Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Anton sipped at the steaming liquid served in lovely but serviceable china cups, looked across at her over the rim and blandly stated, “You ought to take some time for yourself while we are here.”

The words certainly sounded innocuous enough but left Cynthia on unfamiliar ground. She turned his statement over in her mind looking for a meaning beyond the obvious and ultimately decided to set it aside without comment. This was no holiday visit to see the Palace and gawk at its treasures.. They were going to monitor a trial - one which was high profile, high risk and highly scrutinized. One which would be well attended and given its predecessor’s outcome, well secured. Having decided that her employer was simply having a bit of fun, she smiled at him over her own cup, placed it on the table, leaned forward in her seat, and asked, “Why don’t you tell me something of these Brandons of yours? From what I understand they are going to be called to testify.”

Anton replaced his cup as well and sat back. As the table between them was cleared he adjusted his cuffs and regarded his traveling companion. It did not surprise him that she should disregard his comment. Their relationship was a close one, they spent hours, even days together, they knew each others’ minds better than anyone else, shared their thoughts without censor, but as intimate as it was Cynthia kept whatever part of her life that should have been personal to herself. Having recently reacquired his eldest son and along with him a new daughter and now the prospect of a grandchild, Anton was acutely aware of the balance he was still restoring to his life. Cynthia had added her voice in encouraging him to take the time to attend the wedding in Delaford, indeed, her presence had made it a far simpler matter than it might otherwise have been and he had extended his stay there without concern for his Glassworks. It seemed that should he wish to return the favour he had a task before him. “They are hardly my Brandons. Though they have long been friends of Hans and Renie.”

“Yes, I recall reading about them from the wedding.” At this point she was referring to the Nakatomi nuptials. She recalled that Mary Anne had said some lovely things but could no longer remember what they were. And then after… “But isn’t that when…”

“Ja.”

“Is that what they will be called to testify about?”

“I expect so.” Hans had told him of the events the Colonel had confided to him regarding the woman who was now Mrs. Brandon and whom he now counted among his friends. He did not know to what extent Mary Anne’s sojourn into the dark world of the Interrogator would be forced into the harsh light of public opinion, but he found himself reluctant to repeat her part in HIS escape and her subsequent actions, despite the fact they weren’t strictly hers. The snap decision not to divulge this information to his right hand discomfited him. Deciding he could rethink it later if he chose, he instead told her about Delaford, and more of its inhabitants and guests who had been there when he left.

Cynthia said little, listening to Anton speak on this part of his life, probing with a few well placed questions. Anton’s narrative wound to a close and he tipped his seat back and closed his eyes. Cynthia gazed out the window at the clouds below and her thoughts turned to her first flight on this very jet. She looked across at Anton, the lines of his face relaxed in repose, and smiled.

Cindie
Are we there yet?, - Friday, November 30, 2001 at 17:24:37 (PST)

They pulled up to the Gruber estate which was located near the company complex but on separate, private grounds. Gruber’s man had obviously been watching for them and the front doors were thrown open and staff carried down the suitcases of the Glasswork’s monarch. Anton himself emerged a moment later, still being brushed down by the over zealous valet, smiling and in seeming excellent spirits. His things were loaded and they proceeded to the airport.

Gruber settled himself into the leather next to his assistant, looked over at her and crinkled his eyes. To another it might have looked as though he was squinting at some small detail but Cynthia knew it for the smile and amusement it was.

“What?” she demanded without preamble.

“You are excited,” he replied mildly.

“Yes, I am - I’ve never seen the Empress in person.”

His mouth twitched. “My good woman, you’ve dined quite literally with kings and their counterparts and I’ve seen you put more than a few members of various royal families neatly in their place.”

“Yes, but Herr Gruber,” she only used his first name when they were alone, and even Dieter counted as not alone, “this is the Empress.” Her eyes shone. “Don’t worry though, by the time we reach the Palace I’ll put on my best air of condescending indifference.”

“Don’t do that. Unbridled enthusiasm suits you.” He looked complacently out the window as Cynthia started at his tone. “Tell me about the arrangements,” he continued, without missing a beat. She filled him in, giving him a thumbnail sketch of all that had transpired and been handled since his declaration of their departure yesterday. He merely nodded. The briefing was over by the time they reached the airport.

The town’s airport had the same classic lines as the architecture at the Glassworks complex and the length of its runways gave heed to the fact that this was not the first jet to grace its tarmac. The service, however, was personal, polite and prompt, a far cry from other modern facilities. When the car pulled up numerous baggage handlers appeared to take their things to the waiting plane. Cynthia noted that as usual Anton’s bags outnumbered her own and took care to point this out to him. He simply shrugged.

There were items for which Cynthia declined any assistance. Anton no longer attempted to be gentlemanly and let her lug the cases to the plane herself. They boarded immediately and took up their seats across from each other, buckling in automatically. The crew went through the obligatory safety procedures, the pilot spoke her piece and breakfast was served upon the table between them. It was over coffee that Anton gave Cynthia the biggest shock of their acquaintance.

Cindie
Wondering what's doing in the dungeon., - Friday, November 30, 2001 at 16:56:09 (PST)

Must be his magic wand.......
A Rickman Admirer
- Wednesday, November 28, 2001 at 14:41:45 (PST)

"Do you remember the first river crossing?" she began, wrapping the mug in her hands. "Before Fort Laramie."

Her companion's sharp intake of breath told Claire she had made a mistake in mentioning the Fort. It was not discussed on this wagon train how PL O'Hara's wife belonged to another man in the eyes of the law. Memories of the violent confrontations had merely been masked by the demands of trail life in the successive weeks.

"Dana I'm sorry .. " The spectre of Simon Jacks rose, almost a visable presence, between them.

"Go on. I'm fine. It's not something I have thought of in a while. You were saying ... the river crossing?" Only a close observer would have caught the tremor.

Claire ploughed on. Even the vision of Dana's husband was not enough to purge the watery nightmare she had forseen for the final journey down the Columbia River. Of rafts smashing into the hidden rocks, of being sucked under in one of the infamous whirlpool hazards.

The words wheezed as she tried to explain, her chest constricted as the water forced into her lungs, the silvery bubbles rose as she descended. It was too real, too recent that Sinclair had pulled her unconscious from the river.

"I cannot take this trip. You will have to leave me behind."

Claire
Aug/Sept 1998 FOF references, - Wednesday, November 28, 2001 at 14:36:44 (PST)

Looks like another fan has been Snaped below ... anyway on with the Gold Rush ... camera rolling.

Claire
- Wednesday, November 28, 2001 at 14:32:12 (PST)

Hello, Merci de m'envoyer un petit mot ou une photo dédicacée , j'aimerai avoir plus de renseignements sur vous big kiss
Solange VANCAUWEMBERGE <vancauwemberge@hotmail.com>
Hello alan, - Wednesday, November 28, 2001 at 10:10:17 (PST)

Gruber Glassworks Compound:

That next morning found Cynthia closing up her snug home in the Glassworks complex and leaving for another adventure with her boss and friend. Another sojourn on the Hansjet, for she knew that the Hansbank CEO would send only the original and most lavish of the jets for his father.

When she went to tell Anton to go home, he had asked her to join him for dinner. They ate at the Glassworks Cafeteria Annex, a misnomer for a very fine restaurant on the premises, and over after-dinner drinks he had updated her on the non-published portion of events concerning HIM as he had experienced them, including the search for Claudia, and as related by Hans. Cynthia could picture Anton astride his mount and had to shake the vision off in order to concentrate on his words. She had spent the rests of her evening reading the published accounts surrounding the man they called the Interrogator. It had made for a very unsettling bedtime story. Of course she had heard of HIM, who had not, but hadn’t realized how closely HIS organization and brushed the Gruber family and its friends. Unwilling to try to sleep with those as her last thoughts, she had then read up on the reign of the Empress and what to expect from Court. And Court.

The car was waiting for her, Dieter himself at the wheel. He insisted still on driving her, when it was clearly something he should delegate. She didn’t mind, it was the kind of familiar routine which she loved. He handed her into the car and then loaded her bags, and they made for Herr Gruber’s more stately residence. On the way there she considered her role in upcoming events. She had worked for Gruber Glassworks a few years now and had been Anton Gruber’s right hand for nearly a year. Although in her employer’s confidence to a greater extent than anyone else she had never met his son. Naturally she knew all about Hans Gruber, CEO of Hansbank. Some polite but discreet digging had yielded rumours of his less than pristine past, but here were no records of any illegal or questionable activities. Indeed, he had seemed to have successfully thwarted an attempt to sabotage the Hansbank and was instrumental in securing convictions of a number of fraudulent investors. She had been working for the company when the wedding had occurred at Nakatomi. It was shortly before that event that she and Anton had struck their current arrangement. He needed to devote attention to matters of family and she was ready made to step in and assist, leaving his conscience, and calendar, clear.

She understood why the junior Gruber did not wish to leave his …company, but knew also that he was cut from the same cloth as Anton. He would not be satisfied to simply know his father would be there. Hans Gruber would want to know exactly what was happening. That, she would see to. Anton would be in contact with his son, but the details of the proceedings would already be in Hans’ possession via her reports. It was a simple matter to arrange a secure channel through Colin. They would be in constant contact, the information would be transmitted promptly, and neither of their bosses would have to concern themselves with the details of how this was managed.

The last time Anton had been gone for an extended absence had been for the Brandon’s wedding. Cynthia had never met them, but Anton was clearly taken with these friends of his son which had become his friends as well. She was secretly grateful to them. She had been badgering her employer to take a vacation for months. When he had finally agreed to attend their wedding and stay on for a bit she had been glad of it. Events did not remain tranquil for long, but Anton had returned invigorated and in good spirits. He’d looked years younger and she told him so. Anton had startled her with a kiss on the cheek upon seeing her for the first time, an amazing display of emotion for the businessman. She chalked it up to contagious honeymoon fever and he had agreed that must be the cause.

Given all that had happened in her tenure as girl Friday to the senior Gruber, gearing up for this trip was, although not without its own particularities, no problem. What kept clutching at her mind was the reason for the trial. The papers had been full of HIM. HIS alleged crimes, the charges, the upcoming trial. The Empress herself was to preside over it. That in and of itself was newsworthy. But what struck Cynthia as she set out was the very personal connection. Anton knew these people. It wasn’t just news, it was real. She knew first hand just how real newsworthy events could be and she’d soon be in the middle of it. There was some trepidation mixed with the excitement.

Cindie
- Tuesday, November 27, 2001 at 16:18:39 (PST)

FOF set, Mary Anne’s cubicle:

Mary Anne is giggling. "Mistral, you are an absolute beast."

"I trust that age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety?" (homage)

"Oh, so it’s variety you want, is it?" Mary Anne rolls her eyes. "Very well. A beast, also a brute, and likewise a monster."

Mistral lifts one eyebrow with that excruciating precision that has left many a female viewer weak at the knees. "You shall tempt me to be all of those things and more, lying there displaying yourself in that enticing fashion."

"I am not displaying myself." Demurely. "Don’t you have enough to occupy you, without slandering a virtuous maiden?"

"Virtuous. Ha. You are looking forward to this every bit as much as I am, and you know it."

Mary Anne makes no attempt to deny it, grinning in anticipation at Mistral from the chaise where she has installed herself. Leaning back in the desk chair that he has appropriated, Mistral smiles appreciatively at her pseudo-seductive lounging posture, briefly imagining Cindie before him in that pose, relaxed in his presence, trading banter . . . Nectar, pure nectar . . .

"You’re right," she confesses, sitting up on the chaise and tucking her feet under her comfortably. "It will be good to work with you again. I’ve missed it."

"So have I."

A brief comment, but Mary Anne does not miss the compliment in it and glows with pleasure she does not bother to conceal, before tapping her script pages and blurting out, "So what is it with these two, anyway?"

"With our characters? Well, you wrote this material. If you do not know, then who does?"

"Oh, there are all sorts of explanations. The fans have a million of them. And part of it-" Quietly. "-is that you take the material I give you, and do more with it than I ever dreamed could be done."

"Thank you. Although-" Mistral frowns, leafing through his script. "-I have some reservations about this sequence . . ."

Mary Anne leans forward on her chaise to inspect the script that Mistral holds out for her. "So, what’s the problem?"

"It’s quite different from anything else I’ve done."

"That’s you," chuckles Mary Anne. "Always up for a challenge!"

"An acting challenge, yes. But this . . ."

"You’ll be fine, Mistral; you’ll be a natural. And you’ll have plenty of help. I’ll be right there the whole time." Teasing.

Without rising from his chair, Mistral gestures in the equivalent of a most courtly bow. "In that case, I need have no further worries. I know that I am in-" Again, that raised eyebrow. "-good hands."

"You can be such a dear, sometimes." Mary Anne matches him stare for stare. "But when the time comes, you had better be sitting on go and ready to do your scary face."

With no warning, Mistral’s voice drops into that low, insinuating register and the cubicle is black with the sudden shadow of HIM. "As always, Mary Anne, I am at your service." His eyes harden. "I have been . . . practicing."

MA--Magda, by all means, KEEP the romantic interludes!
Speaking of romantic interludes: sneaking off into a corner for champagne with Brandon. *clink* Happy Anniversary, Christopher . . . 8-), - Monday, November 26, 2001 at 20:21:02 (PST)

Magda-S: sorry if I misunderstood your comment. I wasn't annoyed, I just don't like to think of my stuff as porn (which is actually quite dehumanizing and anti-woman) and rather than have my stuff seen that way I was willing to just drop the intimate parts. Thanks for explaining and thank you for the kind words.
Magda
- Sunday, November 25, 2001 at 13:26:38 (PST)

Magda, don't you dare eliminate the romantic interludes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A Rickman Admirer
- Sunday, November 25, 2001 at 13:17:30 (PST)

Magda C, Sorry if my comments upset or annoyed you.Please carry on with the Journal absolutely brightens up my day when you post it.Of course it isnt porn but it is very romantic and sexy.
Magda <magdahorrocks@hotmail.com>
- Sunday, November 25, 2001 at 05:55:21 (PST)

Clarification: I didn't say I wouldn't keep writing the stories, I just said I'd eliminate the romantic interludes if their descriptions bothered people. But I will continue posting the story.

Laura: sorry about the long delays between episodes. Put it down to new job, finishing up two contracts, etc. But by next week I should be back to a weekly posting.

Barbara, RA, Laura and private emailers: thanks for the kind words. I shall endeavour to earn them.
Magda
- Sunday, November 25, 2001 at 05:26:34 (PST)

Magda, please don't stop writing your stories!!!!! Your George and Joya story is my absolute favorite!!!! In fact it drives me crazy waiting for each installment, I'm not very patient;-) You are an EXCELLENT story teller and I know I'm not the only one who thinks so. Thank you for sharing your talents with us!
Laura <ljyolo@yahoo.com>
in Yakima, WA USA, - Sunday, November 25, 2001 at 00:21:59 (PST)

Oh no, don't stop the Joya and George and Richard stories-if you don't want to read it {you know who you are, although I can't believe anyone could NOT want to read Magda's stories} then just scroll on by and let the rest of us enjoy the stories just the way they are......
A Magda in Canada Admirer
aka A Rickman Admirer, - Saturday, November 24, 2001 at 18:20:37 (PST)

Magda, creatrix of Joya and Richard ;)

It's not porn. Don't stop.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
*drool, drool, THUD!* as the Xenaphiles used to say..., - Saturday, November 24, 2001 at 18:00:46 (PST)

My story is not porn; it's not erotica or even erotic romance. I do not use explicit words or phrases and my description is limited to reactions, not narrative. However, if people are offended by it (not that I understand why), I will eliminate romantic interludes from subsequent postings.
Magda
- Saturday, November 24, 2001 at 16:38:12 (PST)

Magda, I thought it wasn't supposed to be porn.You are getting worse or better can't make up my mind
Magda <magdahorrocks@hotmail.com>
She is the only one with any control, - Saturday, November 24, 2001 at 14:36:49 (PST)

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

I shut the door and barred it against possible interruption. "What kind of game are they playing?"

"I don't know." Joya threw herself across the bed, causing her robes to billow like clouds around her. "It's possible they're telling the truth. They might not know that Will Scarlet is in the area."

Joya and I had known that we would not be left alone for long after our guests left the great hall. The door had eased open and the steward poked his nose around the edge to inform us that he was arranging for our guests to move into their assigned rooms. Voices shouted in the corridor behind him. Trunks and luggage would be banging around for a while. We needed to talk and this was not the place. Our eyes met and we agreed wordlessly: upstairs to our bedchamber where privacy was assured.

I cross the room to my chair in front of the fire. "Impossible. They must be sustaining him in the forest. How could Locksley, at least, not know?"

"Who knows?" She shrugged irritably. Her gown slipped down one shoulder; I shifted my chair to get a clear view. She didn't seem to notice. "We have more pressing matters to discuss."

"Like what?" My admiration was increasing; one tendril of her hair caressed her exposed neck and disappeared into her gown. The thought of where it was resting was having a powerful effect on me. I picked up my chair and moved it to the other side of the fire, closer to the bed.

"Like the fact that the united front we were supposed to show to King Richard has shattered before it was even formed." Joya sat up and dislodged her gown even more. "They cannot possibly be so naïve as to think that a simple request will count with the king. Not where his precious alliance is concerned. How I hate the very word!" She slammed her fist into the pillow to punctuate each word.

I was a little surprised. Joya didn't often indulge in histrionics. She was much more controlled than that. "Nothing surprises me where Locksley is concerned. His foolishness surpasses belief. Although I confess I had more respect for Marion's intelligence. It just goes to show what proximity to idiocy will do to even a keen intellect."

Joya looked across the room at me and there was no question she read my mind. We were right back where we started. If the Locksleys would not join with us, then the chances of being able to persuade the king and Count Godfrey to drop this wife swapping nonsense dwindled considerably. As annoying as it seemed, we had to persuade our unwelcome guests to accept our plans. Unity was our strong suit and we had to play it.

I reached down and tossed another stick onto the fire, sending red embers dancing up the chimney. The sight brought back another image to my mind: Will Scarlet. If they could not be persuaded by reason, perhaps they could be blackmailed. The knowledge that his bastard brother had assaulted me and my men would have a powerful effect on the king. Marion at least would appreciate that. Perhaps after the evening meal, it would be time for Leofric to be introduced to tell his story.

"George? What are you thinking about?"

I started and looked up. Joya was standing in front of me, a slight smile curving her lips. Her gown had slid halfway down both shoulders now and she only just prevented its further descent by taking a deep breath.

And holding it.

For several seconds.

A heat that did not come from the hearth began to burn deep inside of me.

"You're not thinking about Marion, are you?" With one graceful move, Joya crouched at my feet until she could look me in the eye. She set her hands on my knees to maintain her balance. "I was watching her today. She looked at you several times. I didn't like it."

"No?" It didn't come out as I intended. I licked my suddenly dry lips and tried again. "No? Why not?"

"Because she had no business doing it. Because she has her own man now." Joya's palms slid up my thighs and she leaned closer. "And because I don't share. Were you thinking about her?"

"Not for a moment." I was drowning in those huge blue eyes. "Not even for a second."

"Hmm." She rubbed her hands back and forth. My leather breaches were quite constricted. "Are you thinking about her now?"

"Who?" I dropped my head back against the chair and closed my eyes.

"You know, tonight we'll be in separate bedchambers. We have to observe the proprieties." The rustling sound of heavy fabric indicated that Joya was standing up. Her marvelous hands were climbing my torso to my shoulders, then sliding down my arms until she caught my hands in hers. She tugged hard and pulled me forward. "So we have only about five or six hours to indulge the improprieties."

Well, I'm all in favour of the improprieties, regardless of the time of day or night. I allowed myself to be pulled out of my chair and across to the bed. Fleetingly I wondered if Joya really was worried about Marion. It seemed incredible. My feelings at the moment had not been aroused by our guest in the other tower. They were based on feelings much closer to home. But surely Joya knew that already.

We made it there in seconds. Joya pulled me around so that I faced her and then pushed me back onto the bed with a hearty shove. I sank into the bed furs and slithered up the mattress until I reached the pillows. Then I lay back and watched as she yanked the silk ties off the bedposts. The urgent speed with which she moved sent flamed through me.

I turned my head to watch her fiddle with a stubborn knot on the last one. Something crackled demandingly in my ear. I lifted my head and looked. The corner of a folded parchment peaked out from under my pillow. I pulled it free and opened it.

It was short, succinct and very familiar. "Stay away from your wife, or she will die - this I promise you."

Magda
Barbara: is Joya still holding her breath after one week? What control that girl has!, - Saturday, November 24, 2001 at 12:27:49 (PST)

Outside the door of Mary Anne's cubicle:

"Good grief. I hope so too. Should we watch out for potential flying objects getting thrown our way?" Sandy murmured as they began to continue their progress down the hall.

"I think I'd be a bit concerned if Mistral comes crashing through the doorway and hits the wall all bloody and bruised," Alexander replied, eyebrow still raised.

"Ouch," Sandy blinked, picturing the image of Mistral crashing into the wall behind them. They exchanged grins when they heard the echo of Mary Anne's throaty giggle followed by the sibilant tones of, "If you want my opinion, I think that it would be more effective if you said it like thisssssss..." behind them.

"Well, that answers that question," Alexander mused, turning in the direction of the Egyptian Cave/River set.

"Well, they do say practice makes perfect," Sandy chuckled.

Alexander nodded in agreement. "True, very true in this business." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Did you bring it?"

"Yes, it's waiting in my cubicle for later on. Do you think they'll like it? I haven't made something like this in a while and I'm not positive that it's big enough," Sandy fretted.

"It'll be fine, love," Alexander reassured, putting his arm around her shoulders and squeezing her to him. She put her arm around his waist and returned the gesture. "You shouldn't worry so much."

"Can't help it. It's my job to worry about such things," Sandy replied with a small sigh.

Alexander laughed softly as they stopped in front of the huge double-doors that barred the entrance to the set. Annie opened one of the doors and cooed with a wicked wink, "Hi, you two!" Sandy's cheeks immediately turned pink as she raspberried her and Alexander rolled his eyes heavenward. Annie chuckled throatily and walked past them, beating a quick retreat down the hall.

"That woman is incorrigible, I swear!" Alexander grumbled as he folded his arms over his chest and glared daggers into the woman's back. Annie's chuckles continued to echo down the hallway as the two watched her turn the corner.

"Well, we all have to get our jollies somehow, I suppose," Sandy answered philosophically. "I'll be down later. Do you know when you'll be finished?"

Alexander stroked his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Not sure. It depends on how many re-takes we end up having to do. I can have one of the set guys call you, or I may be able to call you myself," he offered as he opened the door to the set.

Sandy nodded. "Great! See you later then. Have fun," she turned around, waved and began walking back to her work area. Alexander watched her for a moment before he walked inside the set and shut the door behind him to be made up for his next scene.

Sandy
- Friday, November 23, 2001 at 10:36:01 (PST)

Just stopping in quickly to say Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it. I'm saying thanks for having Alan, lol. I'll try to post soon it's been to long. Yet I still have to get over watching Dark Harbor, twice at that! Harry Potter tomorrow! Love ya all!
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Thursday, November 22, 2001 at 12:08:27 (PST)

FoF Set, a corner table in the lunchroom:

“I’ve got to get back to work.” Cindie returned her teacup to its saucer with a clatter.

“You’ve barely touched your tea.” Christopher Brandon didn’t tell her to remain, but his tone, mild as it was, was all that was needed and she found herself still in her seat. “I know, but I’ve got to figure out what to do on this new thread I’ve started, and then there’s the flashback scenes to come soon and the Director…”

Brandon’s voice put in firmly at this point, “…would not want you making yourself ill by taking too much upon yourself. Now,” he sat back in his chair and took a sip of the fragrant liquid, “enjoy your tea while its still hot and try one of these scones. They rival some of Miss M’s creations.” His eyes crinkled and Cindie couldn’t help smiling back at him.

“You’re a tough cookie, Christopher Brandon.”

“You surely mean biscuit, Miss Cindie.”

“I surely must.” She did as he suggested and bit into the fruit scone. It was delicious.

“I saw Anton earlier,” commented Brandon, pouring them another round of the double bergamot blend. “He seemed very pleased with the way things were going.”

“Oh really. That’s good to hear. It was nice of you to mention it.”

“Not at all.” He was chivalry itself down to the molecular level. It occured to her that he could probably give her some much needed advise but she really couldn’t take advantage of him like that, could she?

“Would you mind if I asked you some questions?” She could.

“Not at all,” he repeated. She took him at his word and it was sometime later that Cindie found herself much wiser in the ways of the world of working in front of the camera. The table at which they sat was a tribute to the experienced actor’s patience. What was left of their second pot of tea was now cold and the plates were littered with the remnants of scones and crumpets.

“Thank you doesn’t seem adequate.”

“I did not tell you anything you couldn’t have learned from another. And it was my pleasure, I assure you.”

“It must be late.” She looked around and realized that they had heard nothing of either Mistral or Mary Anne. “Do you thing they’re…”

“…still at it. Almost certainly.”

Cindie -- Careful MA, one of them is bound to want to tie the other hand.
Happy Thanksgiving you wonderful FoF comrades., - Thursday, November 22, 2001 at 11:01:06 (PST)

Been doing it since Flights of Fancy was born....but never quite capturing the true feeling of gratitude for the wonderful FOF family. Happy Thanksgiving, all.
Seems I'll always try, though!
R , - Thursday, November 22, 2001 at 08:16:43 (PST)

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody--giving thanks for my FOF family here, with B.O.S.H. (Big Ol' Squeezy Hugs) all around. 8-)

MA
Barbara and Claudia--when it comes to dealing with HIM, there's no such thing as too much practice. =8-O, - Thursday, November 22, 2001 at 07:24:42 (PST)

A performance… yes, they were giving him a performance all right. Rupert stood a few inches from the back of the mirror, watching them circling each other. They both had hands clasped behind their backs. A game… no touching. They would stop, one of them would lean forward and whisper in the other’s ear. The little knowing smile they each gave to the mirror, when facing it, was definitely for his benefit.

They were planning something. Rupert wondered if he’d been right to put Claudia in with HIM. No matter what he had told her, he had believed her heart was in the right place. Now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps her ernest efforts to tell all she knew, to explain her motives, had all been leading up to this moment, when at last she was alone with the Interrogator.

Rupert was more than a little worried. He was considering pulling the plug on this experiment. The problem was, if he called the guards to remove her, it would get back to the Empress that Claudia had been in that cell.

He didn’t know which would be worse - facing the Empress in a blazing temper, or facing her when she looked at him in cold silence. Perhaps he should have gone into the cell as well, far safer than the wrath of his sovereign, whichever guise it took.

They stopped moving. The plan completed. HE smiled at her and kissed her cheek.

“Not bad, not bad at all… better than I would have believed.” The Interrogator approved of the plan - he sounded surprised. Not so long ago he had dismissed her as fun, but with no imaginative intelligence. HE was revising that thought, for the moment. Rupert’s frown deepened.

“You’ve made great strides, it has strength, delicacy and feeling… you know, you really have talent.”

She laughed, and shot such a defiant glare at the mirror, before turning back to HIM. Rupert couldn’t look.
Claudia
I'd like to be in on those rehersals MA ;^D, - Wednesday, November 21, 2001 at 18:57:39 (PST)

HIM? gah, no!
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Pondering the fate of... the investigation..., - Wednesday, November 21, 2001 at 16:06:20 (PST)

Joya is never deliberately cruel. It's just that those leather vests and jackets are so tight and constricting.
Magda
- Wednesday, November 21, 2001 at 08:45:30 (PST)

Duplicate deleted.
Will HE do?
D.o.C.

D.o.C.

Please delete duplicate post.

Hanging head in shame...
Barbara the Wallpaperer
who really needs some time alone with Phil, poor dear..., - Tuesday, November 20, 2001 at 19:38:04 (PST)

Day Three of the Investigation

"Ah, there you are!"

The Director turned to see Detective Graff barrelling down at him down the corridor.

"Detective?" the Director asked.

"We wanted to let you know that we won't be here tomorrow."

A line etched between the Director's brows. "Not here?" "We have appointments at Solo Flights, and with the Grubers and Ms. Renie --"

Surprise. "They agreed?"

Amused surprise back. "Why not? They've nothing to hide, right?"

"Ah. Yes, rather." The Director brushed off the table top with a wisk of his fingers. "Well, the crew will be pleased."

Cool disdain. "They have been mostly helpful." Sardonic.

"We're a close-knit group; my people feel like this is an intrusion."

"Yes, we're the interfering outsiders, sir, determined to pull the playhouse down." Silvert pursed her lips. "Intrusive. Busybodies. No business here." Despite the adamantine intensity of her words, Silvert's voice remained soft. "Do you have any idea how bloody annoying it is to hear that every rotten, stinking day without fail?" she asked the Director. Graff shot his partner a look of astonishment.

"Silvert?" Graff asked.

She released a breath. "It's the outside of enough. Keep your people off our backs. We don't need this."

"I'll try." Warily, from the Director.

Graff nodded, solemn-faced at last. "See that you do, sir. We can't help you if you won't get out of the way."

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

A pair of eyes thoughtfully followed the retreating detectives. A hand reached for a phone.

"Halo. Ja. " A pause. Voice from the other end. A low rumble.

"JEG er bekymret om det Graff und Silvert." The low rumble changed. A lighter voice, fearful.

"Nei, han ville ikke endre tidsramme. La meg gjøre det."

A hand replaced the phone in its cradle. Time to go back to work. After all, there is much to do.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
MA -- how much practice do you need? :D, - Tuesday, November 20, 2001 at 19:36:38 (PST)

FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Three of the Investigation

"Would you come with me, Ms. -- how do you pronounce that?"

Joya looked down at the detective, his face tilted up curiously at her from the scrap of paper in his hand. She saw George sidle into the room, and turned her most blinding smile on the little detective, who was eye-level with her sternum. Then she did something deliberately cruel.

Joya inhaled.

Detective Graff flushed bright beet-red and cleared his throat. "Uhm, please follow me."

"Of course, Detective," she purred, watching George from the corner of her eye. Georgie was turning all kinds of fascinating colors -- she wondered how far down all those pretty colors went.

Joya smiled the smile of the cat with canary feathers in its mouth as she docily followed Detective Graff down the hall.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
See what I mean? Stubborn, too.... *gnashes teeth* *pulls hair*, - Tuesday, November 20, 2001 at 18:39:57 (PST)

FOF set. More from Mary Anne’s cubicle:

"Much better. Now that’s The Interrogator we all know."

A chuckle. "And love?"

"Well . . . some of us, perhaps, when we’re drugged, or terrorized, or blackmailed-"

"Flatterer. You’ll turn my head."

"You’ve something to be flattered about. You’ll scare the children, with that one."

"Scare the children, indeed. I’m almost scaring myself--"

A short time later:

"No, no, Mary Anne. Don’t hiss at me like that!"

Giggling. "Sorry. But it’s sssssupposed to be a sssssibilant line, Misssssstral."

"So it is. But you don’t want to sound like Cedric the Snake!"

Passing by outside in the corridor, Severus Snape breaks stride and scowls blackly at the closed door of Mary Anne’s cubicle. As if they couldn’t find something else to talk about . . . and at the sound of another outburst of laughter from behind the closed door, Snape moves on, muttering under his breath.

A bit later:

Claudia and Ed are passing by in time to overhear Mistral, as he urges, "Try this. Don’t you think it would inflame HIM more, if you read it this way?" An exchange of low-pitched, seductive murmuring, at which Ed leans down to whisper to Claudia, "Inflamed? I’d be bloody well incinerated."

Claudia bites her lip to keep from laughing too loudly. "Oh? Where’s your melting point?"

Ed gropes at his clothes as if searching. "I know I left it around here somewhere-" as he and Claudia manage to escape down the corridor without guffawing . . . at least, until they get around the corner.

And later still:

Dane and Sandy, just in time to hear Mary Anne’s voice rise in bitter, triumphant rage: "You failed! You’re soooooo good at what you do, but not this time, do you hear me, you FAILED!"

Sandy’s eyes widen in speechless amazement as she looks first at the door to Mary Anne’s cubicle, and then at Dane, who has come to a dead stop in the hallway, listening. After a moment, he raises an eyebrow and observes, "I do hope that is only a rehearsal . . ."

MA--looks as though Snape is still scowling.
Cindie--I can handle Mistral and HIM with one hand tied behind my back! (Yeah, right. *gulp*), - Tuesday, November 20, 2001 at 18:26:33 (PST)

Fruits and Berries? Poor Snapey, someone should feed him, if only he would stop scowling....
A Rickman Admirer
that robe can disguise a lot, not like the suits in Private Lives!, - Monday, November 19, 2001 at 12:08:46 (PST)

Accommodation House:

Severus Snape opened his eyes and was wide awake.
Startled, he sat up and surveyed his surroundings. Then he remembered where he was and why. Bitterness overcame him, but was quickly changed to hate and anger. He stood up and looked around in his new home. It wasn´t a dungeon, far from it, quite the contrary. A second floor flat with two rooms, a bed in one, a desk and a bookshelf in the other. A bathroom and - presumably - a kitchen. His bedroom had a glass door that opened onto a small balcony. He went over and looked out of the glass door. It was early in the morning. The Director yesterday had told him to come to his office at a certain time. Snape had no clock, but was sure that it was still way too early for that appointment.
The accommodation house was built in a U-style. His flat was in one of the uppper ends of the U. In the other side he could see another balcony, overgrown with greenery. The door was open and someone just stepped out on the balcony.
Snape remembered her: the doctor. She held a watering pot and poured water on the plants. And she was obviously talking to someone or something. Snape wondered: Muggles had no idea about invisibility and as far as he knew they had no talking plants either. Or singing ones, for that matter. But then he remembered that the herbology professor had also talked to plants, even to non-talking, non-understanding ones. He had stated that the plants grew better if being talked to. Snape sneered. As if the colleague had never heard of an Enlarging Charm or a Growing Potion!

Thoughtfully he looked at the balcony. It was full of plants, green ones like ivy and blooming ones. He remembered that he once read that muggles also used Growing Potions on their plants. Maybe she had a basic understanding of brewing potions. Within her limited abilities, of course. But maybe she could give him some information on muggle potions and how they worked. Maybe he could do some experimenting...
He would tell her he looked for a better Growing Potion. Muggles believed everything, especially plant-talkers.

The doctor had disappeared into her flat again and when she emerged again, she held a tray with breakfast on it. Snape noticed that he was hungry. He hadn´t eaten since yesterday noon. He decided to ignore the empty feeling in his stomach and go over to the... the... the house where they did Tee Fee. He´d forgotten the special word the muggles used for it. Maybe he could nose around a bit, check the gardens and woods for plants, not only for future potions, but also for breakfast. It was late summer, there should be fruits and berries somewhere.

He carefully pocketed the key and his wand and left.

Jutta
I haven´t forgotten about Snape, but I have a two-weeks countdown to my final exam. Snape will get extensive posts once it´s over!!, - Monday, November 19, 2001 at 08:48:50 (PST)

FoF Offices:

Mistral’s step had a bounce to it that was not entirely due to the success of his last bit of filming with Claudia. He was glad to be doing some work with her again. Certainly he had enjoyed the other challenges the role had brought him lately but was very pleased to have her to play off and was also looking forward to the next part of the scene. Now it was approaching the end of the day and he was beginning to allow his thoughts to turn to what he might do after work and with whom he might do it. Though he had been tempted, he had resisted going to her set today. She had insisted that it would make her more nervous but had agreed that he would watch her dailies and be honest with his opinion. As he threaded his way to his work space, he realized he was being hailed. Mary Anne was approaching and had called his name. He stopped and waited as she came up a side corridor, apparently headed to her own office. She had shed her thick woolen cloak and the traveling clothes of the Mistress of Delaford for slacks and a cashmere sweater. “Good afternoon, Mary Anne.”

Mary Anne had not missed his preoccupied reverie. She’d had to repeat his name three times before being able to penetrate its allure and the expression on his face, gone now, gave the only clue necessary as to its subject matter. Tabling any number of comments she instead brought up the topic which had caused her to tear him away from his thoughts in the first place. “Mistral. Good afternoon. Do you have some free time?” At his nod and enquiring look she continued, “It had occurred to me that we hadn’t worked together in some time and we have some scenes to plan out.”

“Ahhhh, yes.” His eyes glittered. “Confrontation.” The word came out in slow sonorous syllables that gave proof to his actor’s gift.

“We need to conference on how we’re going to approach it.”

“Then,” Mistral proffered his arm to his co-star, “let us conferrrrrrrrrence.”

She took his arm up and smiled at her enigmatic friend. Did he know how he was transformed when he thought of her? Perhaps just as well if he didn’t. If he was aware of how telling his expression was he might guard it even more closely. She gave him a saucy reply and they proceeded arm in arm down the hall to their machinations.

Sometime later Cindie neared the office in which the two actors were ensconced perfecting delivery and trading kudos and critiques and found Christopher Brandon coming towards her from the opposite direction. Upon seeing her he held a hand up to ward of her speech and she saw that he wore a broad grin. As he crossed the distance between them she understood the reason for his good humour. Wafting from behind the closed door she heard Mary Anne decry, “Oh, no, no. You’re not scaring me enough, Mistral!” Brandon’s grin widened and Cindie stifled a laugh. He joined her and they took a few steps back the way she’d come before Cindie asked in a hushed tone, “What on earth are they doing in there?”

Brandon’s eyes were slits as they crinkled in amusement. “They are practicing terrifying, enraging and generally abusing each other’s characters for their upcoming scenes.”

“Do they do this all the time?”

“Not lately, but its been awhile since they worked together.”

Cindie considered the last scenes in which they had appeared together and nodded. “Do you think they’ll be at it long?”

Brandon’s grin widened. “Yes.” There was a spate of noise and commotion from the office in question, “Most likely they’ll be at it for some time.” He took in Cindie’s expression of incredulity as the sounds of more ‘practice’ came spilling out. “Why don’t we go have a nice cup of tea?”

“All right.” Cindie nodded distractedly and allowed herself to be led away with a last disconcerted look over her shoulder at the closed door.

Cindie
MA-Welcome back. Mistral is waiting for you, and HE is with him. ;-D, - Sunday, November 18, 2001 at 06:40:37 (PST)

Gruber Glassworks, another office:

By the time Cynthia was in her own office she had made several mental lists which she began to work through. A quick call to her liaison at Hansbank served to confirm transportation arrangements. The jet would be there in the morning, fully equipped and staffed. In the same vein she contacted Colin, always ready with the latest in technological marvels. It was good to be able to work with Colin, she hardly ever thought about the past when they spoke now, but the past did remain strictly off topic. He wasn’t in, but she left a message for him explaining her needs. She could have contacted someone else, but she preferred to deal with him and knew he wouldn’t mind. By the time she was halfway through with her next mental list she’d heard back from him, everything would be aboard the jet and ready for them.

Next she contacted Anton’s man servant. Something of a Jeeves, Cynthia had only to say that they were to leave in the morning on a journey of unknown duration and knew that Anton would be packed up and ready to go before he arrived home tonight. A similar call to her own home ensured that she would be as well. Although in her case, she gave a few precise instructions as to what was to be packed.

She turned next to Anton’s calendar and the delicate matter of scheduling and rescheduling. This was a bit more problematic and she’d been mulling over the available options to certain situations as she’d dispatched the other problems. It was she who had set his schedule to begin with, a task she insisted not be delegated, and one she handled ruthlessly. No one saw Herr Gruber without her prior approval. Much of the business could be handling simply at the Palace with the communications equipment that Colin was rigging. A quick call to the Palace had secured their welcome, accommodations, and the needed access for their portable office. She had rung off from that call with the feeling that the friendly staffer had anticipated both her call and her requests.

More calls and two formal letters for Anton’s signature and she had things under control. The diplomat and the Emir had not posed a problem after some handling. His Royal Highness, was at first, vexed, after all, he had commissioned the sculpture based upon Herr Gruber’s personal involvement with the project. Cynthia made a few vague references to the reason for Herr Gruber’s sudden departure and the man was mollified with promises of the CEO’s continued, albeit long distance, involvement. Herr Gruber was hardly needed, the artist was already well underway with a stunning piece which was sure to fit in splendidly with the Emir’s vision for his Palace’s central courtyard. The representative from the environmental lobby she gave over to the phlegmatic but always reliable Deiter who would take him around the facilities. The Glassworks was scrupulous in its operations, exceeding all standards of the industry, and provided a huge boon to the local economy, was in fact the local economy. Lately, however, there had been a groundswell of local anti-glassworks politics. Cynthia had been in the Washington mix long enough to recognize the contrived concern, timed to correlate with the mayoral election of the nearby town. The problem was certain to resolve but in the meantime she engineered the tour Deiter would use. The news of where the CEO had gone would make any protests seem ungracious and feeble. It was also an easy matter to ensure that Herr Gruber’s public office was well stocked with the brandy of she knew this particular lobbyist was fond. Before his deep seated concern for the environment he lobbied for the electronics industry.

A few more calls and all was settled. She checked her watch. Time to shoo Herr Gruber home.

Cindie
Thank you for the kind words., - Sunday, November 18, 2001 at 06:16:43 (PST)

"I've brought coffee, but it smells like you have some on."

"It's fresh too." Claire stepped down from the back of the wagon, pushing hair from her eyes. "You're looking pale, Dana."

"I just need a few minute's rest and fresh air. Wanted to get out of that wagon."

Late morning sunlight fell softly on the two as they settled near the small fire. Dana winced slightly as she reached for the enamel cup of steaming black coffee.

Narrowed eyes missed nothing of her friend's state. The already slight frame had diminished even more in the past week and lines near mouth and eyes told all. Wisely Claire held her tongue on the subject. "The Wilson's sons found a honey tree. Would you like some cold biscuits with honey?"

Dana shook her head with a smile. "Are you ready for the river trip?"

It was Claire's turn for negative response. "I can't settle to anything today."

"Let's take a walk."

The welcome sound of Dana's laughter floated in the autumn air in response to a quizzically raised eyebrow from Claire.

Dana
- Saturday, November 17, 2001 at 14:10:27 (PST)

FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Three of the Investigation

"George Nott?"

George looked up -- but not that far up. He assessed the detective in front of him. Short. Bit of a hunch. Fragile. No threat.

"Yeeesssss?" He drew the word out in a bored hiss.

"Detective Graff. My partner and I would like a few moments of your time."

George scowled. Graff gave him a measuring look. "Shouldn't take more than a quarter-hour, Mr. Nott."

"Go ahead, George," Joya said. Her throaty voice held amusement. She smiled brilliantly, coquettishly, at Graff, whose eyes widened momentarily. "I promise I'll still be here when you get back. I'll be very safe." She looked up through her lashes at Graff, who stepped back abruptly. George frowned.

"Excellent idea, madame." Silvert's cool, sardonic voice. "We'll interview you after we finish with Mr. Nott."

George turned to meet a pair of icy blue eyes. Full lips. Thick hair. Curves. A badge. His breath caught in his lungs. A woman who knew how to use handcuffs. George grinned. I'm in love, he thought briefly. Then he caught Silvert and Joya exchanging formal nods, like a pair of duelists, and the blood drained from his face. His glance flicked down to Graff's.

The little weasel was enjoying this! Joya was going to ruin his life about this woman and the little -- George snarled. Joya leaned back into her elegant chair and waved a hand at the other three.

"You will bring him back, won't you?" she said, her lips set in a petulant pout. "I need him later." George's eyes narrowed; Joya continued as if she didn't see. "I have four more scenes to shoot before I leave today."

Silvert's lips curled up slightly at the ends. "We'll bring him back in the same --" a brief look "-- state he's leaving in."

"Do I have to be handcuffed?" George asked, too casually.

"No." The little detective scratched his jaw.

George tried to not look disappointed.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
George was recalitrant. Joya is worse...., - Saturday, November 17, 2001 at 12:08:20 (PST)

FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Three of the Investigation
Police Station
Evening of Day Three of the Investigation

"Christine A___. The horsewoman."

"We don't really have to worry about her, do we." Graff was not asking a question.

Silvert pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I suppose not." She thought back to the interview. "I found her a refreshing change from Mr. de Valera."

"Up front, wasn't she."

"Refreshingly." Dry appreciation.

Graff smiled, dreamily. "Tidy, too."

"Indeed?" Suspiciously, remembering the extra filing cabinet.

"Seems like a kind person, with that charity work."

"Yes..."

"Attractive, wasn't she?"

Silvert sighed. Sometimes, her partner was about as subtle as a smack upside the head. She rolled her eyes. "I suppose."

"Suppose?" Graff looked at her, askance. "I think she's one of most attractive women I've ever seen." He looked off into space a bit, a smile on his lips. "Lovely hair," he sighed.

Silvert did a quick mental reshuffle. She opened her mouth, then closed it. "Miles...?"

He looked over at her. "Hmmmm?" he sang.

A small line appeared between Silvert's brows. How to begin? she thought. "Never mind."
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Indeed, I do consider myself duly harrassed, Cindie -- thank you ;), - Saturday, November 17, 2001 at 08:33:38 (PST)

R, dearest, I wondered who would catch that first.

MA--*grinning back*
Yes, a very fine weave, like cashmere zocks. ;-), - Thursday, November 15, 2001 at 20:16:48 (PST)

The weaving is excellent; worthy of the Gruber crest, Cindie.
Was that the Reverend Slope side of the West Wood, MA?
R *wicked grin* , - Thursday, November 15, 2001 at 16:50:38 (PST)

Office of the CEO, Gruber Glassworks:

“When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow. We will take the Hansjet.”

“I’ll see to everything.”

“I know.”

Anton watched his assistant stand and brush down her pale yellow skirt. His assistant had authority to speak for him and as him. Along with the knowledge that he could rely on her absolutely their past experiences together had made this trust second nature. Usually when he made trips away from the Glassworks, Cynthia stayed to manage business affairs. This time he wanted her with him. As she nodded to him and left for her own office Anton realized that she had already discerned this and spoken in the plural.

Cynthia did not exit through the main door, by which she had first entered his office several years ago, but through a side door, not strictly concealed but which few would have noticed. He settled back in his chair and swiveled to look out the expansive window to the Glassworks’ grounds. He did not wonder that she did not ask for instructions or enquire as to his wishes on certain upcoming matters of some delicacy. Nor did he concern himself as to whether such matters would be handled appropriately. His thoughts instead turned to the telephone call he had just received and the past events it conjured.

Hans wished his father to be present at HIS trial. That Hans would not wish to leave his bride was, of course, understandable. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he wondered whether Renie would allow her husband to keep her cosseted or whether she would be charging to the trial. But then, he thought again of the child. Perhaps best for her not to be near HIM during this time. In considering his new daughter, Anton wondered, not for the first time, if this reconciliation with his much altered son would have been possible without her. His deep joy, no that was not too strong a word, at having Hans restored to him brought home the void that he’d lived with for too many years.

And now he was to attend to the trial of her first husband. A trial for HIS life.

Now that communion and communication had been restored between the two men, Anton was aware of events and how they concerned his son. He knew what HE had done to them most recently, or more correctly, had Claudia attempt to do to them. Claudia. A brave and foolish woman - was she lost to them? Anton glanced over at his desk. It was a fine piece, well crafted and, so Cynthia assured him, a rare find and procured at a bargain price approaching six figures. It was, however, not nearly so fine as the one which had been in its place. When he’d told Cynthia to have his prized prior desk shipped to Dr. Antonia DaMozzici and find him a replacement he thought she would blow the roof. She had managed to keep the building intact, however, and had seen to his treasure’s shipment and replacement personally. Her threats to saddle him with particle board and cheap veneer for the sin of parting with her favourite piece had been idle ones. His barbs that this was just the sort of thing he’d hired her to handle in the first place had not pricked her skin in the slightest.

Now he and his colleague were to be the eyes and ears and hands of the Grubers, present and future.

Cindie
They fly throught he air, with the greatest unease....
Homaging and weaving., - Wednesday, November 14, 2001 at 17:08:28 (PST)

In the Alliance transport:

Mary Anne sits up alertly and exchanges glances with Colonel Brandon as the transport abruptly leaves the main road. They have passed safely through Barton Village, drawing some curious glances and a few shouts from excited children, but now they are leaving their route and taking an obscure track . . .

. . . toward the West Wood.

Brandon is already out of his seat. "Commander?"

Unperturbed, Hudson returns his look. "It’s all right, Colonel. Please, do sit down."

After a moment, Brandon does so, though not without a look that demands a reply as Commander Hudson exchanges a few words with the driver and then returns to them.

"All of this," explains Hudson, "is a decoy. I’m certain no one is actually following us, though someone might be watching, to report our route. There is an identical transport back on the road, and it will proceed along the ground route. Anyone further down who is watching will have every reason to think it is this transport."

"Ground route?" inquires Mary Anne.

Hudson falls silent as the vehicle approaches the borders of the West Wood, and it is evident to Brandon that she is watching closely for signs of anything amiss. "Commander, we are not near The Interrogator’s location." It is not a question; nevertheless, Brandon clearly expects an answer, and when he does not receive one, he persists. "I should say, HIS former location."

Hudson knows quite well that Brandon knows this land far better than she does, and that there is far more to his inquiry than an assessment of the terrain. Seeing his attentive posture as he moves protectively closer to Mary Anne, and appraising the set of his jaw, Hudson finds herself wondering whether Mrs. Brandon knows how well-loved she is, and how well-protected. "No, we are not," she finally replies. "In fact, we are miles from it. This is the slope side of the Wood, and we’re hidden from any sight of the village, here."

Brandon nods. She is not telling him anything he does not know.

The transport enters the wood, winding slowly along the course that is hardly more than an obscure wagon-track, and not even that in some places: hardly more than a thinning of the bushes and smaller trees. However this passage came to be, it was not meant to call attention to itself.

"So," Hudson continues, as the vehicles forces its way down the narrow path. "We will not be seen when we leave here. And if we happen to be heard, well . . . people tell strange stories of the West Wood. This will be another, no more. I hope."

"Heard--?" asks Brandon, as the track abruptly widens-and ends in a wide clearing, open to the sky.

"Heard," responds Mary Anne dryly, with a glance at Hudson. "Ground route. I thought as much."

For there, in the clearing, sits a gathering of Alliance fighter copters, weaponry at the ready, but with the Alliance logo carefully obscured on each.

Brandon eyes the copters with disfavour. "I . . . see." He has no very fond memories of helicopters, not since The Interrogator had escaped in one and shot Mary Anne from it. And yes, a similar fleet of these copters had once rescued him and Mary Anne, but when he recalls why they had needed rescuing . . .

Brandon shakes his head. This is how they will be travelling, and he had best accustom himself to it.

"Travel will be much faster this way," explains Hudson as they exit the transport, "and that makes it safer. The sooner we can get you to the Palace, the better. And we have security scramblers in place, so we will not show on radar-"

All of this runs off of Brandon like so much water off his substantial greatcoat, the one he is wearing now. With the look of a man who is out of his depth, but stubborn to endure what must be endured, he assists Mary Anne into the copter indicated by Hudson and takes his seat next to her, while one of the pilots attends to the safety harnesses and buckles them in. "Hope you’ve packed warm things," offers the pilot. "The Palace is a good way further north, you know."

Mary Anne nods, wrapping herself more closely in her cloak, and Brandon draws her closer, adjusting his greatcoat so that she is partially draped in that, as well. "It will be all right, my dearest," asserts Brandon, as much for himself as for his wife.

"I know," replies Mary Anne, as Hudson signals the pilot and, with a clapping roar of rotors, the helicopters lift from the clearing and take to the sky.

MA
Ladies and gentlemen, in the center ring--The Flying Brandons! :-), - Wednesday, November 14, 2001 at 05:59:36 (PST)

Office of the CEO, Hansbank:

A perfectly manicured index finger tapped the receiver of the telephone. Yes, this is the best course of action. Action had to be taken, but in this case, it was best to leave it in the hands of someone else. But, as in all matters of extreme importance, family was the first choice. The finger ceased its tapping and the hand, revealing an equally elegant wrist and additional digits, picked up the receiver with precision. Now the index finger from the other hand pressed the single button which he knew was the answer to this little dilemma. At precisely this moment the private line of the CEO of another multi-national company rang and was picked up instantly. “Ja.”

“Vater. Ich muß Sie bitten, etwas, für die Familie zu tun.” The clipped tones of Hans Anton Neitzche Dellbrook Gruber began without preamble.

“You wish me to go to the trial.” His father, Anton Gruber, had been expecting this call.

“Yes. I cannot, do not wish to, leave her right now.” His gaze flicked to Renie’s portrait, her green flecked eyes pulling him to her even now.

“Of course not, nor should you. I will go.”

Hans Gruber recalled a promise he had made, not long ago, to his friend Mary Anne, a promise he looked at with some diffidence. To spare HIM as far as honour would allow. Well, his father had made no such promise. “I will send one of the jets.”

“Good.” Goot. Both receivers simultaneously replaced in their cradles. Though a brief conversation, terse by most familial standards, for this father and son who had been estranged for so many years, it was all that was required.

Hans had entrusted Anton with the keeping of his, as yet, unborn child.

Anton leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. He looked over at the only person in front of whom he would have picked up that private line and not summarily have dismissed from the room.

The woman returned his steady gaze. “My German is improved to the point that I gather we are going to be attending HIS trial? At the Palace?”

“Ja.”

“I’ll make the arrangements.”

Anton nodded.

Cindie
"It takes more than a cute royal virgin to raise my drawbridge these days." -- A classic. , - Monday, November 12, 2001 at 18:57:12 (PST)

Here the trail ended at the mission outpost, even this late in the season demand for the ferryboats entailed several days wait. But knowing the journey's end was but a 100 miles spurred the small wagon encampment into a frenzy of activity.

O'Hara wrinkled his nose at the prospect of sealing the wagon for the last time with the foul smelling brew. He would determine the last possible moment for its application, its toxicity ate into his dreams, disturbing the comfort afforded by wagon.

Comfort was a relative term for a man who had spent several nights crushed between a trunk or two and the cot. Yet sleeping under the stars had been unthinkable in the few days since the cougar attack. For PL, stretching his limbs to ease away the cramp, recognised he had never felt closer to the little lady who seemed to run his life. Their harmony of expectation for the end of the trail gave him a sense of immense satisfaction.

Absentmindedly O'Hara rechecked the oxen hooves, while far away in his mind he constructed their home, by the same creek in the lush of the Oregan valley.

Meanwhile such dreams of domestic bliss were not shared by all, for Claire had woken following a presentiment .

Claire
Great word that .. homage Private Lives!, - Monday, November 12, 2001 at 14:29:52 (PST)

Delaford. Scenes from a departure:

Colonel Brandon, calmer now, and resolute after his talk with Edward Ferrars. He has his fears, and they are real. But one look at his wife, at her pale face framed by the fur trimming of her hood, and his heart melts with protective tenderness. That face, so exquisite to him, is neither tearful nor openly afraid, but set in that look he knows so well: that flashing eye, the defiant lift of the chin.

Farewells. To the staff, especially Miss MacLeod who-in a shocking breach of decorum, for her-takes Mary Anne’s hand in her own strong ones, with a low-voiced exhortation to "send yon foul divvil t’ th’ Sea Cat!"

Goodbyes to Therese, who promises faithfully that Nox and the horses will not be lonely. To Nox himself, who, as it dawns on him that he will not be allowed to accompany his master, adopts the stricken look that is the downfall of dog-lovers the world over, which calls Brandon back to him for a few more pats. Braced up by a lengthy ear-rub and yet another hug from Mary Anne, Nox becomes almost cheerful, though still giving voice to the occasional inquiring whimper.

A grave exchange of handshakes and good byes between Colonel Brandon and Eamon de Valera-who, when asked if he has any message to send to the Palace, hesitates for a moment and then sombrely replies that he has no message . . . at this time.

Bags loaded onto the Alliance transport vehicle. Brandon notes with pride and pleasure that his wife appears to have handled this side of things very efficiently. There is no more baggage than there should be, and less than there might have been.

Feeling her husband’s gaze upon her, Mary Anne turns and smiles at him as he is assisting her into the transport, a smile that moves him even more than her tears might do, for she is trying-how she is trying-to carry her share and be a partner for him.

He sees and understands, and lifts her fingers to his lips.

Slammed doors. The click of locks.

To the Palace, at last.

MA--look out, Interrogator, here she comes!!
Is The Empress ready to receive? ;-), - Sunday, November 11, 2001 at 14:46:49 (PST)

Some inspiration - new painting up at Solo Flights from Private Lives.
Claudia
- Sunday, November 11, 2001 at 11:29:40 (PST)

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

"Good heavens, Lord Locksley." Joya folded the note with great care and handed it back to him. "Someone in your manor has been playing nasty tricks on you."

"Yes." Locksley replaced the note in his tunic. "And what I want to know is whether your husband bribed one of my servants or placed some henchman of his own in my manor."

Joya frowned. "I am afraid that I don't quite follow you, my lord. Are you saying that you believe my husband was behind this incident?"

"Please, Lady Joya." He rolled his eyes and assumed an exaggeratedly courteous tone. "Your wifely loyalty is to be commended but surely we both know - nay, we all know - who did it. Only the Sheriff of Nottingham could have come up with such a foul jape as this. I knew it the moment I saw it."

Locksley leaned forward to glare at me, his voice suddenly throbbing with anger. "Yes, the moment I saw it I knew that you were behind it. And may I say I wasn't surprised? You learned nothing from the drubbing I gave you last year. You didn't appreciate your luck when the king forgave your treason. You weren't satisfied with keeping your lands and title. You couldn't be content with the noble wife the king gave you."

Marion reached over to touch his sleeve but Locksley shrugged her off. "No, all of that wasn't good enough for the man with the audacity to make a grab for the very throne itself."

I knew that once he got going, Locksley could carry on in this vein for hours. In matters of breath control he had no equal. So I inserted myself into the conversation before he got really personal. "I suppose it would be useless to say that I had nothing to with that note but I will say it anyway, just for the record."

"Ha!" Locksley snorted with contempt. Marion clutched his sleeve again and shook it slightly. He glanced at her briefly, then looked away.

She turned to us, keeping her grip on his arm. "You must appreciate our position, Lady Joya. It was not that long ago that your husband tried to marry me by force and was prevented from doing so only by my dear Robin. The king has ordained that episode now behind us and asked us to forget the past. We are willing to do so. And we admit that Lord Nottingham has not given us any reason to fear a resumption of past trouble since his return and his marriage to you.

"But," Marion leaned forward earnestly. "But you can understand that this incident has shaken us, Lady Joya. Coming right after the amazing news from the king about our marriage, we could only assume that the two were related. And since only Lord Nottingham would benefit from this -"

"Excuse me, Lady Marion," Joya asked in a tone of voice that would have made me wary had she been addressing me. "But how exactly is it only Lord Nottingham who benefits?"

"Why, he gets to marry me, as he's always wanted." Marion responded innocently.

I will concede that based on past history, Marion was fully justified in her view. After all, she'd been the most beautiful woman around for miles, she was wealthy and she was a member of the royal family: a most attractive combination. But my tastes have evolved after twelve months in Joya's bed. It takes more than a cute royal virgin to raise my drawbridge these days.

Had Joya been thinking clearly, she would have taken all of that into account. But her cheeks were flushed beyond their usual delicate pink and the sparkle in her eye was visible even in profile. I curled my fingers around the arms of my chair and tried to think how to change the subject.

To my surprise, Locksley also seemed to realize that an intervention was necessary. "Discussions of benefits are meaningless right now except for determining who wrote this note. If there is anyone else who might have done it, I would certainly like to know who it might be."

Before Joya or Marion could speak, I jumped in. "How was the note delivered to you?"

"It wasn't delivered. I found it in my bedchamber." He frowned. "On the floor, actually. Just beside the door that connects my chamber with Marion's. It was folded just like it is now."

"Indeed." It was my turn to frown; it certainly sounded like someone inside the manor had done it. And of course it was entirely reasonable to suppose I had arranged it. It would not be easy to pry the Locksleys away from this theory.

Joya had regained control. "But surely, Lord Locksley, you cannot believe that George had the note left for you. By your own reasoning, if he wants to marry Marion, he doesn't want her to die. Yet that note says that if you don't stay away from her, she is the one who will die. That doesn't make any sense."

"No, it doesn't." Locksley hesitated, exchanging quick glances with Marion before responding. "And it is confusing. But we can only assume that it was a cunning ploy to throw us off track."

"Well, perhaps." Joya negated the agreement with a shake of her head. "But until you've exhausted the possibilities inside your manor, I don't think we should raise this matter in front of the king and Count Godfrey. I might lead to - more confusion, shall we say - when we should be a united front on another matter."

Marion jumped in. "You are so right, Lady Joya. This marriage business is of paramount importance. As long as there are no more threatening notes left around for us to find" (she shot a significant look at me) "then I see no reason not to concentrate on persuading the king to drop his plans."

"We are in complete agreement, Lady Marion." Joya smiled in approval. "And George and I have come up with some ideas, if you would be interested in hearing them?"

Marion nodded, and after a sharp jab of her elbow, so did Locksley.

"Well, then." Joya glanced at me. "Here they are." She described her idea about petitioning the bishops and my idea about arranging an accident for Abelard. The Locksleys listened impassively. It seemed to me that they didn't care for either of them. I couldn't wait to hear what they had come up with on their own. It was probably less than spectacular.

Joya wound up her descriptions. "And while the latter idea would be strictly a last resort, I do think the very real obstacles involved in canvassing the clergy would soon have both King Richard and Count Godfrey searching for another solution. What do you think?"

"I see." Locksley frowned again. "So we have a choice between bribery and murder. How honourable. How noble. How typical of the Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham. When has he ever gone about anything in a straightforward, upright manner?"

"There is no reason to-" Joya began.

"I beg your pardon, madame, but there is every reason to avoid such duplicitous actions. Marion and I have spent days discussing this issue and we have come to the same decision. The only way to approach King Richard and Count Godfrey is to explain to them the deep love we have for each other and to throw ourselves at their mercy. They are bound by the rules of chivalry, feudalism and common decency to agree with us."

"I see." I examined my fingernails with exaggerated care. "Would these be the same rules of chivalry, feudalism and common decency that allowed King Richard to leave you and Marion's brother Peter in a Saracen dungeon for three years without making any effort to get you out?"

"I - You can't compare - I mean," Locksley looked bewildered for a moment. "That's not a fair comparison. King Richard was - busy. This time we will have his undivided attention."

"I see." I repeated, careful to keep any inflection of doubt from my voice.

Locksley stood up and reaching down for his wife's hand, pulled her to her feet. "As it is the king's command that we all stay in this castle together, we have brought our luggage and a few retainers with us. If this conversation is finished, we will find the steward and go to our rooms."

Joya nodded. "Of course, Lord Locksley. Pray make yourselves at home. We dine tonight in the great hall on roast venison but if you would be more comfortable eating in private, it can be arranged."

"I thank you, but we will not put your servants to the extra trouble." They paused at the door, he to bow formally and Marion to nod. His frown twisted into a sneer. "Should Lord Nottingham wish to dine alone however, we would not miss his company."

Stung, I called after them. "Nor would I miss yours, Locksley, nor that of your bastard brother. I would just as soon not see him at my table either."

The door opened again and Marion stuck her head around the edge. "You will not have to see him for a few days and when you do I am afraid you will have to tolerate it. Will has been at court since Eastertide and will arrive in a few days with the king. We look forward to seeing him again after so long away."

The door shut with a muffled thud. Joya and I looked at each other in surprise. Most interesting, indeed.

Magda
- Sunday, November 11, 2001 at 07:35:58 (PST)

Cool Site. Wish there were more like this one on the Net.
Ron Reisebericht
- Saturday, November 10, 2001 at 14:50:19 (PST)

Compelling reading as ever! It almost makes me want to join in too. I've been toying with the idea for a while so, just out of interest what characters are still remaining?

On another note, I'm off to see The philosopher's Stone this evening, I've heard from people it's supposed to be excellent, I hope I'm not dissapointed.
Sarah
I'm not excited really, honest! ;), - Saturday, November 10, 2001 at 09:11:48 (PST)

FLASHBACK to early morning, Chris’ cubicle:

“I believe you were interrogating me,” Chris responded equably, with a twinkle in her eye. She smiled winningly at the investigators, just as an audible bubbling could be heard and a small electric kettle on her desk went ‘click’. She turned towards it. “You don’t mind if I make myself a cup of tea, do you?” she asked as she started to put loose tea from a small container into a tea strainer. “I haven’t had my morning caffeine fix, and I’ll be useless until I get that into me, so it’s as much for your benefit as mine! I think I have enough water, if either of you would like some as well,” she offered, putting the tea strainer into the mug by her arm.

As both the investigators demurred, she poured the water from the kettle through the strainer into the mug. Silvert studied the mug while she finished off, emptying the used tea leaves into a tissue and putting it into the waste bin under her desk before putting the strainer into a small plastic cup to one side to dry off. The mug was white with a green border at the top, and said ‘The ILPH is working’ with a black horse’s head above the text. Chris caught the look, and looked down at the mug herself. “Ah, I almost forgot which one I have here,” she said with a laugh. “This is my favorite charity, the International League for the Protection of Horses. They rescue abused and unwanted horses all over Great Britain, and are working to abolish all sorts of cruel practices abroad.”

Silvert scribbled something in the ever-present notebook, and Chris looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Okay, I’m curious, how on Earth could you have got anything out of what I just said worth writing down? Oh, please, sit down, both of you,” she added as an afterthought, pointing to the two chairs. Graff sat down immediately, but Silvert stood and looked at her chair with amusement on her face. Chris looked again at the chair, and hurriedly removed the multitude of files piled on it. “Sorry about that,” she said with a laugh, “I’d forgotten that’s my extra filing cabinet!”

Finally, they were all sitting comfortably. Chris sipped her tea. “Now then, I’m sure I was asking you how my support of some charities was worth writing down,” she pointed out. Silvert looked down at her notes. The silence that followed was almost audible, and Chris looked from one detective to the other in disbelief. “Oh come on,” she said. “You’re not seriously going to run with this ‘we ask the questions’ routine? You’ll find me more than accommodating most of the time, but that does involve some give and take, you know? Give me a break!” She took another sip of her tea, sat back, and waited.

The two of them seemed to be sizing her up, and she met each gaze in turn, unflinchingly. Finally, Silvert clearly relaxed. “Well, we are looking at motives, and lack of money could be a motive. Therefore, your high charity expenditure could be of interest.”

She really couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud. She’d tried so hard not to, but this was just too bizarre for words. The two detectives frowned.

“Look,” she began, trying to stifle the giggles. “I give to charity because I want to, not because I have to. If I were in dire straits financially, I would probably stop, or at least reduce my contributions. Therefore, that is as ridiculous as it sounds, and not worth the paper it’s written on. However,” she said with a magnanimous smile, “be my guest and write down what you wish. Just try to keep a perspective on it, okay?” She giggled again, and had a sip of tea to settle down again. Silvert frowned slightly, and Graff, glancing at his partner first, picked up her unsaid thoughts. “This may seem a strange motive to you, ma’am, but I assure you, we’ve seen stranger motives. Everyone is different, and their desires and motives in life are all different. Why, just last month, we had the weirdest case…” He caught the look of intense dislike from Silvert, and stopped mid-sentence. He looked a little sheepish, and mumbled something unintelligible. Silvert turned her frown to Chris. “Why don’t you let us decide what is important and what isn’t, miss A___? We are professionals, after all, and we do occasionally know what we’re looking at.” Chris simply nodded gracefully, shrugged her shoulders and took another sip of tea.

“Now then, let’s go into your working relationships,” Silvert continued smoothly. “How well do you know Hamlet?” Chris blushed slightly, and looked down at her tea mug, remembering what Hamlet had clarified earlier in the conversation with the detectives. “Well, Hamlet was my first choice for my series, as soon as The Director showed me some clips of his work. I was very fortunate that he agreed to do it. As an unknown writer, he could just as well have turned me down! I was then umm, convinced to take the leading lady part, when my original leading lady had a bit of an accident, and so I’m doing what several of the others are doing and starring in my own show! It makes writing easier at times, because I know more about what happens on screen, but at the same time, finding the time and the energy is hard at times. Hamlet and I work well together, we have achieved an amazing rapport in such a short time, and he helps me with my scripts at times as well. I’ve met his wife, and he’s met my partner. His wife is a bit of the jealous sort, but she knows that I’m not a threat, and has warmed to me. We have met up a couple of times outside of work, just the four of us. I like Hamlet a lot, as a friend, and he has supported me a lot with work, as he’s done an awful lot more of this than I have.” She concluded the sentence with another sip of tea, and glanced at Silvert to see whether more detail was required. Silvert was frowning again, scribbling away furiously. Chris sat patiently as she finished, studying Graff in the meantime. The detective was looking at her poster, apparently engrossed, but she wasn’t deceived. She was sure he was listening intently and taking in far more than she could imagine.

As Silvert finished scribbling, he turned back to Chris. “Do you know any of the other cast members outside work?” Chris smiled for a second. “Well, I’ve known Sandy for several years. She and I used to work together at my old job, although on different sides of the pond.” She saw both of them flinch when she mentioned Sandy’s name, and remembered the stories she’d heard of their interview with her friend and Alex. “She’s really not a bad sort, you know! She just has a really quirky sense of humor, and it’s one that takes some getting used to. You know she counts Michael Palin and Eric Idle as her muses? This explains a lot…”

“Hmm, well, that’s not what we’re here to discuss, although it’s very nice to see you are loyal to your friends,” Silvert interjected. Chris shrugged her shoulders and smiled again. “I just don’t like you to have the wrong idea about her,” she responded. “We all have different types of humor.” Graff nodded earnestly as Silvert finished off yet more scribbling. The routine questions about where she’d been and what she’d done went on for another few minutes, but as she’d actually been away during the thefts, there wasn’t much they could go through, and the interview finally terminated. As the two detectives rose, Chris stood to shake hands with them.

“I know you’re having a few problems with the people here,” she began. Silvert raised one eyebrow in surprise. “This may be hard for you to believe, but most of them aren’t being deliberate obstructive. We have our own lives and work, and most of us work very hard, sometimes doing double or even triple tasks. We are also a very close-knit team, and we’re all pretty certain that it couldn’t have been any of our friends. The idea that it might be is a bit worrying to some people, and that along with the disturbance to our schedules-albeit a necessary one, makes people antsy. We’re just used to doing things our own way.” Silvert looked at her, holding her gaze for a moment, before replying in a cold voice. “We also have our own way of working, and what far too many people seem to have forgotten is that we are the good guys. We’re trying to solve this mystery, not wreak havoc.

Chris finished shaking Silvert’s hand, having nothing more to say on the matter, but added, “Please come back if you’ve forgotten anything, but don’t count on me being in my cubicle! We’ve got a scene this afternoon.” She turned to Graff, who offered his hand quickly. “We’ll keep that in mind, Miss A___. Thank you for your co-operation,” he replied as they shook hands.

Moments later, her cubicle back to normal, Chris turned back to her scripts and started typing away furiously.
Chris (and Barbara) <why1040@aol.com>
Well, here it is, finally...sorry about the delay, there have been...interruptions!, - Thursday, November 08, 2001 at 01:42:01 (PST)

Blindfolded. Some choice. Rupert had told her it was for her own safety. If she didn’t know where the door was, the Interrogator wouldn’t try to get the information from her. A cool breeze as she entered the tunnel briefly again. She shivered, goosebumps raising on her arms. It wasn’t just the cold. She was in over her head, and had deliberately chosen drowning over running away. Full immersion in her fear. It was a character flaw she’d identified before, but now it seemed all the more overwhelming. Perhaps not a flaw, but a survival technique. Give yourself over completely to the fear - float free. Then you either discover something new about yourself, gain a higher level of consciousness, or you drown in it.

“What’s this, a visitor?”

Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed the change in the flow of air around her. She was now standing in the Interrogator’s cell. And of course the videotape wouldn’t be working. A torturer rarely taped the act of torture, just in case HIS circumstances changed - the evidence couldn’t be used against HIM later. How much did she trust Rupert, watching from behind the mirror, to act if the situation warranted it? How much of these “technical difficulties” were due to Rupert’s desire to keep the Empress in the dark?

She could hear HIM pacing around her, ever-decreasing circles, coming in closer… “My, what have you done to upset the Empress?”

HE stopped, standing directly in front of her. So close she could feel HIS breath on her face. “So… they want a performance?” HE sounded amused. “Shall we give it to them?”

She leant forwards, until she felt her cheek brushing HIS, and her lips touched HIS ear. She whispered, and stood back up straight. HIS short bark of “Ha!” was total surprise. HE reached for her blindfold, and pulled if free. She held HIS gaze, a wicked glint in her eye, not even blinking at the sudden light. “Perhaps I was a little harsh earlier,” HE gave her.

She realised her back was to the mirror, and Rupert would have no idea what had just passed between them. The corner of her mouth lifted in a smile.
Claudia
RA: I have no idea what you mean ;^D, - Wednesday, November 07, 2001 at 18:57:47 (PST)

Cindie’s flat:

. . . Her feet, clad in the most bizarre footwear he’d ever seen. He extended an arm and index finger straight at them. “Pray tell, what beast gave its life to create those? He nearly staggered with his own amusement.

Following the direction of his pointing finger Cindie regarded her quite serviceable pink fuzzy slippers. “What?” She challenged. “They’re warm and extremely comfortable.”

“Are they supposed to be …bunnies?” the last syllables came out in a bark of laughter.

“Yes,” was Cindie’s stately reply as she pulled herself up to stand as tall has her short stature would allow.

At her attempted hauteur Mistral dissolved completely into howls of mirth. Waves and waves of it. She glared at him and walked over the sofa, now restored to its usual place along the wall. Very deliberately she propped her feet up on a foot stool and gave them a wiggle. Fluffy pink bunny ears wobbled back and forth. He was roaring now with utter abandon.

Although in the midst of a very therapeutic fit of hysterics, he had not failed to notice how the silk of her robe slipped when she sat down revealing calf and shin. “I’m sorry…” he began, then started to shake with laughter he didn’t try very hard to suppress.

“No you’re not. You’re having the time of your life Patrick Mistral,” she accused him. “You know, its not like I’d planned to receive anyone here tonight.” She crossed her legs at the ankles and Mistral emitted a most inelegant sound as he caught sight of one glass eye peering woebegone from the pile of pink fluff.

“Obviously not.” He agreed, collapsing on the sofa next to her, wiping the tears from his eyes and in the midst of another gale. Very deliberately he reached over and draped her robe back over her exposed flesh.

Cindie waited while his gales receded into fits and there were only occasional glances at her feet and mild shakes of his head. “Are you quite finished?” she asked serenely.

He didn’t start up again but his chest shook, “I believe so.” He wiped his eyes again, “Oh, my dear, it really was quite worth the extra miles to see those.” He indicated her feet with a wave of his hand.

“Fond of exotic footwear, are you?”

“Immeasurably. And those, it is safe to say, are in a class with no others.” His chest started to shake again, “thank the gods.”

She narrowed her eyes when she looked at him but enquired in her best hostess voice, “would you like a cup of tea or coffee or perhaps something stronger?”

“No, thank you.” His laughter had ceased but his smile still held that note of warmth she’d seen earlier. “I really did just stop by to see you for a moment. I know you’ve got work in the morning and I do need to get …back to my flat.”

One of Mistral’s hands was resting atop his thigh. Cindie reached over, covered it with hers and pressed it close. She settled in and rested her head against the back of the couch. “How do you expect me to go back to sleep after you wake me up, tap, tapping on my chamber door and then swoop in looking like you look and being all ‘I had to see you’?”

“I never said I had to see you.” Mistral countered. They were both looking at her feet, the bunnies were doing a bit of synchronized flopping.

“Hmmmmm.”

Actually, upon seeing him, Cindie had thought his angular features, though handsome and compelling as always, looked stretched thin. The delicate flesh under his eyes looked bruised and his voice held that same distant note she’d noticed on the telephone yesterday. It was obvious he needed sleep badly. It also seemed to her that as he had allowed himself an unguarded episode of amusement at her expense the lines of his face had somewhat eased. There were worse things to be than a tonic for a mind weary in mind, body and soul. But she still liked her slippers.

It seemed that the room held a very different atmosphere from his last time here. There was a note of quiet familiarity, of belonging, that she did not wish to disturb. She shifted her body to lean back into him and his arms found their way around her shoulders. “I wish…,” she began, then paused.

It did not take much of a mental leap for Mistral to fathom where her thoughts had led her. “I understand.” He gently squeezed her closer to him and kissed the top of her head.

“I want to fall asleep in your arms Patrick. But I want to be able to wake up in them too.”

“I know.” They sat there for some time, the two of them, with this other presence they could neither ignore nor acknowledge.

Finally, Mistral broke the spell. “I must go.”

“Yes.” She stood up and retrieved his coat. It hadn’t been in her closet long. “Tomorrow, then.” She held it out and he slipped it on.

He kissed her cheek, brushing it with his thumb. “Oh, yes. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

Cindie
A bit more homaging.
Leaving for London in two days!!!!, - Tuesday, November 06, 2001 at 16:54:47 (PST)

The Delaford parish church:

"Frightened?" Edward’s brow creases with puzzlement. "I would be surprised if you were not. I should be frightened, too, at such a prospect, and I have nothing like your excuse."

"You do not understand." Brandon hesitates, his glance moving around the empty church. "It is more than being summoned to the Palace. That is a grave matter, yes, but . . ." Abruptly, Brandon turns and faces Edward, fixing upon him a penetrating, hawklike gaze. "It is The Interrogator. HE frightens her, as you might expect. And I must confess that HE frightens me as well, Edward, more than I have been willing to admit, even to myself." A bitter little laugh. "You would think I should have become accustomed to it, by now! But the idea that I shall soon look upon HIM again, even kept safe as a prisoner . . ." Brandon shakes his head.

Edward, his brow creased with pity, studies the man sitting beside him. Brandon is a man of exceptional courage, both physical and moral; however, these are often the very men called to walk in grievous paths, all on account of that courage. These are the men who look upon their duty and know that it can and must be done-and they do it. No shrinking, no shirking.

"Fear is not a sin, Christopher. It can lead one into sin, or error, but it is not wrong in itself."

"That, I understand. But shall I tell you of a fear still worse?"

The sun has risen; the windows are beginning to glow with light. And Brandon is a black silhouette against that brightness, his profile rigid with his attempt at self-control.

"A worse fear to me, Edward, is that I shall not be able to assist my wife as I ought, in this. There is little enough I can do; it is her testimony against HIM that is required. But how shall I help her to withstand her fears, when I have such fears of my own?"

Edward is smiling, yet Brandon understands at once that the Reverend Ferrars is not making light of his situation. Far from it. The smile is Edward’s habitual expression, but Brandon has come to know its some of its many shades of meaning, and this one is all compassion.

"Perhaps you should tell your wife what you have told me."

Brandon frowns. "But-she trusts me. I am her husband, and I should protect her, so far as I am able. How could she trust me--?"

"Do you not recall your wedding vows, Colonel? Remember that the marriage service speaks of the help, comfort, and society that the one ought to have of the other. She is to be of help to you, and you to her. And perhaps it would help if she knew you shared her fears. You have been a soldier; did you ever feel as if you were the only man who was afraid?"

Not for long, thinks Brandon grimly. Yes, there had been the moments of bravado-and yes, some of those moments had been his own attempt to deny his fears, to cut a great dash, as if facing death were a matter of no great consequence. But a man’s first battle takes that out of him quickly enough. He remembers it well, the flood of guilty relief upon seeing that other men are terrified, that he is not alone . . .

I am not forgotten.

Brandon looks up to find Edward waiting patiently, and still smiling. "Thank you, Edward. I shall think over what you have told me. But now, I must return to Delaford."

Edward rises, and the men clasp hands once more. "Do think about it. Some men might hesitate to confide in their wives-" The smile, and a twinkling of the eyes. "But I do not believe you are one of those men. God be with you both."

And in a moment, Brandon is once more mounted on Menelaus, riding for Delaford . . .

MA
Good to see the Gold Rush back in action! 8-), - Sunday, November 04, 2001 at 18:56:56 (PST)

"I am perfectly fine." Features schooled into what she hoped was a mask of pain-free composure, Dana looked up into PL's face. "I know you've been spending more time with me than you should. We need to be ready for the trip down the river when Sinclair gets back."

"You're not to strain yourself."

"I won't. The stitches will come out in a few days and I'll be good as new. Claire is nearby if I need anything." Aqua eyes held firmly to amber, silently telegraphing stubborn resolve.

Many an Irishman had bowed to the will of small women, it's a wise man who knows when he's bested. Holding that thought, PL made his way out of the wagon and set about preparations for the final leg of the long journey westward.
Dana
much inspired by an in-the-flesh encounter ;-), - Sunday, November 04, 2001 at 18:21:50 (PST)

OT - Barb, I don't know how you came up with that site so fast, in French no less, for the rodent but you saved me! It was perfect! I'll probably get an A! ;)
Christine
- Sunday, November 04, 2001 at 11:43:18 (PST)

So--PLives on stage has gotten those wagon wheels a rollin'!!
Keep it up, ladies!
;-) , - Sunday, November 04, 2001 at 11:19:31 (PST)

Sunday night Cindie's flat:

Quoth the raven, nevermore… tapping, tapping, tapping… Its incessant tapping had Cindie wishing it would just go away. She started to tell the creature with its sleek black feathers to do just that or she’d nevermore it with a broom, when it occurred to her that it wasn’t making the insistent sound. Her door? Bloody hell. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, tried to slip her feet into her slippers, realized they were backwards, righted them, found her robe and put it on and made her way drowsily to the front door. The tapping had gone on and she half expected, if not a raven, then a woodpecker on the other side. “Who is it?” Her tone wasn’t warm and friendly. Whoever it was had better have a good reason for…

“Your wandering love returned from far away lands.”

The door flew open and Mistral found himself with a tousle haired, sleepy eyed woman in his arms. It did feel to him as though she were awakening as she loosed her hold on him just long enough to drag him inside and close the door. “Far away lands, my sainted aunt! Get in here.” Any doubts about the wisdom of stopping here were swept away in her embrace. It wasn’t that he had debated his choice; rather he had found himself making his way to her door before he was fully conscious of his destination. Once he’d realized what he was doing he considered altering course and going straight to his flat, conscious that the hour was late. But pervasive in his being was the surer knowledge that he had to, had to, stop here first. The need was as physical and undeniable as that for water or food or rest.

He had spent Sunday watching his mother, double and triple checking that his arrangements covered every contingency and generally seeing to the affairs of the house. He had, technically, if barely, kept his promise to leave while it was still daylight. There had been a shaft of the vestiges of sunlight in the west when he’d begun to say his goodbyes and commenced his trek down the winding drive.

Now he found himself far from his family’s manor house, some few miles from his own flat, with the arms of a woman of whose existence he head been unaware not that long ago wrapped tightly around him. “Welcome home,” she murmured into the vicinity of his chest.

“Yes.” He was home.

After a long moment, a very long moment, Mistral eased their embrace to tip her face up to his. His other arm was still wrapped close around her and he kissed her lips. Their past kisses had careened from the deep and passionate to lips brushing cheek. Cindie now found herself being held gently and kissed very sweetly. She returned the kiss, tender and loving. When their lips parted she looked at him and found a soft wonder in his expression she’d never seen before.

Cindie smiled at him. “Would you like to stay for a bit, or did you just drop by long enough to wake me up and let me know you weren’t a highway statistic?”

“You’re not sorry I came.”

“No, I’m not. Give me your coat.”

He shrugged out of his coat and Cindie went to hang it up in the closet. He watched her move, appreciated the way the robe clung to her figure, as if it were a second skin. The thought struck him that it was, and the tie, was not done up quite right… His pulse raced as he drank in her movements, the curve of her hip, the hint of leg through the robe, her feet… What in the blazes did she have on her feet?

Cindie
The obvious homage, - Saturday, November 03, 2001 at 18:07:57 (PST)

"Daylight Robbery." Sinclair muttered twisting back from his uphill trudge and glaring at the riverboat agents. Below the great Columbia River swirled, hissed and seethed through the narrow chasm.

Daylight Robbery. $50 a wagon was far worse than he had anticipated, not even counting the cattle charge. Financial permutations, trading options between the wagons, there was no way that even he, Sinclair Bryant wagon master - master of the sleight of hand - could raise the necessary capital at this point in time to float ten wagons from The Dalles.

And not a gambling man among them. It was hard to credit. Sinclair gave an inward sigh and ascribed the phenomena to the over abundance of religion in the area. Give him a night or two at the San Francisco gaming tables and he would buy a ferryboat.

Within the depths of his pocket he felt an imaginary deck of cards. Fingers lightly tamped the edges and an almost forgotten thrill raised the hairs at the nape of his neck. His pace lengthened as the memories returned.

It would be natural to assume that the faint whistle and nonchalant gait signified success and the camp buzzed in anticipation of the final river journey. None realised that the tough trail hardened Wagon Master who had descended to negotiate for their passage had returned as a Riverboat man of a different ilk.

Claire
For Dana to read at the end of a 5000 mile journey with thanks for a week of fun, laughter and tears.... and meeting the original inspiration for our stories together here!!, - Saturday, November 03, 2001 at 10:24:04 (PST)

Barbara--here's the URL for Rebecca's Snape stories:

http://www.sugarquill.com/authors/rjanderson.html

I like this site because all of the stories are right there together, along with a selection of Rebecca's drawings (how can ONE person be so talented, I ask?!) of some of the characters . . . go cautiously with these. Some of them are definitely swoon material. *THUD*

I see Graff and Silvert are back in action again! 8-)

MA
Hmmmm, Therese, you'd better come and defend Dev's honour!!, - Saturday, November 03, 2001 at 07:09:20 (PST)

Episode Forty-Seven ~ Phil Allen
Police Station
Evening of Day Two of the Investigation

"Eamon de Valera." The twit. Detective Ekaterin Silvert didn't say it but her partner heard it all the same. (homage)

Detective Miles Graff's jaw clenched. "Sometimes, Ekaterin, I miss the days of lead-lined rubber hoses."

Silvert snickered.

"The only thing that's save his blessed Ireland from turning into Russia has been the proximity of the English. The Irish had better get down on their knees every night and thank Providence for the English. They've turned out to be Ireland's saving grace."

Silvert looked at her partner with mounting surprise. "Do you really think so ill of them?"

"Ekaterin, this is the Irish. They couldn't even get off their damned island until they got conscripted by the British Army. It's taken the English over a thousand years but somebody is finally beating a sense of civilization into the bloody savages."

Silvert shook her head. "Just don't say that to de Valera."

Graff snorted. "I won't."

"Good. It wouldn't be politic -- for all de Valera's just another self-righteous idiot, so certain he has the right to start insulting the police.

Graff's mouth grew sour. "That resistance to authority which so enamours the Irish."

Silvert's eyes narrowed. De Valera had reminded her rather of Alexander Dane, who'd marched off from his interview with the same air. The phrase With a stick up his arse sprang unbidden to her mind, from the cant of her childhood. An unfortunate, and unfortunately accurate, image. (homage) She cleared her throat.

"Unfortunately, his time is all accounted for."

"Is it?" Graff asked, disappointed.

"Yes."

"Pity."

"Quite."

"I was looking forward to... playing hardball, as you put it about Ms. Fi--"

"--yes." Crisply interrupting. "She and Mr. Dane are... how did Hawkins put it?"

Graff vented a short laugh. "The phrase is 'On my sh*t list', Ekaterin."

A cool, tight smile. "You know, Miles, I think I'm going to enjoy finding their thief -- and throwing the little bugger back in their faces."

Graff met Silvert's gaze. "You agree, then?"

"What?" she asked. "Oh, yes. It's an inside job, Miles. Without question." She gestured over her shoulder at the computer and its program of moving dots. "Otherwise, how could he know how to avoid all the old vid cameras and not the ones the Director had installed last year?"

Graff frowned. "Inside job with old information."

"Starting to sound like a disgruntled former employee."

Graff rubbed his chin, bristles of his beard scratching under his fingers. "Hrm."

"Time to speak to the Grubers, then?"

"Yes, I think so."

"And Solo Flights?" At Graff's blank look, she continued, "The studio that split off from Flights of Fancy."

"Ah." Enlightenment. "Yes."

Silvert jotted in her personal notebook.

"Ekaterin?"

She looked up from her 'To-Do' List.

"Initiate that surveilance, too."

"Miles?"

"I've got a bad feeling."

Silvert's eyes widened and she nodded. Graff might not know what was going to happen, but he always knew where it was going to happen.

And to whom.

She reached across to her telephone and made arrangements.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Thus Endeth Day Two, - Friday, November 02, 2001 at 09:53:34 (PST)

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