Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Yes, Barbara, you're right--if you keep careful track of FoF time, which tends to be rather . . . fluid. But I'll take refuge behind Jane Austen's comment that in certain cases, "a good memory is unpardonable." ;-)

MA
Hey, Barbara, Phil's quite some guy, too! 8-), - Sunday, September 30, 2001 at 08:24:32 (PDT)

MA -- whadda guy, dat Brandon!

Cindie -- *ka-THUD!*

Magda -- you bad. you soooo bad. .... when's the next episode? ;)

Barbara the Wallpaperer
MA -- isn't it still only a few weeks since "MA" got married? In FoF time?, - Saturday, September 29, 2001 at 14:03:17 (PDT)

Delaford, the conservatory:

Before Dev can complete his question, Brandon is already shaking his head. "My opinion can be of little use to you in this matter."

"But surely you have one."

"Yes, of course I do." Brandon leans forward in his seat, and Mary Anne exchanges an uneasy glance with Therese; perhaps Brandon is unaware of how his hands, resting on the table, have curled themselves into fists. It is possible that he does not notice the reflection of his own gaze in the polished silver of the teapot, his eyes gone that peculiar shade of golden-green. It speaks volumes of Dev’s self-control, that he can bear that scrutiny without fidgeting.

As for Brandon, he pauses for a long moment, choosing his words, weighing the demands of truth against his fervent and constant desire to appear before Mary Anne as a good man should appear. In his readings on the ideal of chivalry as it had flourished in the Middle Ages, Brandon had always been struck by the contradiction, that a true knight is meant to be brave, even fierce, when circumstances require it-but in private, in the company of ladies, and most especially in the presence of his chosen lady, he must be gentle in all senses of the word. Even as he had sensed the chasm between ideal and practice, he had still made the philosophy his own until it assumed living, breathing reality in his heart. This might drive some men to madness; others, it would spur to greatness.

Tell the truth.

"Eamon." Brandon’s voice is soft, but Mary Anne tenses as though she expects every pane of the conservatory to shatter.

"Eamon, I have every reason to hate The Interrogator. I will not deny that I would be relieved to be rid of HIM. How that will take place, I leave to the judgment of Her Majesty, which is almost certain to be too swift and merciful for your liking. But may I remind you that if you claim Rights of the Victim, the law stipulates that you must be present-and stay to see it done."

Mary Anne risks one glance at Dev, and trembles. That gaze of steel. Dev wouldn’t just stay and see it done. Dev would stay and do it. (homage)

To break the silence, she clears her throat and offers, "Dev, there’s an old saying that if a man could see what hell is really like, he’d beg even his worst enemies to repent, so they wouldn’t go there."

"It is not an Irish saying, Mary Anne."

"Even so," intervenes Brandon, "my wife has a point. I cannot make this decision for you, but here is my mind on it. If the matter were in my hands, I would decree that The Interrogator must meet with HIS just punishment. Further than that, I dare not go."

Dev nods. "I understand. You think that it might sicken you."

"No, " replies Brandon, "I fear that it would not sicken me. I fear that I might enjoy it."

He can feel Mary Anne’s gaze upon him. What he reveals is certainly nothing new to her; she has seen him in many moods, and though he strives always to be at his best with her, no man can keep to such a high standard twenty-four hours a day. Not for the first time, Brandon is grateful for love that sees and accepts, and resolves anew to prove worthy of it. He settles back in his chair.

"It is your decision, Eamon. And I will gladly carry your petition to The Empress myself . . . if that is your choice. But I will not think the less of you, whatever you decide."

MA--in keeping with Robert's Rules of Order, I second Barbara's motion.
Cindie: yooowwwwwllls and howwwwwlllsss!!!! Definite ack attack in progress!, - Friday, September 28, 2001 at 19:35:41 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
I'm sure HE will be pleased to have your company.
D.o.C.

ACK!! I finally did it. DoC,if you please, the italics should end after express. Thank you.
Cindie
It appears I'll be well acquainted with the *dungeon set*., - Friday, September 28, 2001 at 16:29:28 (PDT)

FOF Set:

Cindie waited until the last crewmember had cleared the set. Not surprisingly, Mistral was the last to leave. They had been doing lighting tests for some of the different Palace rooms and Mistral had been subjected on and off all day, not only the those tests, but also various experiments of the makeup department. Always good natured about such things, as the last test had begun he declared, in his most severe Mr. I tone, that the next person to stick a light meter in his face or apply just one more pat of makeup was going to receive special attention. The reactions ranged from eye rolling to giggles to mock terror. He thought mock terror. That test was concluded and one by one they cleared out until Mistral remained alone standing and stretching his arms above his head. Cindie wondered if he knew she was here.

“Need your hair washed?” She stepped onto the set and smiled at him.

There she was, his Circe, come to weave her spell. He finished his stretch and eyed her, “Why? Do you want to …watch.”

She walked towards him, slowly. “I’d rather …help.”

“Your offer is most delightful. However, my dear, I fear that my hair is quite clean.” He shrugged and held out a hand to her.

Walking past his outstretched hand she asked, “Are you certain? Let me check.” Her fingers found their way and his arm encircled her waist. “It seems you are correct.” She exhaled, “Ah well. Perhaps we can find something else to do.”

“I could take you to my dressing room.” He placed a kiss on her temple reveling in the small tremor that shot through her at the sound of his voice.

“That sounds like a good start.” Without thought she leaned against him.

He nuzzled her neck. “It has a very comfortable couch.”

“Really? I think I sat in the chair last time.”

He favoured her with a narrowed eyes, “If it’s a chair you wish, my dear, I know just the one, not far from here. . .”

“Oh no you don’t!” She leaned back away from him, “ I’ve done with chairs with straps...”

“Only the chairs, then. Well that’s all for the good.” Light glinted in the black slits of his eyes.

She tugged his arm, “Come on, to your dressing room.” She narrowed her eyes in turn, the effect lost in her smile, “time to get you out of this costume.”

They left the set and walked back to his dressing room. Cindie sat on the couch in the outer chamber while he entered what she teasingly referred to as his “inner sanctum.” He smirked and said he didn’t want her to see the arrangements in there, lest she lose her appetite. She rolled her eyes and told him to make sure to get all that makeup off because it smelled funny. He emerged, as always, impeccably dressed and smelling wonderful. He sat down on the other end of the couch and offered to rub her feet. Though tempted, she declined, if she became too comfortable she might not want to get up. That idea didn’t seem to bother Mistral in the slightest. After a brief discussion they opted for dinner at the restaurant with the private booths they had been to some time back. They hadn’t been there in awhile and they could be out but still have privacy. They drove separately and were accommodated quickly with no fuss. The food was good and they began to relax into each others’ company again. There was music but by tacit agreement they simply sat for a time and talked before deciding to go for a walk. It was not raining and was in fact a very pleasant night.

They held hands as they walked down the sidewalk; Mistral taking the outside lane, so to speak, but his trousers seemed safe on this fine evening. “You know, my dear, you surprised me this morning.”

“How so?”

“You turned up.” He looked down at her, his expression one of repose, at odds with his words. “I thought I had finally frightened you off.”

“I had considered that you may have been trying to drown me. But I didn’t think you’d been particularly frightening …lately.” Her grin was wholly unrepentant as she looked up at him.

He didn’t smile back. “And I had considered that you were perhaps swept away in the moment last night.” He paused as if deciding whether to proceed, then decided. “When I said I would show you… the words came before I thought. I did not wish to overwhelm you.” He tucked her arm into his, “After all,” now he wore a self deprecating smile which went some way in mitigating the smugness, “I can be very intense.”

This much she’d figured out. “Rather. Perhaps you ought to come with a warning label.”

“Perhaps I ought. I think you’ve me to thank for your sniffles.”

“I suppose so, but it was my idea to go for a walk, in the rain. I simply couldn’t stay in the room with you, and know you didn’t want…”

He pulled her aside, “Don’t say it. For nothing could be further from what is the case.” I want you, the right way. His hands were on her shoulders holding her tight. He loosed his grip and the corners of his mouth turned up, “I simply don’t want you in over your head.” He picked up her hand again and they resumed their walk.

Cindie exclaimed, “Patrick! Are you protecting me? From yourself?” Incredulous, she added, “You are the most insufferable man imaginable!”

“I thank you.”

They continued in silence for a time. Cindie stopped them in front of a shop window and they stood looking at it, hand in hand. She seemed very intent on this fine display of electric hedge trimmers but later could not have described a single item in it. “Patrick, you meant what you said this morning, didn’t you?”

“Of course.” He wasn’t sure exactly to what she was referring, but he didn’t say things to her that he didn’t mean.

“You feel that you are at my mercy.” There was wonder in her tone. He squeezed her hand. Volumes without uttering a syllable. “You meant it.” She repeated, still trying to bend her mind around all its implications.

“Yes.”

“I will try to go easy on you.” She squeezed his hand in return. Protect me, and who protects you?

“I don’t expect it to be easy, my dear. Those things we cherish most are seldom easily obtained.”

“But you asked… and told me that you were… and I didn’t really give you chance.” She once again recalled how she’d been dismissive and had declared she needed to get to work, and felt the flush of shame creep up her cheeks.

Instinctively, he excused her. “I know. You were off balance after last night.”

She had been. “You seem to have me all figured out.”

“Hardly.” He eased sideways towards her. “But I do understand, some things.”

She leaned against him and his arm went round her shoulders. “You’ve let me,” this was so hard to express, “you’ve shared so much with me Patrick,” she reached around for the hand on her shoulder, “I hope you know that I would never…”

“Hush, I know.” That velvet soft voice that she alone heard. He could tell her that he knew she wouldn’t betray him or willingly hurt him. But he had also expressed what he knew to be true; she wasn’t ready for him yet, his passions, his truths, though she might think so. He saw the humour in that, knew there was an ego at work along with everything else. But it was true. He would keep her from all manner of harm, even if that harm might yet be himself. “And I want you to know, I have placed myself there. I am at your mercy, by my own choice.”

Cindie
Magda -- Yowza!!
Barbara -- Yowlllll!!, - Friday, September 28, 2001 at 16:27:25 (PDT)

D.o.C.

Thank you for your kind words. I do so aim to please ;)

Following Robert's Rules of Order, I make a motion that Jutta get recommended for sainthood ;) for kindly sharing that Private Lives pic with us.

*insert inarticulate noises here*

Hastily recovering myself, I remain,
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Geocities is so wierd, - Friday, September 28, 2001 at 12:31:26 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
Whoa!
D.o.C.

DoC, please italicize the first part of the heading. Thank you.
Magda
- Thursday, September 27, 2001 at 11:00:32 (PDT)

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 tapped the document with my finger. "Now, have you got all that?"

"Yes, my lord. I think so." The youth bobbed his head respectfully and shuffled his feet in the straw. "I'm to take the fastest horse we've got and ride to Locksley Manor with that there message. I'm to give it to Lord Locksley himself - and if he's not there, to no one else except Lady Marion. Then I'm to wait for a response but only until I'd have to leave to get back here by sundown. I'm not to stay at the manor overnight and I'm to tell no one at all why I'm there."

"Good. You did get it." I handed over the parchment and watched him put it in the leather pouch on his belt. "Now get going."

"Yes, my lord. I'll just get my cloak and dagger and be on my way. Thank you, my lord." He bowed low, turned and ran out the stable door.

I leaned back against the stall. It wasn't surprising that my choice as messenger was nervous; this was probably the biggest assignment he'd ever had. It was certainly the first time he'd ever met me; when I had pointed at him and summoned him from his job forking hay down from the loft, I had thought he was going to faint from the shock.

"You're up early." The familiar voice startled me; I glanced quickly over my shoulder.

Joya stood silhouetted in the doorway, wrapped in her thickest cloak against the morning chill. The feeble dawn rays struck sparks of gold from her tawny hair. Someone shouted in the courtyard behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and advanced into the stables, pushing through a whirling cloud of dust motes and bits of straw. The door banged shut behind her.

"Yes, I am." I smiled in greeting; she would be pleased at my actions. "Getting that letter off to Locksley, as we discussed."

"That's good." She strolled down the aisle between the stalls, the edge of her cape almost sweeping the ground. "I wondered where you'd got to."

"Well, you found me." Her mood seemed to be better but I decided to play it safe and strike the jovial note. "Now we can go in to break the fast. I'm hungry."

"I'm not." She stopped directly in front of me. "I want to go riding."

"Now?" I was startled. There are some people so keen on exercise that they like to ride at the start of the day; Joya is not in their number. She is usually pretty sluggish until the late morning. I couldn't understand it.

"Uh huh." She smiled and nodded. My nose detected the faint air of lavender water.

"Very well, if you insist." I still didn't understand this impulse but I could never resist that look. "Let's find a sidesaddle."

A dimple showed in her cheek as her smile widened. "No, silly. Not horses. I had something else in mind."

"Joya..." Now I understood. My pulse quickened. A quick look around showed we were alone; the men must have gone to the great hall to eat. We'd have to sneak into the castle somehow. "This isn't the place."

"Yes it is." She pouted, her lower lip trembling. "Here. Now."

"Don't be silly. The men will be back soon. They still haven't forgotten our last romp in the loft." The memory swept over me like a sheet of flame, leaving me weak. I luxuriated in the sensation for an instant, then shook it off. "Our bedchamber."

"Here." She repeated firmly. Two more steps brought her as close as she could get and remain clothed.

I had my usual reaction to her proximity, followed immediately by a flash of annoyance. It seemed to me that I was constantly resolving to be master in my own household and just as constantly being undermined by my lust. It was undignified. It was intolerable. It was past time I took a firm stand and stuck to it.

And there was no better time like the present. The great fur cloak she was wearing would not have flattered the shape of anything but the animal it had originated with. Removing myself from the immediate vicinity would render me immune to heated memories. I took three steps back, put my hands on my hips and prepared to lay down the law.

"Now see here, madam -" I began.

Joya took a step forward.

I swallowed my sentence, cleared my throat and started again. "You have to learn a few things about this marriage."

She took another step. The fur of her cloak brushed against my tunic. Her huge blue eyes, dewy with practiced innocence, looked up into mine. "Yes, George? What do I have to learn?"

"Many things. Obedience. Deference." I backed up, bumped into a post and took a firm grip of the solid wood with my closest hand. "And...and those sorts of things."

"Oh!" Joya opened her eyes wider and set one finger on her lower lip. "Deference doesn't sound very interesting but I would like to learn obedience. Teach me how to obey you, George. Take me - firmly - in hand."

I could not understand how she kept getting closer when she wasn't moving. Then I realized that I was leaning towards her. This would not do. I stepped behind the post and kept going to the next stall. I closed my eyes to marshal my thoughts. Three deep breaths to fill my lungs and I opened my eyes.

Joya was right in front of me again, her head cocked to one side, regarding me with amused affection. As I stared, she pursed her lips and blew a kiss at me.

I admit that I lost my head. A vision of my future flashed through my head: captured, neutered, possessed utterly by this fascinating and wanton woman. I would no longer my own man. I turned and ran.

The stable was not large but it was long and I charged down the main aisle towards the rear door that led out to the blacksmith's workshop. Horses stamped their feet and blew gustily, protesting the unaccustomed fuss. I flew past their stalls. If I could get to the smithy, then I could vault the fence and run up the stairs to the great hall of the castle. Once there, I could recover my dignity and assert my mastery.

The last stalls were empty, used only when there were visitors at the castle. Stablehands had stacked great bales of hay in some of them in preparation for the king's arrival. The rear door loomed ahead. I pulled up to leap over a rake that some fool had left on the ground and skidded through the straw. I stretched out my hands for the door latch -

- and crashed into the wood face first as two arms wrapped themselves around my waist and a great weight propelled me forward. I slid down the planks, barely avoiding a noseful of slivers, and landed in a heap. The weight pressed me to the ground. I was sucking huge gulps of air into my constricted lungs when a delighted voice spoke above me: "Oh, George! That was fun! Let's do it again."

I sat up. Joya wiggled around until she was sitting in my lap. She leaned over and rubbed her nose against mine. Despite my earlier resolutions, I did not immediately pull back. She giggled and wrapped her arms around my neck. "This time, you can chase me."

I had to settle for an icy glare as I still didn't have enough breath to talk. I was heaving like a blacksmith's bellows.

Joya blinked. "What's wrong, George? Did you hurt yourself? That would be terrible! Let me see." She ran her hands down my chest and up my arms. "Nothing there. Could it be - lower?" She reached for me again.

"I'm fine!" I shoved her off and scrambled to my feet, hanging on to the wall for support. This was farcical. The stablehands could be back at any moment and I did not want them to see their lord and lady scrabbling in the straw. I reached down for Joya's hand to pull her up from the ground. "We're going inside. Now. Come on."

"I - don't - want - to!" She punctuated each word with a tug. "Let - go!" On the last word she freed herself, scrambled up and retreated into the closest stall. She backed up to the far wall, never taking her eyes from mine. One hand clung to the clasp of her cloak.

I brushed down my tunic. Joya was really straining my patience. Obviously I'd been right that it was time to assert some authority. Liveliness in the bedchamber was one thing but frolics in the various buildings attached to the castle was quite another. In two strides I was at the front of the stall, blocking any possible escape. I crooked a finger at her. "Come here. Now."

"No." Joya grinned. "You come here."

"Don't push me, madam. I've had about all of this insolence that I can take." My hands were starting to shake; I balled them into fists to stop it. "I've been too easy on you. That will change as of right now. I want a biddable, obedient wife and by God, I'm going to have one!"

"The only way that will happen is if you obey the king's order to take Marion of Locksley into your bed." Joya sniffed disdainfully, ignoring the effect on me. "But if you want me - just the way I am, no changes - well, then come and get me."

The tight rein I had on my temper snapped. I surged forward, completely focussed on one thing: to punish my insolent wife. She'd bear the marks I would inflict for weeks to come.

She stepped out to meet me, her hand fumbling at her neckline. With one sudden gesture, she yanked the clasp free and her cloak dropped onto the bale of hay behind her.

I stopped in mid-stride and my jaw dropped.

Joya was naked under her cloak.

It occurred to me that this must be what it felt like to have a heart attack.

She smiled sympathetically. "Well? Now what?"

I opened my mouth but no words came out. I couldn't think of anything to say. At the back of my mind, a tiny voice whispered that I was losing the skirmish but it didn't help. I sounded like a badly blown horse, heaving hard.

And then the door at the front of the stable opened. A shaft of sunlight streamed down the aisle. A voice called out. "My lord? Are you still here?"

My breath congealed in my throat. The messenger hovered on near the first stall, peering into the gloom. Any moment he would see - both of us.

One jump took me to Joya's side. One shove sent her down onto the bale of hay. One hand on her shoulder kept her there. She looked up at me with a knowing smile. I glared down at her. "Not one word!" I hissed.

"Sire? My lord?" The messenger took a few steps down the central aisle.

I pulled myself up to my full height, the better to intimidate him. "Yes, what is it? Why haven't you left yet? If this is the sort of service I can expect from you, you won't be here long, believe me."

"Oh, no sire! Please!" He stopped dead in his tracks, to my relief. "I - I just had a question to ask. Please, sire, what happens if I get there and neither Lord nor Lady Locksley is there? Should I leave the letter with the steward or should I bring it back?"

I snorted contemptuously. "Bring it back, fool. Did I not say that it was highly confidential? Under no circumstances should you leave it with some nosy steward who would tell the whole manor before sundown."

"Yes, sire. Thank you, sire." The messenger wrung his hands as he backed away to the door.

"Very well, then. Be off with you." I nodded in dismissal. It looked like we were going to get away without being seen. By God, Joya was going to regret the day she decided to toy with me. A good, sound beating seemed like a good idea. My lenient days were over.

"Oh, please, my lord." The messenger paused, one hand on the door latch, and looked over his shoulder. "Just one more thing."

"Now what?" I frowned. Really, the youth was a total lackwit.

"What happens if the steward insists on knowing what's in the letter before I see Lord or Lady Locksley?" He bobbed his head nervously. "He may not let me see them unless I tells him first. What should I do?"

I peered at him closely. "Your name isn't Baldrick, by any chance, is it?"

He stared. "No, sire. It's George. I were named after my father."

I took another, even closer look. Surely the light wasn't that bad. I shook my head and dismissed the idea. No, it was impossible. "No steward would dare challenge any letter coming from me. If he does -" I choked. My pulse started racing again.

Joya put her hands on my legs and slid them up my thighs. I tried to calm my breathing before the messenger noticed.

"Yes, sire? If he does, I should do what?" The youth left the door and advanced to the stalls again.

I had to stop him. "If he does, just tell him that the Sheriff of Nottingham -" I had to stop again.

The hands reached my hips and slid under my tunic. They halted their advance at my belt. Fingers plucked at the laces on my braies. The hands caressed my hips and buttocks. Then I felt a cool breeze blowing through the stall.

I gripped Joya's shoulder hard and shook her. She wouldn't. Not here. Not with the messenger only yards away. A muffled giggle was the only response. My other hand grabbed hold of the neared post and I waited for the inevitable.

"Yes, sire? What should I tell him?" The messenger prompted.

I licked my lips and tried again. "Tell him that the Sheriff of Nottingham - mmmmm - god - er, that the Sheriff insists that the letter is for his mmmmm - master only. He won't give you any trouble - aaahhhh, yessss - um, after that."

"Oh, yes sire. That would work just fine." The messenger nodded in a pleased manner. I forced myself to focus on him and keep my eyes open. I didn't dare look down.

"Very well, now be off with you." I let go of the post long enough to point to the door and then clutched it again. "Go on! Out!"

"Yes, sire! Right away, sire!" He tried to bow and run at the same time. "Immediately, sire!"

Sweat ran from my brow. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. Those wonderfully adventurous hands left my hips, gripped my belt and yanked me down to the makeshift bed on Joya's cloak in the hay. I surrendered to her ministrations without holding back. It seemed to go on forever. I held nothing back and neither did Joya. We were completely subsumed in our passion.

When I could trust myself again, I blinked the stinging sweat out of my eyes and looked up. Joya smiled down at me as her hand stroked and soothed.

"Well, my lord?" Her blue eyes danced with merriment. "What think you now of my suggestion?"

"I think we'd better hurry." I said.

"And why is that?" She asked.

"Because you said you wanted to go for a morning ride and you haven't had one yet. Didn't you see the sunlight come through the door? Before long it will be noon." I sat up suddenly and wrapped her close in my arms. "Morning's almost over. Let's stop wasting time."

Magda
Okay, Christine, here it is; there's even a bit of plot development , - Thursday, September 27, 2001 at 10:55:35 (PDT)

Geocitis doesn't let you link to files on their server unless the link is on a Geocitis page. But the file is there, so it should work if you copy and paste the URL into your browser:
http://www.geocities.com/faustaw/FoF-paper.jpg

Very nice, Barbara!

D.o.C.

Pity the link doesn't work. Drool is a nasty thing to drown in.
Magda
- Thursday, September 27, 2001 at 09:08:53 (PDT)

We interrupt this story for a drooling break.

The Men of Flights Of Fancy in Barbara's wallpaper page.

This drooling break has been sponsored by The Rickmanista review, and has brought to you courtesy of Barbara
"Go ahead, drool!"
Fausta
- Thursday, September 27, 2001 at 08:57:06 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Two of the Investigation
Immediately after Phil's interview

Phil found Barbara in her office, seated before her computer, frowning equally at the screen and the image laid out on the stand by her keyboard. She hit a few keys and flung herself against the back of her chair, slumping against the padding with a discontented look on her face. Her fingers drummed on the desk top and her eyes narrowed.

Her computer finished whatever it was grinding through and she sat back up, rubbing her eyes. She blew out a frustrated breath and massaged the back of her neck. Phil cleared his throat.

Barbara's head snapped around, her brows raised in surprise. "Phil!" she exclaimed and sounded pleased. She smiled and gestured him to a chair. "Sit, sit!"

"I'll not be interrupting --" Phil began.

"No, no," Barbara assured him. "I desperately need to take a breather. The temptation to dropkick this design off the roof is growing." She gave him a wry smile, with a sidelong glance at her computer screen.

"Bad?"

She nodded. "I'm hitting one of those walls inside my head and I don't know how to get around it."

Phil leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, fingers interlaced before him. "What's being the problem?"

She sighed and handed Phil part of the stack from her desk. "It's the designs for Julie's new storyline. I keep coming up with dark, Gothic looks. Julie says, 'Mystery, magic.' My mind leaps for flying buttresses and great metal cogs."

Phil looked down at the sketches and watercolors he held. Dark, dreary, frightening images, filled with menace. He glanced up at Barbara, who watched him with frustration in her eyes and on her mouth. He resisted the urge to brush his fingertips along her lips and soften the lines, like water on fresh ink. "For me," Phil began, "the most mysterious thing I've ever been knowing are women."

Barbara's lips softened into a bittersweet smile. "I'm sure," she said.

Phil's eyes crinkled at the corners, though his mouth remained serious. "Femininity is being a mysterious thing. Have you ever been standing in a rose arbor in June? 'Tis a great mysterious thing."

Something flickered in Barbara's eyes. "A rose arbor..." she murmured. "Arching over. Climbing, twining. Wysteria," she said. "Ivy." She turned to her desk, seized a pencil and paper. "Wood. Golden. Rose. Weathered light." She started to madly sketch. Phil watched her for a moment, entranced. Then he quietly stood and moved toward the door.

Barbara looked up at the movement and their eyes met. Hers were filled with rose arbors and hanging wysteria, lush ivy and creaking wooden floors of sun-washed pine. "Thank you," she said, all the wonder of creating in her voice.

Her candid gratitude unsettled him. He could only nod before her eyes darted back down to her sketchpad, pencil scritching across the surface. He closed the door behind him, his hand lingering on the knob. "Aye," he breathed to the wood, "a great mysterious thing."

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Wait 'til you see the new paper I sent Fausta ;), - Wednesday, September 26, 2001 at 13:23:51 (PDT)

FOF lunchroom:

After Cindie had spent a goodly amount of time asking Ollie to sit, lay down, shake hands, and anything else she could think of, she finally turned her attention to her other luncheon companion. Only Sandy wasn’t lunching, she’d finished and sat staring down at a corner of her tray which was pushed back out of the way. “Sandy, if you’re done you don’t have to wait for me.”

Sandy started, her thoughts, though they hadn’t strayed far, were not on the lunchroom. It is an indication of how serious they were that they were not even on Ollie’s darling little face. No, her thoughts had wandered to a place which had been designated: Somewhere in Egypt, present day and the man who inhabited that particular locale who was increasingly ever present on her mind. They were on him and on the detective whom she had offered to him much as Cindie had given up the last of her crackers to Oliver from her left hand. “It’s my fault you know.” This is what she verbalized.

“What is?” Cindie hadn’t forgotten the earlier topic of conversation, she was simply delighted to find that Ollie was quite happy to continue playing even though the last of the crackers had run out. “You know I never really liked little dogs, yappy little beasts. But Ollie is a dear, not like a little yap dog at all. He’s sort of a big dog in a little package.” Then, as Sandy looked up from her examination of the tray’s corner she caught a good look at her face. It was strained and unhappy. “Sandy, what is it?”

“I mean what happened. With Alexander and Graff. I set the whole thing up.”

“You asked Alexander to mess with him?”

“Worse. I told Graff that...” she paused and took a swig from her water glass as though fortifying herself, “that he liked hearing about Dr. Lazarus.”

Cindie just stared at her for a moment. She didn’t mean to be ungracious but Alexander Dane’s aversion to that character and the famous line that went with it was so well known that to speak it in his presence and incur the certain wrath which was to follow, was well nigh inconceivable. Sandy was probably the only one he would allow to get away with it, at least mostly. Sandy was known to have a well developed, if skewed, sense of humour, but it seemed doubtful that even she could have foreseen the consequences of that little bit of mischief. “Well, I don’t think Mr. Graff needed much coaxing. He was obviously pretty taken with Alexander’s prior series work already.”

“It’s even worse than that. I sent a note ahead cluing Alexander in as to how Graff and Silvert operate.” Sandy looked truly miserable and Ollie had transferred his attentions to his mistress, nudging her with his head.

“As to that,” Cindie considered, “I don’t see anything wrong with giving someone fair warning. I know they’re doing their job, and I truly appreciate that, but they seem to be trying to get people to rat on their co-workers whether there is anything to rat out or not. I’m starting to feel like I need to look over my shoulder all the time.”

“I know what you mean. I still feel bad though. He seems like he might be a good sort when he’s not trying to interrogate everyone.” Sandy looked quickly at Cindie to see if she’d phrased that badly and was relieved to see she hadn’t noticed her perhaps ill chosen words.

“He does. But he is a grown up and you’ve already figured out a way to make amends. I don’t see what else we can do.” Cindie smiled and added, “besides which, the whole thing was pretty funny.” A chuckle escaped now, “I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall for that one!”

Finally, Sandy’s concern gave way to a grin of her own. “I have to admit to a certain wicked pleasure too,” then she amended hastily, “not that I want anyone to have hurt feelings.”

“Of course not.” Cindie agreed. Changing the subject she nodded in the direction of Jutta and Julie and their luncheon companion, an imposing sallow faced man who was examining his food as though he expected it to yield a new life form. “Do you know who that is?” Cindie asked.

“Maybe,” Sandy grinned, “he’s a mole sent in undercover by Graff and Silvert to ferret out the real culprit behind the thefts.”

“Ah, that must be it. Deep Throat.” Cindie smiled wickedly back.

The two laughed as they picked up their trays.

Cindie
GAK!! Dev might be unmanagable but he's managing to make things pretty tense in that nice glass conservatory., - Tuesday, September 25, 2001 at 17:22:58 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

A wary smile from Dev. "I am accustomed to questioning, though I must say the questioners have seldom been so charming."

I am accustomed to questioning . . . Mary Anne represses her shiver and even manages a smile in return. "Enough blarney-though I suppose you can hardly help it. All right, then. My question is: what do you plan to do now?"

Dev frowns. "I don’t understand."

"Oh, I think you do." A pause, as Mary Anne’s gaze moves toward Therese, then back again to Dev. "So far as I know, Therese has not been summoned to appear against HIM. Has she? Has Commander Hudson spoken to you?"

Therese shakes her head. "No one has said anything to me. I guess they think I’m not well enough to travel. But I’m sure if they thought they needed my testimony, they could make some sort of arrangements."

"They would be right, that you are not well enough to travel," puts in Dev, at which Brandon offers, "You know that you are both welcome at Delaford as long as necessary. Miss Gellert will be safe here."

Watching Therese, Mary Anne catches that brief flicker of a look, there and gone, and knows how long it will be before Therese feels safe again anywhere. "It isn’t simply a question of your safety, Therese. You have a legitimate grievance against The Interrogator. You know that gives you certain rights."

"Rights?" echoes Therese, before murmuring, "Oh. Yes. I understand."

But Dev hardly hears this.

I will petition The Empress herself, to have the Justice in your case invoke Rights of the Victim . . . and Miss Gellert shall be at the front of that line, and I shall be there beside her-

Dev returns from that brief and sickening memory to find Mary Anne watching him. And not just Mary Anne, but Therese as well, and Brandon . . . yes. Brandon, whose quiet regard reflects his understanding and sympathy for another man who has viewed the suffering of the woman he loves, and who quite naturally thirsts for . . .

"Vengeance," replies Dev, in answer to a question yet unspoken. A chilly smile. "Well, I did call myself ‘bloodthirsty’ just now."

"But you aren’t."

"How do you know, Mary Anne?" Bluntly.

"I know because I’ve . . . seen . . . what bloodthirsty is, and you’re not."

"It all depends." Dev reaches out and covers Therese’s hand with his own. "It depends on what has happened to make me thirst. And in this case-" Dev’s eyes are hard and dark as slate. "-I am dying of thirst, and have been since the day Therese was taken from me."

"Eamon." Therese squeezes his hand, hard. "I understand how you feel. I feel pretty much the same way, but there was something I told Mary Anne when we talked together in my room."

Dev returns the pressure of Therese’s hand. "You mean when you two just packed me off so you could talk woman talk?"

"Poor man, you’re soooo mistreated. Yes, that was the day. And I told Mary Anne that-that it wouldn’t matter to you what The Empress did to HIM. The worst she could invent wouldn’t be enough."

Dev cocks an eyebrow at Mary Anne. "Therese knows me better than you, though I suppose that’s hardly surprising."

"Tell him the rest, Therese, please?"

Therese looks down at the floor for a long moment. "I think my exact words were that The Empress could keep HIM chained to the rack and suffering for the rest of HIS days, and that wouldn’t satisfy you. But what happens with The Interrogator is less important to me than what happens to us, Eamon." Therese looks up to find Dev’s eyes fixed upon her-the same eyes that were so grim and unrelenting a few moments ago are watching her tenderly, protectively. Maddening as her Irishman can be at times, he makes her feel safe as no one else can do. "When I thought we wouldn’t be able to get past what HE had done to us, that hurt me worse than anything else. I thought I’d never be able to tell you about any of it; it’s why I had to try first with Mary Anne. And now that we have talked about it, and I’ve told you everything that happened-HE won’t succeed, Eamon, at what HE would have really liked to do, which is go on and on poisoning us with thinking and remembering . . ."

Therese is white and shaky; clearly, she will go on thinking and remembering for a long time.

"So." Dev’s voice is low-toned and soothing, just for Therese. "Is it enough for you, then, that The Interrogator is about to stand trial? We cannot tell what might happen. I hope, I pray-" His voice rises in bitterness. "I appeal to any justice that exists, for HIS death, for then HE can trouble us no more. Not us or anyone else. And I am certain there will be a long line of those who would claim their rights with HIM-"

"Perhaps not so long." Mary Anne’s voice is very soft, her face ashen. "You have to survive, to complain."

"Then perhaps The Interrogator might escape after all? Lack of witnesses? A short prison sentence?" The glass echoes around them. "A-what is the term?--a slap on the wrist?"

Mary Anne shakes her head. "Trust me on this one, Dev. There’s a reason I’ve been summoned to appear, and with what I have to tell, The Interrogator is a dead man."

Dev surveys Mary Anne through narrowed eyes. No doubt she is telling the truth, as far as she knows it. Brave of her at any rate, to tell me what she’s told me; she must have wondered if I planned to cut her up into about a thousand bits. And now she’s trying to preserve my soul. Brave, and generous-and no one’s taken any particular care for that since I was a boy. An inward sigh. I wonder if I would still have a soul, if it were not for Therese . . .

Wearily, Dev turns to Brandon. "Colonel, you’re a man with experience in what we have been discussing. I wish that you were not, but wishes are not horses. There are few men whose judgment I would trust more than yours . . . "

MA--Therese, your Irishman is most unmanageable!!
This scene didn't go quite as I meant for it to--he simply would NOT behave . . . , - Sunday, September 23, 2001 at 18:08:31 (PDT)

She heard a grumbling noise and realized it was her stomach. She was hungry, having neglected to make that initial detour to the lunchroom. She headed there now and bypassed the special of the day, ratatouille, in favour of potato soup and a huge stack of crackers and headed towards the table with Sandy and some of the set workers from the Egypt thread. Oliver was lying on the floor next to his owner’s chair, his brown eyes eager as he watched for any potential treat from the table. They were discussing Alexander Dane and his interview. Sandy noticed her walking with her tray of food and she eagerly waved her over.

“He said that?!” One of them exclaimed as she sat down.

“He did, and not only that he was red faced angry. When it was all over he treated it like it was nothing but a big joke. The little detective fella never stood a chance.” Sandy’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she groaned softly, her cheeks turning a slight shade of crimson.

Cindie got the gist of what had happened. “That’s terrible. I’m sick of them being underfoot but I hate for anyone to feel abused, deserved or not.”

Joe, one of the two boom operators, chimed in, “But you know how Alexander is about …that show. The guy really ought to have known better. This is an investigation not a blasted sci-fi convention.”

“That’s true.” Cindie admitted. “But everyone should be professional about it, not just the detectives. If we don’t find out who did this we might never get back to normal.”

“Maybe I’ll slip the poor kid a couple of stills from publicity after this mess is over with,” Sandy said thoughtfully. She was the sort who always wanted to patch up the world’s troubles. She did a good job of it in her little corner of the world.

“Maybe you should have Alexander sign one for him. From this show, just to show there are no hard feelings.” Cindie suggested.

“Mr. Dane might not want to do it,” chimed in Trudchen Njalson, picking up her tray and heading to the trash can.

“Oh, I can manage Mr. Dane.” Sandy’s tone left no doubt that she could. “Or perhaps something even better would be in order,” she mused, tapping her fingernails thoughtfully on the table.

“That would be nice Sandy. They might be annoying, but they have a job to do,” was Cindie’s comment.

“I just wish they’d do it and leave,” Joe added in as he and Fred, one of the lighting directors, rose from the table and excused themselves.

“Here, here,” they rejoined. “See you later,” Sandy added in as they walked away.

Cindie felt something pressing on top of her right knee. She looked down and saw that Oliver was resting his chin on her knee and looking up at her with a hopeful expression in his eyes. His tail was wagging furiously. Sandy laughed softly at her pet's antics. "He's looking for a cracker, the little mooch," she added in helpfully. Her eyes darted over to the small package of saltines sitting next to Cindie's bowl of soup and she nodded her permission. "Break it in half so he thinks he's getting two treats," she chuckled.

"Here you go," Cindie broke the cracker in half and held a piece out to him with her right hand. To her surprise, Oliver backed away from her a few paces and cocked his head at her. His tail still wagged furiously and a long pink tongue darted out to lick his chops. "Don't you want it?" She laughed in astonishment as his head nodded back and forth as if he were saying 'no' to her.

"He's been taught to take food only from the left hand," Sandy told her. "Most people are right-handed and if the dog were to be given a poisoned or drugged piece of meat..." she trailed off.

"Good idea. You are so smart!" Cindie praised Oliver. She transferred the piece of cracker to her left hand and he immediately trotted over, taking it from her so delicately that she barely felt his long, elegant muzzle touching her hand. She fed him the second half and laughed as he licked the crumbs from her fingers. "He's really a sweetie."

"He is," Sandy confirmed as he trotted back over to her and sat down. "Aren't you?" Oliver's tail beat against the floor in response.

Posted by Cindie but written by Sandy and Cindie.
With Barbara's two cents tossed in too., - Saturday, September 22, 2001 at 13:07:27 (PDT)

Miranda rolled her eyes and then looks at the computer screen. She sighed at the sight of yet another corny teenagerish script.

"Do you ever get the feeling that we don't really fit in here. Everyone's to old for us... Julie and Sandy and Chirs much earlier are the only people that we have ever met. Even though we went to a party with everyone there. Isn't that kind of weird. A pary with everyone there and all we did was hide in the corners it seemed. Oy vay..." Miranda told Vanessa and Tina.

"Actually, yeah I have thought of that. It really hit me when I didn't take my anti-depressent pills one day. I won't make that mistake again." Vanessa took the pills out of her purse and shook them.

"Well, we really didn't make the effort to meet anyone."Tina said as she took her notebook out of her bookbag so she could do her homework.

"Everyone there seemed like they where already to busy to meet three hyper little 13 year olds. But I would have tried..." Miranda turned off the CD and onto the radio. They where listening intintively after that becaus the first thing they heard was.

NEWS FLASH: The World Trade towers in New York have collapsed today after being hit by to hijacked planes. The death toll isn't known at this point of is believed to be in the 10,000 to 1,000 range. Osama bin Laden is believed to be the mastermind behind the crime, but we have no proff of that at this point.

Miranda turned off the radio quickly and glanced at Vanessa and Tina. They looked shocked for practically they first time Miranda has ever seen.

"This is bad, this probably means over time for me and Metatron in Heaven. Yippe..." Miranda sighed and leaned back in her chair.

"I can't take anything anymore!" Miranda shouted and ran out of her cubicle to look for Metatron, wherever he was.
Miranda
me again, after a long time... now you have to wait another year for a post... no j/k... but no interview from me,*sigh*, - Friday, September 21, 2001 at 16:39:16 (PDT)

Police Station
Evening of Day Two of the Investigation

"Melyssande Donne."

Silvert rolled the name out like a self-satisfied salute. Graff returned the name with a grin. "Yes. Melyssande Donne."

"She was very helpful."

"Extremely."

"You let her talk."

"I let you listen."

"You let me take notes for you."

"I don't deny it," Graff said, grinning. "Ms. Donne was a breath of fresh air. Helpful, forthright --"

"Willing to sit down for a good gossip with you," Silvert said, dryly. "Of course, she didn't talk about herself and Mr. Rogen."

"Huh?"

"Miles, how can you miss the open information, I'll never know. Ms. Donne is dating Mr. Geoffrey Rogen, one of the interns we interviewed on the first day of the investigation."

"Oh. I didn't know that."

"You were on the scent of gossip," Silvert said, with a wry twist to her mouth. "Considering how long you've been hunting it, I'll forgive you." She tapped her pen on the table. "So is Ms. Donne on-list or off?"

"Off. Unless she does something to throw herself back on. She's covered by camera for her entire time at work."

"Except for two 10 minute breaks and her half-hour lunch."

"And?"

"She spent her two breaks with Mr. Rogen, in the cafeteria, and her half-hour lunch with the rest of her department in a working meeting. She had about three minutes in the hallways. That's a direct bee-line to the cafeteria." She turned to her computer and clicked a file open. "Miles, take a look at this." She opened up what looked like a blueprint, with colored dots. "I just entered Ms. Donne here," she said, touching on a pale yellow dot. The pointer came up with a small text box, with the words Melyssande Donne in it. She shifted the mouse over to another dot, this one blue. The words Phil Allen appeared. She touched a key and the dots whizzed around. A large red dot appeared intermittently.

"What's that one?" Graff asked.

"That's our thief."

"Ah. All his appearances?"

"Yes." She clicked a few keys and text appeared in the warren-like hallways. "While you werre arranging interview times yesterday afternoon, I was pacing the halls."

"I was wondering."

"Each hallway, fairly empty, takes approximately these many minutes to pass through, at a comfortable walking pace. A variation of a minute or two wouldn't surprise me, if a subject mentions they passed someone in the hall. And people stop to chat all the time."

Graff nodded. "A word here, a word there. It adds up. So you're timing people now."

Silvert leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing with satisfaction. "Yes. And I'm coming up with some interesting discrepancies."

Graff leaned in. "Oh?"

"Yes," Silvert said. "Let's get back to that. So, is Ms. Donne on-list or off?"

"Definitely off." Miles kicked the table leg, idly. "For now. Who knows what suspicion tomorrow may bring?"

Silvert snorted. "Our talk with Ms. Ledbury wasn't nearly as profitable."

Graff sighed. "True."

"Did we scare her?"

"I think so..." he paused, thoughtfully. "Or perhaps we startled her by asking about Mr. Rosier so early in the interview."

"I thought Ms. Ledbury was going to deny her relationship with Mr. Rosier."

"So did I. But she's a bad liar."

Silvert pushed back from the table and put her feet up on it. "She admitted it when we told her we weren't going to tell their Director about it."

"Ms. Donne asked the same thing, that we not tell their Director about Ms. Ledbury's -- absences."

"And wasn't that interesting?"

"Yes... they live in fear of him? Or is it simple concern for losing their jobs?"

"Good question, Miles." She brushed her hand down her slacks, picking at a loose thread. "Still, Ms. Ledbury had better buckle down and focus, or she will lose her job. No one there seems ready to tolerate someone who won't pull the traces with them." She pursed her lips. "Ms. Donne was very polite, about Ms. Ledbury."

"Heh," Graff chuckled and flipped back through the text of Melyssande Donne's interview. "Not the most together kind of person, indeed."

"Ledbury's a flake, Miles." Silvert watched with consternation as her partner sat on top of the table, cross-legged, hands on knees, like a Hindu fakir.

"She's just as frightened of Mr. Mistral as Ms. Donne is."

Silvert's eyes narrowed. "Yes. And Ms. Donne is not a stupid girl. A scattered blabbermouth, yes, but not stupid. How did that go again, Miles?"

Graff flipped the pages back, and read:
"Whatever Mistral and Cindie have going on, I don't wanna know. Mistral's gorgeous, don't get me wrong, but..."

"Then I asked her, 'But?' And she replied, 'He's scary.'" Graff looked over at his partner. "That was when you gave me that look. So I asked, 'Scary? How so? Mr. Mistral was polite to me.'" Graff reached for his sports bottle and took a slug of water, before continuing. "And she said, ''You're a guy.'"

"And she refused to talk anymore about it."

"Yes," Graff sighed. "D*mmit."

"I was very glad to hear what she had to say about Ms. Gellert and Mr. de Valera."

A grin galloped across her partner's face. "Heh," he said. "Perhaps we should offer them soundproof tiles for Mr. de Valera's dressing room when we talk to them."

A faint smile touched Silvert's lips and curled the ends up. "I don't think it would appreciated, Miles."

"Not by them, no. But his neighbors will appreciate it."

Silvert laughed, a brief shout and a flash of white teeth.

Graff tossed the transcripts aside. "Tell me about these discrepancies, Ekaterin," he said. "You've got some ideas, don't you?"

Ekaterin Silvert pulled her feet from the table and sighed. "Yes. Watch the dots, Miles, and tell me who keeps disappearing."
Barbara the Wallpaperer
I'm off for the weekend, ladies. Don't wreak havoc while I'm gone ;) -- that goes double for Sandy ;), - Friday, September 21, 2001 at 14:23:43 (PDT)

Excussssssssssse me, thats "Snapey" not "Snapie"
A Rickman Admirer
he is much too dignified to be a "Snapie", - Friday, September 21, 2001 at 14:04:13 (PDT)

Wuv, twue wuv... Barbara, ROFL!!!
Cindie
It appears Mistral is still in the running., - Friday, September 21, 2001 at 10:03:29 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Two of the Investigation

"What do you mean, Ms. Donne?"

"At that time of the morning, it's just Annie and me. Most of the dressing's already happened, so there's only changes between scenes. That's not much to do."

"I understand that Mr. Allen requested your assistance that morning," Graff began.

Melyssande smiled. "Yeah, he wanted to match whatever Barbara was wearing, but he had no idea what she was going for." Her smile widened. "When he found out she was dressing like Carmen Miranda, not Ginger Rogers, I thought he was going to, you know, have a coronary or something."

"He's a bit too healthy for that, don't you think?"

Melyssande shrugged.

"Who is Annie?" Silvert interjected.

"Oh. Annie Ledbury. She got hired a couple of years ago, when the Director was off doing that Shakespeare play." At the detectives' blank looks, she continued, "You know, the one he got the lousy reviews for?"

"Antony and Cleopatra?" Graff asked.

"Yeah. He just threw himself into FoF when he got back and all the new people, like Annie, suddenly had a lot more to do."

"Just the new people?" Graff pushed.

"Well, yeah. All us 'old-timers' already have our assignments. Like, I take care of the Delaford costuming. Annie handles the Future Earth costuming. Fearga takes care of specialty costuming, like the Palace Guards and the Empress. We're probably going to get more people soon, 'cause I heard the Director just approved a new storyline. You'd have to ask Meagan about scheduling, though -- she's the Wardrobe Mistress. She does all the scheduling and stuff."

"How long does it usually take you to arrange for costume changes?"

"Oh, about an hour-and-a-half for the Delaford stuff. With the Palace links coming up, it'll probably take me longer."

"And how long did it take you the morning of the Anniversary Party?"

"'bout that long. Phil had to wait for me to finish laying out Mary Anne's conservatory gown."

"Can Ms. Ledbury verify that?"

"Uhm, Annie wasn't there."

"Where was she?"

"Well," Melyssande prevaricated, "I really can't say." She saw Graff look at Silvert, saw Silvert's mouth go flat, and hurried to explain. "This isn't going to get back to the Director, is it?" She looked from one detective to the other.

"If it's not related to this investigation, it won't."

"Or if it's not a crime," Graff amended.

"Uh, no. It's just that Annie doesn't really have anything to do until Chris and Hamlet get back to filming, so she's been down at the Egypt set with Dale."

"Dale?" Silvert asked.

"Rosier," Melyssande replied. "Her boyfriend. He's a set tech. Big guy? Annie said he said you guys interviewed him."

"Ah, yes," Graff said. "We did."

"You're not going to tell the Director, are you? Annie's really nice, she's not the most together kind of person, but she really, really needs this job. I don't want to get her fired."

Graff looked at Silvert. She touched the back of her pen to her lips and looked up at Melyssande. "Ms. Donne. We're not interested in who's making out with who here at Flights of Fancy. However many of these -- couplings -- we stumble across in the course of this investigation. If Ms. Ledbury is dating Mr. Rosier, that's their business. Howsoever they choose to conduct their relationship is not information either of us intend to volunteer to your Director."

Graff nodded. "If Ms. Ledbury is kissing Mr. Rosier behind the pyramids, we don't want to know." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows mock-suggestively. "Although, I'm tempted to have the water checked -- it must be full of love potion number 9." He laid a hand across his heart and struck a pose. "'Wuv, twue wuv, is what bwings us to work today,'" (homage) he quoted.

Melyssande giggled. "Yeah. Everybody's, like, part of a couple. It's really weird. I mean, we never see Herself, but we know the Director's part of a couple."

"Herself?" Graff asked, drawing Melyssande in.

"Uh, yeah, the Director's... uh... well, she's not a girlfriend. They've been together since, like, forever. I mean, they were a couple before I was, you know, born. But they're not married, so she's, like, not his wife. Brandon's really sweet about it and calls her 'The Lady.' But that's too weird for the rest of us. We just call her 'Herself.'" Melyssande looked at Graff, anxiously. "You know?" She relaxed at Graff's encouraging nod.

"So there are couples here at FoF from the top down, eh?" Graff looked puzzled for a moment, as if struck by a sudden thought. "I hear that Ms. Mary Anne and Mr. Brandon are a couple off-screen, too... and Ms. Gellert and Mr. de Valera... and Mr. Nott and Ms. J--"

"Mr. Nott?" Melyssande burst out laughing. "You mean, George?" She laughed again. "'Mr. Nott,'" she said, lowering her voice to sound like Graff.

"And Hamlet --"

"Oh, he's married," Melyssande said, dismissively. "And Chris is taken, too."

Silvert lips fitted themselves into a wintry smile. So Miles finds the grapevine-tender at last. At last. And she settled utterly unobtrusively into her chair, taking quiet notes.

Graff followed the woman's words with interest. "Well, there's Mr. Dane and Ms. --"

"Did you really?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Did you really say that Grabthar thing to Alex?" At Graff's grimace, she reached over and patted his arm. "Ouch," Melyssande said. "Didn't anyone tell you how much he hates that?"

"Actually, I was told that Mr. Dane loved to hear it."

"Oooooooo," Melyssande said. "That's bad. Sandy must have rolled."

"What?"

"Sandy loves to torment people. She makes me laugh so hard I almost give myself a hernia."

"They're a couple, too, right?"

"Oh, yeah. She blushes like a fire engine if you get her at the right time about it." Melyssande giggled. "And if you coo at them, Alex gets all red and bent outta shape, too. It's really cute. Annie and I like to zot them once in a while about it."

"Zot?"

"You know, tease 'em?"

"Ah. Do you tease Mr. Mistral and--"

Melyssande sat up, suddenly conscious. "Uh, well, Mistral's a -- well, whatever Mistral and Cindie have going on, you know, I don't wanna know. I mean, Mistral's gorgeous, don't get me wrong, but..."

"But?" Graff said, encouraging.

"He's scary."

Behind Melyssande, Silvert's eyebrows rose.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Hey, Jules! Hey, Jutta! Who's writing Snapie-poo's interview? , - Friday, September 21, 2001 at 09:34:09 (PDT)

I know what you mean Magda!
Christine
- Thursday, September 20, 2001 at 12:09:19 (PDT)

Police Station
Evening of Day Two of the Investigation

"Phil Allen. The hairdresser."

Silvert clicked her pen a few times before replying. "I'm glad no one else noticed that we look like h*ll, Miles. I don't think I could take more sympathy." Her partner nodded and sat on the end of the table, legs swinging.

"So," Graff said. "Mr. Allen."

Silvert looked down at her notepad. "He's got quite the thing for Ms. Vanders, doesn't he?"

"Heh." Graff scratched his jaw. "What's the old-fashioned word? 'Smitten?'"

Silvert smiled a grateful, molassass smile. "Yes. Smitten." She glanced down at her notebook, her tone cooling. "Ms. Michels, in Makeup, alibis Mr. Allen for his set time. Ms. Donne in Wardrobe alibis him for his time there. I don't see a motive for him to arrange the thefts, either."

Graff nodded slowly. "He has everything to lose." Graff thought for a moment. "Unless..."

"Unless?"

"How badly does the man want to impress the woman?"

Silvert's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps we should talk to Ms. Vanders again -- this time about her relationship with Mr. Allen."

"Allen insists there's no relationship."

"No, Miles. He insisted that there was no sex."

"Ah."

"Ah, indeed."

"But he takes her on his morning run? And she goes with him, willingly?"

Silvert shuddered. "Not willingly, Miles. Under duress. You heard his blackmail. Withholding caffeine ought to be a capital offense. Cruel and unusual punishment."

Graff frowned. "Allen's a little old to be running, isn't he? Does he really run? Or does everyone just think he does?"

"Well, Officer Patril took statements from Allen's neighbors. He's out there every morning, rain or shine. He only sat out the blizzard two years ago, and a week last year when he'd come down with the influenza."

"Influenza?"

"Yes. There was an ambulance called to his house." Silvert flipped through some files, searching for the report. "Unit called to Mr. Allen's residence at 4 a.m. by -- oh."

"Ekaterin?"

Silvert smiled at her partner. "By Ms. Vanders."

"Last year?"

"Yes."

"No sex, eh?"

"So he claims."

"Hrm."

Silvert jotted in her notepad. "Ms. Vanders, Miles?"

"What?" Graff was staring at the ambulance report thoughtfully. "Oh, yes. Definitely." He tossed the paper back on the table. "Let's see what she has to say about that." He hopped off the table and started to pace. "His medical costs... Is he still in debt? He had to pay for his ex-wife's cancer treatments, didn't he?" He met Silvert's eyes. "Motive," he murmured, pained.

"God, Miles," Silvert groaned. "Can't we eliminate any of these people? We can't get a thread out of this tapestry to pull and unravel the mess. Officer Patril says they've had no luck finding that d*mned kid, either. Whoever he is, he's gone into hiding and he's not come out. If we could find him, we'd get some leads."

"We ought to be able to, you know, there are security cameras in every set, every office and cubicle."

Silvert grimaced. "Or so the mighty Director claims. At least something useful came out of that interview with him."

Graff snorted. "Perhaps he'll take our recommendation and install security cameras in the hallways."

"And his office." Silvert tapped her pen on the table. "Apparently, he doesn't have to tolerate being filmed picking his nose."

Graff's mouth twisted. "Or any other bad habits he doesn't want on tape." Suddenly, Graff and Silvert's eyes met. They spoke in unison.

"The Director."

"Well, Mr. Mistral seems to think highly of him," Graff added, scrabbling for interview texts. "So does Mary Anne."

"He signs their paycheques," Silvert said acerbically, flipping back to her notes. "Their very large paycheques."

"Melanie and Jack seem to have nothing but good things to say of him," Graff put in.

"This is their first real job in the industry. He gave each of them the chances of their lives," Silvert rejoined, leaning on the tabletop.

"The stylist, Allen, seems to respect him."

"He gave a has-been a steady job, with medical benefits."

"Vanders, the set designer?"

"She almost lost her job, she's probably grateful."

Graff again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. "Ekaterin..."

"Yes?"

"What if the thief is the Director?"

"Then we're screwed, Miles."

Barbara the Wallpaperer
No one, I say, no one is safe from suspicion =:o, - Wednesday, September 19, 2001 at 13:38:05 (PDT)

Hey, raw sex takes time to write (im)properly. You're the one who wanted the maximum athletics.
Magda
Not to mention finding a job..., - Wednesday, September 19, 2001 at 13:07:07 (PDT)

Magda......oh Magda.....come out, come out wherever you are!
Christine
- Wednesday, September 19, 2001 at 12:18:49 (PDT)

The Director may have favorites. But he never, ever, plays them.
*wicked wink*
- Tuesday, September 18, 2001 at 20:14:35 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

"And that’s how it was, Dev." Strange, how I feel I have more to explain to Dev than to Therese. Though they both suffered in this . . . "That’s why they want me, now, to come and testify, because I know things about The Interrogator." Mary Anne swallows. "Things about HIM that no one else can possibly know. And if it means we’re rid of HIM forever-" Fiercely. "-it will almost have been worth it. But do you see, now, why I was so afraid of you knowing? After what you told me HE said to you? About whether you knew whose help . . ."

Petrified scones. The tea: cold, bitter, and undrinkable. Brandon, reminding her occasionally with the scrape of his boots on the floor, a shifting about in his chair, a slight cough, that he is there and will help her, that he will call an end to this if she will say the word. But for the moment, that word is no.

"Dev-" Mary Anne pauses, then turns to the woman opposite her: Therese, pale as marble, a fitting monument to The Interrogator’s power to terrorize and destroy. "Therese. Both of you. I hope you’ll forgive me that I kept this from you. I probably would have gone on concealing it from you if I could have, just because I thought neither of you would ever come near me again if you knew. And I didn’t want that to happen." A breath, which catches in a sob. "I didn’t want any of this to happen!"

Brandon turns in his chair-but, remarkably, Therese is there ahead of him, out of her seat and standing beside Mary Anne. Holding her friend in her arms. Brandon, after watching for a moment, subsides into his chair and exchanges glances with Dev-who appears oddly unmoved by this tableau, unless one were to look closely into his eyes.

Finally, he speaks. "So, Mary Anne. Who else knows about this?"

Therese looks up. "Eamon, I don’t know if that’s any of our business."

"No." Mary Anne wipes her eyes. "I understand. It’s all right for him to ask. I told Renie-and the Colonel broke the news to Hans. And I spoke with Andrea, because she . . ." Mary Anne frowns, unsure how to explain that sensitivity Andrea had shown toward The Interrogator. " . . . she suspected, from some of the things she’d seen."

Dev presses on. "And how did they respond?"

"Why-they forgave me. All of them."

Therese rolls her eyes. "Forgave you, my foot! There was nothing to forgive you for; it wasn’t your fault!" Overlapping with Brandon’s, "Thank you for that, Miss Therese; the very point I have been trying to make-"

And Dev, gazing at Mary Anne-only now, the barest beginnings of a twinkle in those still and fathomless eyes. "You say they forgave you? And you expected less of us?"

"Eamon, stop badgering her like that-!"

"Even though," persists Dev, "the fearsome Hans Gruber himself decided that perhaps he would not kill you after all? You disappoint me, Mary Anne. Surely you would not expect less from this bloodthirsty Irish revolutionary street fighter?" An open smile, now. "I should be wounded, I should. Struck to the heart."

Strrrruck to the hearrrrt. To some, Dev’s banter might seem in questionable taste, but Mary Anne warms to it and is tossing it back to him before Brandon even has a chance to move in his chair. "You’ve been at that Stone again, Dev, haven’t you?" Then, more quietly: "So, you can forgive me, too."

"Therese was right. There is nothing to forgive. A great deal to try and understand, perhaps, and I cannot say that it will be easy. Such a tale . . ." Dev shakes his head. "But forgiveness?" A pause. "I will say . . . that if I had heard this sooner, it might have been-hard. When Therese was missing. Or just as she was brought back . . ." Dev closes his eyes briefly, then opens them, gazing at Therese with such open adoration, such gladness that she is there in the room with him that she slips away from Mary Anne and returns to her chair, pulling it close to Dev as he slips an arm about her shoulders. "But perhaps now was the right time."

Mary Anne leans back in her own chair, sighing in relief. Over, now. But the story is never easier in the telling, and soon it must be told to the Imperial Court, with who knows how many listeners . . . she sits up again in her chair, rubbing her arms and shivering even in the tropical warmth of the conservatory.

Brandon’s voice, at her ear. "Are you well, my dearest? You have not caught a chill?"

"No, sir." She studies the face of her husband-that concern, of course; she would have expected that. But something else, as well, something remote and unapproachable-that severity of control he imposes upon himself when he must watch something unpleasant and cannot intervene.

"It’s all right, Christopher; I promise," she whispers, brushing her fingers against his cheek, before turning once again to face Therese and Dev, who have been conducting a few . . . reassurances . . . of their own.

"So," ventures Mary Anne, as Therese hastily re-settles herself in her own chair, "did you have any questions? Is there anything I’ve overlooked?"

Dev is himself again; that is to say, the self he shows among those he loves and trusts. Dignified, yes, but that dignity softened with an appealing warmth and humour. "Mary Anne, I’m sure there is much that you have overlooked, for our good as well as your own. I’ll not trouble you with my questions when you’ve been at so much trouble to tell us this. But it’s a remarkable story."

"So you do believe me, then? It doesn’t sound too--?"

Dev raises an eyebrow. "Fantastical? But Mary Anne, you’re speaking to an Irishman, you must remember. A touch of the fantastic has never put us off from looking into a story and seeing the truth behind the trappings."

"Well," retorts Mary Anne, "I’ve an Irishman or two in my ancestry as well, though there have probably been more Scots and English-"

"Don’t fret yourself. I’ll forgive you that, as well."

"You’d better, or I’ll send Miss MacLeod after you. But as I was saying, for all the many-coloured stories of Tir Nan Og and the Wanderings of Oisin and ‘who goes with Fergus’ and all, you said you can see the truth in a story. Dev, you can be hardheaded and practical with the best of them-and you’re convinced I’m telling the truth."

"I am." Firmly.

"Good. I hope the Imperial Court will be convinced of that as well. I’d hate to go through this with them, for nothing." Mary Anne leans forward, looking intently at Dev. "But while we’re on the subject of truth-now, there’s a question I’d like to ask you. And I’d appreciate a truthful answer."

Taken aback, Dev blinks, but recovers quickly. "You shall have it."

"Just wait until you’ve heard the question . . ."

MA--Jutta, I meant to tell you: *funny*, having Snape say he teaches Chemistry! Yeah, there will be some chemistry, all right.
It'll be interesting to see how Cindie tests having Mistral . . . at her mercy. Hmmmm . . . 8-9, - Tuesday, September 18, 2001 at 19:59:42 (PDT)

FOF Set: The Director's office

Of course that translated into “You have work to do, while I go and see what is going on with the detectives.” That suited Cindie just fine as she organized her way through the office and reconfigured shooting schedules and read drafts of plot lines. She didn’t know how long she’d been at it when the Director turned up again, “Are you still here? You need to get out and stretch your legs,” he commented as she stood and was doing just that.

“Your welcome and I know the place looks great. Now, I think I’ll go stretch my legs.” She sneezed.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.” Cindie nodded to her favourite boss and walked out.

At first she had meant to just walk around a bit and then maybe head to the lunch room for a bite, instead she found herself outside and meandering through the extensive gardens. She plopped herself on a bench lost in introspection along the lines of contemplation of just how big of an idiot she had made of herself with Patrick last night alternating with just how big of an idiot she was for taking on this role for which she had no experience and was uniquely under qualified. Since she was technically over qualified for her position with the Director she wondered if they would balance out. At your mercy, he had said. It certainly didn’t seem that way. But he meant it, didn’t he? And you put him off. She reran their conversation of this morning in her head, again. That look. . . but do be kind. . . But she hadn’t been, she’d been perturbed by what had happened last night. He had put the brakes on. Why did that bother her so much? And yet here I am, at yours…. She shouldn’t have rushed off, work could’ve waited for them to hash things out. I shall do anything which you desire. . . They were still figuring each other out; time enough for all things. Time enough to tell him, show him, that she would be kind. And perhaps see just how much at her mercy he was.

Cindie
I think once when Brandon was shooing a fly he accidently hit it. , - Tuesday, September 18, 2001 at 17:51:31 (PDT)

L'Shanah Tovah--a Happy New Year to all of our Jewish Rickmaniacs. (Normally I'd put something like this next door at the GB, but I can't get in right now.) Anyway: may your year be sweet.

And Barbara, I found your acknowledgment quite respectful.

MA
"Is Mary Anne a prima donna?" *grin* "Is Brandon a violent man?" Full-blown snorfle attack . . ., - Monday, September 17, 2001 at 19:43:55 (PDT)

Somewhere in Egypt, present day:

Alexander continued to allow himself to be carried by the strong current but found that he had to fight it in order to keep his head above the water. His eyes widened when he saw a huge, jagged rock right in the middle of his path and frantically paddled to the left side in order to avoid it. He just missed it to his relief, only to get sucked underneath for a moment. He resurfaced, coughing and spitting up foul, metallic-tasting water. He breathed in harshly and twisted his head around, looking for the pair that jumped before he did.

"Roberta! David!" His cries were drowned out by the noise of the rushing water. Don't panic, he reminded himself sternly as he rode the current. He tried turning his head behind him to see if Melanie and Jack were anywhere near him. His heart sank when he saw no sign of them either. Maybe they're still on top of the cliff arguing - or they've finally had a knock-down, drag out fight, he thought bleakly. He shuddered at the idea and fervently hoped that Jack had somehow managed to persuade Melanie to jump before those... things... showed up.

He yelled inarticulately as he whipped his head around just in time to avoid hitting his head on a low-lying entrance to what appeared to be another part of the cave. Water splashed up into his face and he sputtered, choking and coughing the water from his lungs. He saw that it was getting darker by the moment and he cursed inwardly. Not AGAIN... What did we do to deserve this? he wondered wildly. He called out several times for Roberta and David with a raspy shout - all to no avail.

In the low lighting, he could see that the tunnel became more narrow as he was swept forward to an unknown destination. The current continued its' treacherous pace and he knew he was getting more and more exhausted by the moment. He called out again and thought that he heard a faint, distorted echo of a reply this time, but he wasn't sure who answered him.

Suddenly hopeful that he was going to find them, Alexander's eyes narrowed in determination. He started paddling in long, easy strokes, making sure that he rested in-between for a few seconds in an effort to conserve his strength. He made his way towards the side of the tunnel while he allowed the current to take him downstream. His senses were on sharp alert as he watched for any rocks potentially jutting up from underneath the water's surface in his path. "DAVID!" he yelled, coughing as water flew up into his nose. "ROBERTA!" He went underneath again for a few seconds and resurfaced, spitting and coughing the foul water from his lungs.

"Professor! Professor!" voices echoed faintly back to him. He thought that it sounded like it was both of them. He felt himself being carried down a small incline and was relieved to see that this section of the cavern was well-lit in comparison to being in almost complete darkness just minutes ago. He squinted as his eyes readjusted to the new lighting and thought that he could make out a couple of figures huddled together on the right side of the river.

"HELLOOOOO!" he yelled as loudly as he could, coughing as water splashed up into his face once more as they turned in the direction of his voice. He fought the current and managed to get over to the right side of the river.

"PROFESSOR!" Roberta took David's hand in hers and jumped into the water, the two of them effectively creating a small human chain as she reached out to grab his hand. David knelt on the small embankment, clutching her hand in a death-grip with both of his.

Alexander held out his arms and just barely managed to grab Roberta's outstretched hand with both of his own before he was swept past them. "Gotcha!" she yelled in grim triumph. She whipped her head around. "HURRY! I don't know how much longer I can hold on!"

David jerked Roberta's arm towards him with every ounce of strength he possessed. Alexander could feel semi-solid ground underneath his feet and struggled to stand up for a few minutes before he was able to do so and move forward. "Help her first!" he managed to choke out.

David pulled again and Roberta was able to scramble up the embankment, Alexander shortly following her. The three knelt on the embankment, Alexander coughing and trying to catch his breath while his companions anxiously watched for any signs of Melanie and Jack.

"So stupid... Never should have jumped," Roberta spoke in a harsh whisper.

"May... not... have had any choice..." Alexander coughed several times before he was able to breathe semi-normally. He leaned back and gazed at them wearily.

"Did you see either of them jump?" David's voice broke in softly.

"No. Jack was trying to persuade Melanie to jump off... She was completely frozen up there..." Alexander gulped in more air. "We both were trying to get her to jump until we lost sight of you..." They all turned in the direction from where they came. "All we can do now is wait and see if they show up."

"What if they..." Roberta stopped and shook her head, unable to finish her sentence. She covered her eyes with her hand. "Oh, God. This is all my fault..."

"Don't even think like that!" Alexander snapped. "If they don't show up after a while, we'll try to backtrack to them from down here." He paused for a moment before continuing. "That's all we can do."

"Maybe they're arguing at the top of the cliff over who should jump first," David interjected, but the poor attempt at humor fell flat and they waited in uneasy silence. Three pairs of eyes anxiously watched the current rushing by them, scanning for any signs of the two. Alexander craned his neck, his eyebrows furrowing together as he concentrated. His breath drew in sharply when he thought he saw something bobbing in the water. "Did you see that?"

"I saw something too, sir!" Roberta gasped as they rose to their feet, David more slowly than the others did. They watched and yelled when they saw Jack bobbing in the water, clutching a barely-moving Melanie next to him while they tried to stay afloat. He saw them and shouted something to her. She turned to where the others were standing and she visibly perked up. Still clutching each other, they started attempting to paddle over to the three.

That rope that I had before would have been useful, but it got lost somewhere back in that damned room. Alexander cursed under his breath and turned to the others. They nodded grimly and grabbed hands. He jumped into the raging river first, immediately followed by Roberta. David held onto her hand with both of his, planting his feet firmly on the ground. His face turned paper-white in pain as he applied pressure to his injured ankle but said nothing.

"Stretch out as much as you can!" Alexander yelled over the rushing water's noise, hoping that he didn't lose his precarious footing in the ever-shifting ground underneath his boots. The two nodded, David carefully going down on his knees (good foot first) as close to the river's edge as possible. His lips thinned in determination as he held onto Roberta's left hand with all his might, ready to pull them back as soon as possible.

Jack and Melanie continued their paddling as they approached the three at a rapid pace, Melanie gripping her arm firmly around Jack's shoulder in a death-grip. The two were swept underneath for a few terrifying moments before they resurfaced, coughing and spitting. They were clearly growing more weary as they moved towards the three.

"Melanie, grab hold of my hand! Come on! You can DO it!" Alexander yelled at the frightened, waterlogged redhead.

With a visibly shaking hand, Melanie waved her arm at him. At the last possible moment, Alexander was able to grab her hand. "PULL!" he cried out to the others. He almost got his arm pulled from his socket, the two behind him tugged so eagerly.

Ignoring the pain shooting up his arm (and the fact that he nearly lost his footing), he yelled, "PULL AGAIN!" The two immediately obeyed his command and Jack pushed Melanie forward. They were able to get precarious footholds and the human chain managed to crawl onto the embankment, coughing and hacking the water they had all swallowed from their lungs.

"Is she all right?" Roberta rasped harshly as Melanie coughed and hacked miserably while Alexander and David checked her over for any new injuries.

"She can barely swim.... I... I... just managed to get her before she *cough* went under for good..." Jack whispered back in reply. "I never thought that my years on the swim team as an undergrad would come in handy...." He coughed several times in succession.

The two men overheard the hastily-whispered conversation and shared alarmed glances. "We've got to find the others and soon, before something really bad happens," David whispered.

Melanie's green eyes opened blearily and she stared up at the two men gazing at her in concern. "I'd hate to hear what your definition of something good is."

Sandy
It's good to get back to some type of normalcy..., - Monday, September 17, 2001 at 17:42:28 (PDT)

Mess:

Jutta had seen Julie sitting at a table upon entering the mess and had smiled at her. Julie had smiled back and indicated that she should eat at her table.
After she´d paid for her and the stranger´s lunch Jutta steered her way to Julie.
“Hi,” she said, ”you´re busy?”
“Yeah,” Julie sighed, ”but there´s no way round it, I suppose. The director has just approved of my story and now the work starts pouring in. When you´re an author, you´re so much else as well. We have to decide on the set design and start auditions for the roles. Especially my male lead role, I just can´t think of any actor who could possibly be able to live up to my expectations.”
She curiously mustered the man who had just placed a tray opposite her.

“Oh,” Jutta said,” Julie, this is Professor Snape, Professor Snape, this is Julie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Professor.” Julie extended a hand.

Still standing, he took it briefly: ”Dito.”

He sat down: ”Thank you for paying for my lunch.”

“You´re welcome.”

He nodded and started to eat.

Jutta engaged Julie in a talk about the difficulties of setting up a story on the show.
“It´s horrible and wonderful at the same time,” Julie was saying, ”suddenly you are confronted with things you never thought about before, like what kind of clothes the characters wear. I realized that I always imagined them in one outfit. Through the entire story. Now suddenly I have to come up with several outfits for all of them. Thank God there´s the set design department and Barbara.”

Julie´s eyes kept looking at the man in front of her. He looked run-down, but for some reason she liked the way he looked. He held himself in a certain way, she couldn´t decide wether it was arrogance or just high self-esteem. This kind of attitude was rarely seen on someone looking so much like a drop out.
She suddenly noticed that she was staring at him and that an amused Jutta watched her. The Professor himself didn´t seem to notice it at all. Julie blushed slightly.

“And you, Professor, what is it you teach?” Jutta broke the silence.

The Professor looked up, surprised. “It´s a practical course in what you might call Chemistry. Mixing things together and see what you get.” he answered after a short pause.

“Did you like teaching?”

Again, the question took him by surprise. “I think so.” Pause. “I liked teaching the older students who took po…chemistry because they were interested, not because they had to. And I liked my research work.”

“Sounds interesting. What kind of research did you do?”

Although the Professor didn´t look too keen to continue chatting, he answered: “ Well… simply put, I took two ingredients and mixed them together and had a closer look at the result and what could be done with it. Like in medicine or cosmetics.”

Snape was pleased to see that they were content with the stupid stuff he came up with. It was like old times: coming up with lies and explanations to save one´s life. Or the lifes of others.

“Are you here on holiday then?” This time Julie asked.

“ Er…sort of. I lost my job … quite unexpectedly.” He was obviously uncomfortable with the subject.

“Oh dear. So…you´re looking for a new job, is it?” Julie couldn´t help leaning forward. This was too good to be true...

His eyes narrowed. “In a manner of speaking.”

Julie jumped up: “Will you excuse me for a moment, I´m back in a second!” and ran across the room to the entrance where The Director had just entered the mess.

“She´s the nervous type, isn´t she?”

“ No, usually not. She´s just under a lot of pressure right now. How´s your Ratatouille?”

“Fine. Thank you.”

They both continued eating.

Jutta
- Monday, September 17, 2001 at 14:11:43 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Offices
Day Two of the Investigation

"Phil Allen?"

Phil had watched the detectives work their way around the room; he'd seen the hard line of Lily's mouth and the hunch in Vicky's shoulders when they came back from their interviews. So when the short male detective, his face drawn with fatigue, called his name, Phil put down the hand wisk and followed the man from the room.

The female detective waited for them, the elegant bones of her face brought into sharp relief by the severity of her pulled-back hair. Phil idly wondered if she'd ever considered modelling. Blue-grey smudges under her eyes bore testimony to a night as sleepless as her partner's.

"Detectives --" Phil began, but halted, not knowing what to say. Both looked at him. "You're looking like h*ll."

The two detectives exchanged glances. "It's been a hard night, Mr. Allen," the female detective, Silvert, said. The other nodded.

"We have friends and colleagues in New York, Mr. Allen," Graff said. The woman's face reached an unnatural stillness and she inhaled sharply. The man continued. "But we have a job to finish here, first, before we can do anything else." Silvert flipped open her notepad and sat, pen poised, while Graff paced the room. He gestured Phil to a chair. "Please take a seat, Mr. Allen."

"Where were you at the time of the thefts, Mr. Allen?" Graff began, his voice a trifle hoarse.

"Here. Working."

Graff grimaced. "And where were you in the late morning, the day of the FoF Anniversary Party?"

"On the Delaford set. Then down in Wardrobe."

"What were you doing there?"

"Working."

Silvert looked up from her notepad, her eyes red-rimmed and weary. "What does a hairdresser do in the Wardrobe Department, Mr. Allen?"

Phil felt his face redden. "Getting a tuxedo."

"For?" Silvert prompted.

"For the Anniversary Party."

Graff leaned on the desk. "Can anyone confirm that?"

"It was Melyssande I was asking questions of," Phil said. Silvert jotted down the name, nodding slightly. He glanced from one to the other. "Detectives..."

"Yes, Mr. Allen?" Graff said.

"Can you not be telling B--anyone who was helping me at finding a tuxedo?" Phil asked anxiously.

The detectives exchange glances. "Ah," Graff said. "That does beg the question, Mr. Allen. How long have you been sleeping with Ms. Vanders?"

Phil felt ice water shoot through his body from some place under his sternum. A perfectly unnecessary image of Barbara, her white arms twined sinuously around him, and him with her, exploring her intricacies all the way down, flashed across Phil's inner eye. He swallowed down the hot flash of desire, blinked away the image and hoped his eyes weren't crossing. (homage)

"Not," he managed to choke out.

Graff gave him a lopsided grin. "We're all grownups here."

His partner sighed. "Despite the undoubted charms of sex, Mr. Allen, we just want to know how far back we can expect you two to be the other's alibi. We want to know whether you were with each other. Beleive me, we don't want to know about the sex."

"Sex?" Phil asked. "There's not being any sex. Or this--" Phil's hand waved to include the interview and the ruckus it was part of "--being a great deal more tolerable, 'twould." Sex, Phil thought with frustration. Sex? I haven't even gotten to kiss the woman yet. (homage) Silvert's brows rose slightly, her pen scritched on her notepad.

"Oh." A slight pink tint on Graff's cheekbones. "But Ms. Vanders was at your flat the night of the Anniversary Party?"

"Aye," Phil answered. "She was being too tired to drive." Phil steadfastly refused to think about Barbara in his flat, in his clothes, in his bed. He would not think of the smell of lavender on his pillow last night, of the feet-long gleaming hair he pulled from his brush, of the towel-wrapped body scooting from the bath to the bedroom with its white length of leg and... He lurched his mind back. "I'm begging your pardon. What?"

Graff repeated his question. "When did she leave?"

Amusement half-lidded Phil's eyes. "The alarum is ringing at 4 in the morn."

A line grew between Silvert's brows. Graff's glance passed the question to her. She flipped back through her notebook. "Don't you come in to work at 7?"

"Aye."

A brow quirked on Silvert's serene face. Graff's expression turned to one of bafflement. Silvert tapped her pen against her notebook. "So, Mr. Allen, your half-hour bus commute aside--" Phil looked at her with surprise. She'd checked that? "--what did you do for two-and-a-half hours?"

"M'morning run."

Silvert nodded and jotted a note. "How far do you run?"

"Mile."

"Really?" Graff interjected. Silvert's placid calmness split, briefly, with surprise. Her eyes scanned Phil's form. Graff tilted his head and shot off another question. "How long does that take you?"

"Half-hour. Or so. Depending."

"On?"

"How tired I'm being."

"Did Ms. Vanders join you?" Silvert interjected.

The most miniscule of smiles crept into the corner of Phil's mouth. "Not willingly."

Graff's eyebrows shot up. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his suit. "You forced her on a mile run?"

"Ye can't be forcing Barbara to do anything," Phil replied. "She's full stubborn." Graff waited for Phil to finish. "I was telling her she wouldn't be getting coffee unless she come out and run."

Graff chuckled. "Withholding coffee? That's a cruel thing to do." He exchanged glances with Phil. "You don't want to do that to a woman with a caffeine fetish." His eyes slid to his partner, who was waiting for it with an arched brow.

"And your run that morning took you how long?" Silvert asked.

"Three-quarters."

"Ms. Vanders isn't fit?" Graff asked.

"She's not being a runner. Different sport."

"Really?" Graff said with interest. "What sport does she prefer?"

"Free-climbing."

"That's a bit m--

"--and what did you do for the other three quarters of an hour?" Silvert interrupted.

"Shower. Breakfast."

The detectives followed with questions about Phil's working relationships. First one detective, then the other, would shoot off a question. Phil felt he was a ball at Wimbledon, bounced back and forth between two expert players. What was it like working with the Director? Was Mary Anne a prima donna? How difficult was Mistral on-set? Was Brandon a violent man? What about de Valera? Did the Director play favorites? The questions exhausted him.

Finally, the two detectives let him go. He stumbled out of their commandeered office, and into the sympathetic glances of other FoF employees. Annie, from Wardrobe, patted his upper arm with sympathy before moving on to the cafeteria. Food was the last thing Phil wanted. He wanted... He wanted...

He went to look for Barbara.

Barbara the Wallpaperer <Life impacts FoF, in more ways than we care to contemplate... >
I wasn't sure whether to ignore it or incorporate it. I thought that ignoring it all would be disrespectful, so..., - Monday, September 17, 2001 at 13:15:42 (PDT)

Anton peered around the corner and found his future co-star on the phone arguing about something or other. She paused periodically to blow her nose and drop the tissue in the alarmingly full waste basket. It sounded as though the person on the other end was beginning to see things her way and he sat down to wait for her. She waived him in. When she rung off he cleared his throat and waited while she turned to him, “Fraulein Cindie, the Director said he would see us this morning, if you are ready.”

“This morning? So soon? I didn’t think we’d begin just yet.”

“There is no reason to delay. We will need to coordinate with the other cast and writers. Things can’t go on in that Conservatory forever, at some point action will move to the Palace.”

“Yes, of course. I’ve been thinking about the flashback scenes too, I have some ideas for how Anton and Cynthia first became acquainted and so on.” She stood up and smoothed down her slacks and took a deep breath.

“Ah, that is good.” Zat is goot. His accent was definitely thicker than Hans’ and she’d never tire of listening to him. He took her arm, “We will talk to the Director, he will love our ideas and you will have two new jobs for the same pay.”

“Anton, how is it when you say that it sounds like a good idea?”

“My charm. I abuse it shamelessly.” He laughed and patted her hand, “come, let us explain to the Director how indispensable we are to the future of Flights of Fancy. Just in case he’s forgotten.”

They walked to the Director’s office, heads together, discussing plot lines and character development. They didn’t notice Silvert pull up short when she spotted them and write something in her notebook. When they arrived at the Director’s office they found the man himself, not behind his desk as usual, but pacing up and down the floor. Cindie’s work at tidying had gone for naught as scripts, sketches and various sundry paperwork cascaded down from too high stacks and the now covered credenza.

“I’ve been lax in my duties haven’t I boss?”

He looked around, a glassy look in his eyes, “No. Its not that. Its these bloody detectives! I’m beginning to think the cure is worse than the disease.” He stopped with his hands on his hips and let out a deep breath through his nose. “We must solve this and soon.”

“Ach, ja. They have been most disruptive, but still, they are doing their job. Perhaps they have a suspect now?”

“That’s the thing of it, isn’t it. They’ve got the bloody videotape of the bloke and they still haven’t seemed to rule anyone out, even, no, make that especially, the cast.”

“But that’s silly,” Cindie chimed in, “It couldn’t be anyone like that. It just couldn’t.”

The Director chewed up the floor again, “No it couldn’t. But that won’t stop them from asking, looking, until they’ve cleared the whole thing up.”

“What about the plans for the figures? Have they surfaced anywhere?” Anton asked.

“No. I would have expected them to by now. With the specs that came up missing they could have started production immediately and had boot-leg figures on the market in no time flat.”

Cindie considered, “What is the point of stealing the plans if you’re not going to make the figures to turn a quick buck?”

The Director looked distracted, “I don’t know. But that is income for the show that we’re not seeing, even if its not being diverted elsewhere.” He made an obvious effort to collect himself and sat behind his desk, making a stab at the nearest tower of papers. “But that’s not what has brought you two here this morning, what can I do for you both?”

“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” Cindie offered. Looking around the room she knew where she was going to spend the bulk of her day.

“It is the perfect time. We must not stop working and perfecting the show, it is even more important now,” was Anton’s answer to this. He knew she was nervous and wouldn’t mind putting off this discussion.

“You have an idea for the show?” The Director looked interested and his entire body language shifted into one of interest and energy. The best medicine for a distraught mind.

“We do.” Anton said simply.

“Tell me about it.” The Director leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk and fingers steepled in the classic I’m listening pose. Anton began to speak and the Director closed his eyes as his internal projector began to visualize what Anton described.

When Anton was finished he opened his eyes and looked at them both. “You haven’t had much to say Cindie. How do you feel about this?”

“Oh boss, you know this isn’t what I came here for, but I think it’s a good idea and could work very well.” She paused, in for a penny, in for a pound, “and I do have some ideas for a whole flashback sequence.”

The Director lifted a brow in inquiry, “flashback to what? Her starting to work there?”

“Exactly.”

“You realize that would involve not only work in front of the camera but writing time too. Plus your regular job, you know I can’t spare you right now. Particularly with this,” he waved his hand encompassing all, “going on. I need you to help keep things running steady.”

“I know boss, I can do it. I’ll have to take some acting classes, but I can do that on my own time, I won’t take anything away from my usual duties. That is, if you think I have the talent, if you think you could direct me.”

He smiled. “I think Anton knew what he was doing when he singled you out for this. A fresh face is just what the show needs. You both need to work out the details and talk to the other writers to coordinate what you have in mind. But, yes, I think this will work very well. You have my blessing,” he looked at Cindie now, rather fondly which startled her, “and all my directorial and acting help that I can give you.” He leaned forward, still looking at her, “I will help you to the best of my ability.”

His gaze was getting rather intense. She gulped, “thank you sir. Then we can’t help but succeed.”

“Good. Now Anton, go and begin preparations. Cindie, roll up your sleeves, we have work to do.”

Cindie
It is good to have a place to slip away to -- especially with everything happening., - Thursday, September 13, 2001 at 17:26:10 (PDT)

Delaford, the conservatory:

"Tell me, Eamon. Why should my wife not be afraid?"

Therese and Mary Anne exchange looks of dismay, and before Dev can speak, Mary Anne leans forward to arm herself with the teapot and turns to Colonel Brandon. "Why, because there’s nothing to be afraid of, sir." A smile. A light, brittle laugh. "Now, sit, and let me pour your tea. You must be half-frozen-"

Dev, however, quickly gives notice that he has no intention of hiding behind Mary Anne or any other woman. Or any human of either sex. "Mrs. Brandon was about to tell me about how she . . . was The Interrogator."

A silence.

"I see," replies Brandon quietly-so quietly that Mary Anne swallows, hard ; as for Therese, her gulp could be heard in East Egdon. (homage) Dev betrays no emotion whatsoever, save in a slight crease between his eyebrows as he and Brandon look steadily at each other.

"Christopher." An edge of steel in Mary Anne’s voice. "Please, sit."

Brandon looks at Mary Anne in surprise-that tone, from her? To him? And he is astonished into agreement, taking a seat as Mary Anne fills his teacup with no noticeable tremor of her hands, and an agreeably placid expression on her face. But there is something in her manner, especially as she reaches for the sugar bowl and sweetly inquires, "One lump, or two?"

Just as if she does not know his preferences, in tea as in many other matters. But, as he is quick to remind himself, the better part of valour is discretion. "None, please," he murmurs, accepting the cup from her and sipping the hot, strong tea, though it is doubtful whether he tastes a drop of it.

Therese lowers her eyes to her own teacup to conceal her smile, for Brandon has just gone several notches higher in her esteem. Many a husband would object to being "managed" in such a fashion as this-provided he had the wit to see it happening. But Brandon had undoubtedly noticed, knew exactly what Mary Anne was about . . . Now, she thinks, if I can just keep Eamon in line the same way, before somebody gets brained with a scone . . .

"Eamon, I think we owe the Colonel an explanation."

"Indeed we do. Or at least, I do." Dev reaches up and re-settles his glasses, before facing Brandon with the air of a man who’d rather face a firing squad. "I intended no harm to your wife, but when I heard what I heard-I mean . . ." A hesitation. "I was in the library when you and Mrs. Brandon were speaking of it-"

"You were there? How--?"

"Wait." Mary Anne holds up both hands for quiet. "Wait, sir. Mister de Valera has already explained to me why he was in the library when we were talking. And he can explain it to you, but after what’s happened to Therese, I think he really should know what we meant. And if I don’t go ahead and tell him now, then I never will. It’s always hard to tell it over again."

"You needn’t-" begins Brandon, but Mary Anne meets it with that stubborn lift of her chin.

"Yes, I do need to. Please, let me have it over."

Therese has given up all pretense of eating and drinking. "Don’t feel like you have to on my account, Mary Anne."

Mary Anne smiles a dry, sardonic smile. Dev, she notices, makes no such comforting noises to her, about how she doesn’t have to. He knows quite well that she does. "Therese, it’s on my account as much as yours. So, it was this way . . ."

But she turns in her chair toward Eamon de Valera, meeting his eyes and his alone, as if to say: You said you wanted to know. I hope you meant what you said . . .

MA--hope no one thinks it's disrespectful for me to post, after such a day as this. Just felt like I had to escape all of it for a bit.
My thanks to those who've checked up on me; I was nowhere close to the trouble spots. My heart goes out to those who were. "Hung be the heavens with black . . .", - Tuesday, September 11, 2001 at 19:40:48 (PDT)

Cindie, you've got mail.

Sandy <fiebrans@prodigy.net>
freaked out but okay in Mass., - Tuesday, September 11, 2001 at 14:11:22 (PDT)

Sandy, I can't seem to find your e-mail address. Would you mind dropping me a line? Thanks.
Cindie <cynthiagreen@ameritech.net>
- Monday, September 10, 2001 at 18:34:49 (PDT)

Chris! Good to see you back!

Cindie... I know Miles and Ekaterin are assuming a lot about "Cindie" and her relationship with Mistral ;)

Barbara the Wallpaperer
giggling madly, - Monday, September 10, 2001 at 09:57:44 (PDT)

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

In the afternoon, I shut myself up in my counting room and composed my letter to Robin of Locksley.

It required a great deal of thought. By now Locksley had received the royal message announcing his invalid marriage. He would have fired off an immediate protest to the king. That could be taken for granted. But there had been time enough for the king to respond and after that things got a little murky. What would Locksley do? Would he ride to Winchester in person to appeal the king's decision? Or would he send Marion alone, as the royal cousin, to make the case? Either was possible. It was also possible, but highly improbable, that they had packed their trunks and ridden hard to the coast to take ship to France and be out of the king's reach. I toyed with that idea for a few minutes, then dismissed it; it wasn't even remotely probable.

No, I thought as I sharpened a quill with my knife, it was most likely that Locksley was simply waiting for someone to do something. Of course he knew about his brother's attack on me - might have set it up himself for all I knew - and he would be furious that it had failed and frightened that it had happened at such a time. For one thing was certain: it would not be a good idea for any of us to anger the king right now. He would surely take his rage out on anyone who distracted him from dealing with the Anjou situation. And an attack on his brother-in-law by the brother of his cousin-in-law would definitely qualify as a distraction.

So I definitely had the whip hand right now. I dipped the quill into the inkhorn and suspended it over the parchment. But I had to be careful. Scarlet might not have told his brother that I'd recognized him. It would be wise to make no reference to the event until the king was in the shire and available to dispense justice. There was no danger that I wouldn't be believed; I had a perfect witness in a former Crusader. Just let Locksley try to challenge that!

It took longer than it should have because I gave in to my instincts too many times. By the time I finished, there were so many lines crossing things out that I needed a new parchment. But I was pleased with the final result:

From George, Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff, to Baron Robin of Locksley, greetings. As you are aware, King Richard will be coming to this shire within the next thirty days. He will be accompanied by noblemen from Anjou. I believe it is in both our interests to discuss this visit as soon as may be possible. Please advise me of a time and place that is convenient to both of us.

Short, pithy and would not reveal anything if it fell into the wrong hands. Perfect. I sprinkled sand on the parchment to dry the ink, then folded it, dripped wax from a melted stick onto the fold and sealed it with my ring. I waved it back and forth to hurry the setting of the wax.

The sun was dipping below the horizon and it was too late to send a messenger now. It would have to wait until morning. I put the message into the wooden box that contained my correspondence. Dinner would be served soon and I had to be at my place at the head of the table in the great hall.

As I took my chair, waiting for the servitors to bring great haunches of venison from the fire to the tables, it occurred to me that I had another problem. Since the relations between Locksley and myself were not cordial, to say the least, I would normally send my best warrior to deliver any message. Right now that meant Leofric. But obviously that was not a good idea if I wanted to lull Locksley's suspicions. If he knew Leofric was in my service, it was entirely possible that an "accident" might prevent my new lieutenant from returning to my castle. As I carved the meat in front of me and shared slices with Joya, I decided it would be better to send one messenger armed only for self-defense. I could afford to seem humble.

Resolving that issue put me in a excellent mood for the evening. I looked out over the hall and noted with approval that the inhabitants were darting fearful glances at me and then quickly dropping their gazes to their meals again. That really improved my mood. I take pride in being on good relations with my dependents - good for me, that is.

So elevated were my spirits indeed that it was some time before I noticed that Joya seemed to be more subdued than usual. She ate her normal hearty fare but she didn't talk much and although her left hand stroked my right thigh as usual, she didn't make any further overtures. As soon as the meal was over and we'd washed and dried our hands, she murmured something about going to feed the baby. I nodded and she floated out of the hall and up the tower stairs, surrounded by her flock of maids. Later, when I entered our chamber for the night, she was already there, apparently asleep. As I blew out the candle, I wondered if she was feeling all right and decided that if she persisted in this behaviour in the morning, I would call in an apothecary.

Magda
A two-parter today, - Sunday, September 09, 2001 at 10:24:32 (PDT)

“Yes.” Mistral wasn’t about to open the door until he knew who it was. He fully expected to hear Graff mutter something about “one more question.”

Instead he heard a far more welcome voice say in a quiet, almost husky tone, “It’s me. Open the door, my hands are full.”

He let her in and she closed the door behind her with her foot. In each of her hands was a mug of something that smelled wonderful and steamed most invitingly. “If one of those is tea for me; I shall most likely do anything which you desire.”

“And here I thought you were playing hard to get.” She placed both mugs on his desk on a legal pad and sat in the chair next to it as he settled into his desk chair.

“If there is lemon and honey - I shall certainly do anything you desire.” He picked up a mug and took a sip. The woman was perfection.

“I’ll start making my list then. In the meanwhile, tell me how your interview went. Was it very bad?”

“Bad enough.” He scowled, a relief to be in the company of someone for whom there need be no pretense of unflappability.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, “It must be done, I suppose. We can only hope they will find their answers and leave.” He looked over at her, what was in her mind?

She nodded towards the door, “I suppose you are the prime suspect? The dynamic duo seemed to spend quite a long time interrogating the Interrogator.” She smiled.

“You seem to find the whole thing amusing, and here I thought you’d come to ease my mind and make me feel better.” He continued to sip his tea.

Her only response was a sneeze and a look.

“Bless you. Actually, I think they do find me a suspicious character. Guards his personal life and all.” He waved a hand in the air. “Kept asking about mother and my finances.” He shrugged, “annoying, inconvenient and pointless. One can only hope they will wrap this up before they disrupt things further.”

“Yes. The Director is about at his wits’ end. Every time we amend the schedule they set another interview.”

“Have they interviewed you yet?”

“Bite your tongue. No need to, when they have you all lined up as Public Enemy Number One.”

“Careful, you’ve entered my lair. No telling what might be lurking in these corners.”

“Not a darn thing but dust motes too small to be seen with the naked eye. Your cube is even less personalized than mine.”

“I’m sure the detectives made much of that in their little notebooks.”

“I’m sure they made much of every little word you said and didn’t say. Perhaps you’d best ‘fess up. Maybe they’ll go easy on you.”

“And will you go easy on me?” He looked over, watching her as she drank her tea. Just as he’d watched her drink her coffee last night.

She gazed at him long and hard; and he did not waiver as she looked her fill. Finally she gave a deep sigh, her eyes not leaving his. He could have swept her up into his arms for that sound. “Patrick,” she finally said, so softly, “what am I going to do with you?”

“My dear, I haven’t the least notion, but do be kind, for I am at your complete mercy.”

“I’ve never met a man less at anyone’s mercy than you.”

“And yet, here I am, at yours’. My dear. . .”

She abruptly stood, “I have to get to work.”

He caught her hand as she stood up. He looked about ready to say something and seemed to change his mind. He squeezed her hand and she went back to work.

Cindie
...He's probably not sleeping with a gossip --eh?, - Friday, September 07, 2001 at 19:19:32 (PDT)

Barbara, I'm working (slowly) on some ideas for Hamlet and Chris being interviewed...will email you when I get home, if I don't fall asleep as soon as I get in the door!
Chris <why1040@aol.com>
I'm back, but the pile of work on my desk is threatening to bury me..., - Friday, September 07, 2001 at 04:43:23 (PDT)

Barbara, you could write and interview with me and Metatron if you want, of course. I would but school calls...
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Friday, September 07, 2001 at 04:25:40 (PDT)

Delaford:

A beautiful morning, thinks Colonel Brandon as he checks his boots for dirt before letting himself back into the house through a side entry near the kitchens.

Beautiful, though cold. The cold is a part of the beauty: the pure air; the ringing silences; the remnants of snow. Snow, yes, and Brandon smiles to himself as he shrugs out of his greatcoat, brushing away the dustings of snow dropped upon him as he had ridden through the groves-and remembering the snowball fight with Mary Anne. At that thought, his smile widens; if he were the sort of man who indulged in whistling to express his happiness, then he is certain he would soon be whistling as sprightly a tune as has ever been heard in these halls.

Absurd, perhaps. But the morning has offered its share of pleasures in his ride about Delaford, sometimes alone and taking note of matters requiring attention, other times speaking with his staff and realizing, not for the first time, how competently his estate is tended and will be tended again in his absence. An internal pang-it will be a sorrow to him to leave Delaford again, even for such a short time. However . . .

Brandon advances through the corridor that leads into the kitchens. Unlike some who dwell in their "stately homes" for many years without ever seeing the kitchens (or any other portion of the house so essential to the comfort of the residents), Brandon prides himself upon knowing Delaford thoroughly and frequenting every part of it, so it is no great surprise to the kitchen staff to see the master walk in, though with an unusually absent-minded look on his face as he strips off his gloves and leaves them with his hat and coat upon a chair, then holds his hands nearer the blaze in the kitchen fireplace.

He must leave Delaford, but Mary Anne will be with him. It might almost be like their previous adventures together; this time, however, Mary Anne is fully his and there need be no separations between them, no torture of self-restraint. No turning his back upon her at night as he seeks his own lonely bed. But then again-there is something to be said for genuine yearning. This morning, for instance, and he has known it to be true on other occasions since their marriage: a brief parting can be all to the good, for it offers the pleasures of anticipation . . .

It is fortunate for the Colonel, and probably even more fortunate for the kitchen staff, that he has no idea of the expression on his face as he rubs his hands together, warming them before the fire-transformed in his thoughts to the fire in his bedchamber. What man, with such enticing visions passing through his mind, would have attention to spare for some passing kitchen maids who glance at him, then exchange looks and nudge each other, grinning? Sharp girls, all of them, who know they’d have a long wait to find a better place than this or a kinder master-and if they had forgotten, Miss MacLeod has appeared to refresh their memories with a few sharp reminders about tending to their work.

"Mornin’, sir."

Recalled to himself, Brandon nods. "It is a good morning, Miss MacLeod. Could you tell me where I might find Mrs. Brandon?"

"Aye, sir, she’ll be havin’ tea wit’ Miss Therese-"

With Therese! That is good. Mary Anne is becoming so fond of her-some good company and conversation will do more to heal her than all the doctors and drugs upon earth--

"-and that Mister de Valera, ye ken he’ll no be lettin’ her far fro’ his sight. Not tha’ I blame th’man."

"With Therese and . . . Mister de Valera, you say?"

"Aye, sir, in th’ new conservatr’y."

Brandon nods slowly. "I shall join them there."

"Ye’ll find there’s plenty, sir; I didna know how th’ wee lass would be after feelin’ but th’Irishman’s a braw one-"

The rest goes unheard as Brandon exits the kitchen abruptly and strides through the hallways, boots ringing on the floors-though he is scarcely aware of anything save that icy thread of concern that had crept through him. She’s with Therese and Eamon. There is nothing wrong in that, surely. It is only . . .

The conversation in the library with Mary Anne, yesterday. Of all men else, she has dreaded what Eamon de Valera would say, if he knew. If he knew everything. But there is no reason to think . . . Miss MacLeod was right that Eamon will hardly allow Therese to leave his side at a time like this. No more would I leave Mary Anne, if I were he.

Solid reasoning. But Brandon gradually becomes aware, from the sound of his own stride through the corridors, that his fast walk has advanced almost to a run as he turns into the passage leading to the conservatory, and is at the door of it, and there . . .

Eamon de Valera. With Mary Anne’s hand grasped in his, though he releases it almost at once, and over the pounding of his own blood, Brandon hears, "Tell us, then, and don’t be afraid."

And Brandon is there, among them, without hesitation, before Mary Anne can speak.

Therese gasps, and even the self-possessed Dev is startled as Brandon stations himself at Mary Anne’s side, taking note of her pallor, the tremor in her slim fingers as she holds out her hand to him and he encloses it in his own before turning back toward Dev and Therese.

"Good morning, Miss Gellert."

Therese nods. "Good morning, Colonel Brandon."

"Eamon."

A brief flash from the spectacles, as Dev lowers his head. "Christopher."

A measuring look passes between these two men. Neither can forget that they have called each other friend. And where there is friendship, let there be truth, and trust . . .

Brandon’s voice does not accuse-is gentle, deliberate, and soft. "Tell me, Eamon. Why should my wife not be afraid?"

MA--my thanks to Cindie for invaluable assistance with this post. (Suzanne, she suggested Brandon's boots ringing on the floor just for you! *grin*)
Barbara--"Sterling Silvert." Love it, love it. 8-), - Thursday, September 06, 2001 at 20:09:12 (PDT)

Police Station
Evening of Day Two of the Investigation

"Mistral."

"Mistral." Silvert frowned. "His initials spell 'ASP.' It's appropriate."

"Appropriate?" her partner asked.

"The man's a snake."

Graff's mouth quirked. "Too bad we couldn't make him relax. He'd likely be quite amusing to talk to, outside the investigation."

"Why do you say that?" Silvert asked. "I thought he was fairly humourless."

"Oh, that's right, you've never watched FoF. You have to have a keen sense of humour to do sex and stay sane," Graff said. (homage)

"Hah," she muttered darkly.

"Actually, Ekaterin, the two of you are a lot alike."

Silvert looked up sharply. "There's no need to be insulting, Miles."

"I'm not!" Graff said. "It's true."

Silvert pursed her lips. "Let's see... I'm notorious for being standoffish, cold, difficult to work with, judgemental and harsh?"

Graff nodded, with a knowing grin. "Pretty much, yes."

Silvert stared. Finally... "MILES!"

"You're also notorious for being scrupulously honest, thorough, observant, relentless, hardworking and utterly unbribeable -- and don't think everyone in the squadroom isn't aware that people haven't tried. You don't kiss up and you can't be bought; they don't call you 'Sterling Silvert' for nothing." Graff watched, bemused, as red slowly crept up his partner's face. He'd never seen her blush before.

"M-M-Mistral," she stammered. "How much did he shuffle aside, Miles?"

Graff's eyes gleamed, but he let her change the subject. "Quite a bit. He never refused to answer a direct question, but he slid -- past -- things."

"Oh?"

"We had to pry answers about his mother out of him with a crowbar."

"Yes. And I noticed something missing."

Graff looked at his partner, interested. She tapped her pen against her lips.

"Daddy."

"Daddy?"

"Yes. Didn't you notice? He ignored the very existence of his father; interesting, considering the man's effect on the family finances."

Graff's face turned pensive. "True..." he murmured thoughtfully. "He was -- reluctant -- to speak of his mother."

"Who is apparently deathly ill." Silvert looked over at the phone records for FoF. "His numbers and times check out. He's off by a few minutes here and there, but he's certainly covered, timewise."

"Well," Graff said, "we already know he didn't take the laptop or the designs. But did he pick them up later?"

"His finances aren't bad..."

"No...." Graff said. "The fan books call him 'the most secretive actor at FoF'." Silvert rolled her eyes as Graff pulled some magazines out of his filing cabinet. "There's very little about him anywhere in public record. Some of the fan groups say that he does it to add mystique to his character."

"The character..." Silvert asked. "What's the issue with it?"

Graff flashed his partner a grin. "That look he gave you?" She nodded. "His character is like that all the time."

Illumination flooded Silvert's face. She glanced down at her notepad. "He seems to get along with everyone who works on-set, despite that character of his."

"I suppose he's allowed his space," Graff said, thoughtfully. "I suppose everyone is allowed their space." Graff stood and started to pace the small room. "So where are they?"

"What -- the designs?"

"Wha--no... the company gossips."

Silvert tilted a brow. "Gossips?"

"Ekaterin, you know that they're in there, somewhere. The grapevine tenders, the company gossips, the word-of-mouth devotees." Graff rubbed the back of his neck absently. "We've got them in the squadroom. They've got to be on those soundstages. So where are they?"

"Aren't they usually in the secretarial pool?" Silvert answered, leaning back in her chair, and tapping her pen on the tabletop.

"Yes, but not here, apparently."

"True. The Director has only one administration assistant.