when a crewmember hurried by, almost knocking her over. She acknowledged the crewmember's apology with a smile and happened to catch the gaze of a tall man dressed all in black scowling at her in disapproval. The smile faded from her lips and she had the strangest feeling that he was looking *through* her. Creepy, she thought with a slight feeling of unease. She shook her head and opened the door, descending the stairs that led to the cabins.

She took her sunglasses off and blinked a couple of times to allow her eyes to readjust to the lighting. She started walking down the hall towards her cabin. There was a slight click and she heard the turning of a doorknob. She stopped in the middle of the hall to allow the person to emerge from the cabin, wondering who it was. Just then, a tall figure nattily dressed in white linen emerged from the cabin and turned around to face her. Her eyes narrowed as Valmont's face broke into a decidedly predatory smile. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Sandra," he purred.

Sandy's heart sunk and she sighed. Damn.

Sandy
- Wednesday, September 04, 2002 at 07:40:12 (PDT)

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