October 16th - October 31st, 2000
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FOF set, the Costume Ball:
"Are you ready, Mary Anne? Shall we be announced?"
"Oh, of course! It’s only fitting for our station, after all."
As Mary Anne adjusts her costume, Brandon steps over to have a word with the waiting footman. Cindie’s arrangements had been thorough; some people have chosen to simply walk into the party, but for those who wish to make more of an ‘entrance,’ the footman stands ready to make a formal announcement.
Mary Anne catches their murmured exchange and then Brandon is back at her side in the shadows by the door, offering his arm. "And now . . ." he says, as they step forward . . .
"Ladies and gentlemen—I give you Their Majesties the King and Queen of Old England: King Arthur and Queen Guenevere!"
The musicians in the minstrels’ gallery break off their playing, to resume a few seconds later with a processional version of the main theme from Camelot by Lerner and Lowe. Mary Anne concentrates on keeping her eyes forward and advancing with dignity and style, but her heart warms to the ripple of appreciation she can hear all around her as Brandon leads her forward. Ah, Brandon. He does make an eye-catching Arthur, in his costume combining the ancient Briton conqueror and the medieval courtly legend—the tunic in its burning jewel colours is oddly reminiscent of a stained-glass window and enhanced by touches of chain mail and armor. Draped majestically over one shoulder is a long scarlet cloak edged in fur and stamped with the Pendragon of Wales; on his brow glitters a gold circlet set with rough-cut stones, and Excalibur gleams at his side.
Having decided to enjoy himself in the role, Brandon carries it off like a man born to be king; his strong sense of dignity and natural gift for authority proclaim most convincingly that this man is rightwise king of all England, and that he will make his claim good upon the body of any who disputes it. This is Arthur in his glory, before the time of trouble . . .
Trouble. Yes. At first, Mary Anne had hesitated to cast herself as Guenevere—the faithless queen. The woman who betrayed Arthur with Lancelot. The character can hardly be considered sympathetic, whatever her reasons . . . Well, thinks Mary Anne, lifting her chin proudly as she walks beside Brandon, I’ll just give them something else to think about, that’s all!
The costume was simple enough in the beginning: a long gown in that deep blue that had once been the exclusive province of royalty because the dye was so costly. That, a few ornaments, and a crown had been all . . . but in burrowing through the costumes, Mary Anne had uncovered an elaborate headpiece left over from who-knows-what production set in the days of Ancient Britain: something to do with Queen Boudicea, perhaps, or even Lady Macbeth. Out of curiosity, she had tried it on and been surprised by her own reflection in the mirror: her hair was covered by the elaborate netting and beads that trailed down her back in a fall of Celtic-style intertwining knotwork, and the silver side panels that framed her face had brought it into startling relief, eliciting from her fair and regular features—"WASP as white bread," she had sometimes been heard to complain—a stark and mask-like beauty that hinted at the bloodlines of warriors and berserkers.
Then and there, Mary Anne had combined the headpiece and the blue gown—two different time periods, but they had blended well and the resulting Guenevere that had emerged is no thinblooded pantywaist, helplessly married off as a pawn in the game of treaty and convenience, but the daughter of Leodegrance, a king in his own right, rich and powerful, who had gifted Arthur with the Round Table.
Such had been Mary Anne’s thoughts as she had gowned herself in the royal blue and settled the fantastically elaborate headpiece over her hair, in lieu of a crown. This Guenevere might, perhaps, be a trifle annoyed at being married off as part of a treaty. She would want to have a say in her own fate. Perhaps Arthur had taken her fancy, and she had suggested the match on her own?
With a mental shrug, Mary Anne returns to the present: this party and the wonderful time she expects to have. FOF parties are always fun, and this one is off to a good start for her and for Brandon, judging from the enthusiastic response to their entrance. And the music confirms her expectations:
In short, there’s simply not
A more congenial spot
For happ’ly-ever-aftering
Than here . . . in . . . Cam-e-lot . . .
Mary Anne looks up at her resplendent escort, and smiles.
Let no one say otherwise: this Guenevere will be faithful to her king.
MA--can't wait for everyone to arrive. "FOF parties are always fun."
Therese--Dev . . . that costume . . . holy mackerel!! ;-9, - Tuesday, October 31, 2000 at 19:40:22 (PST)
woof
Rosebud
- Tuesday, October 31, 2000 at 13:54:25 (PST)
rrreally glad to see meowre cats. there were too meowny dogs before. cats are purrrfect for this parrty.
annabelle
- Tuesday, October 31, 2000 at 09:20:58 (PST)
The Green Room--FOF Set
Therese sat back in the make up chair and sighed. She'd never imagined that spending two hours in a small room with Eamon's hands constantly upon her could be so dull.
"Would you please stop fidgiting?" came and exasperated sigh from above her shoulder, "we're almost done."
"Good grief I hope so," Therese muttered, "I don't think I could take--" She broke off as Eamon swung the chair around so she could get her first glimpse of herself in the mirror. "Ohmigosh!!"
"Like it, do you?" His voice was low and melodious in her ear, the sound of amusement evident in his tone. "My pet," he added, tickling her under the chin.
"How in the world?" Therese asked, amazed at the transformation in her appearence. For looking back at her in the mirror was not a human, no, but a human-like feline, complete with eyebrows, whiskers, and a well defined muzzle. The contacts she'd ordered from the sfx lab had turned her large brown eyes into a cat-like, glowing gold, the long, slanted pupils giving her a distintly feline air. Small tufts of fur had been strategically added to her eyebrows and hairline, completing the amazing facade.
Eamon grinned at her reaction to his handywork. "Ever heard me speak of little Richard O'Brian?" he asked.
"Yes, I remember he used to tag along after you when you were younger. 'Idolizes me, the lad does,' was your comment, if I'm not mistaken."
"Well, fortunately for you, he still seems to, because young Richard is also frequently known by the name of 'Rum Tum Tugger' these days, and this ensemble is largely compliments of him."
Therese grinned. Dev's lilting 'R-r-r-rumm Tum Tugger' made her laugh. "Just remember that good ol' Rummy is a tomcat--and I am every inch the queen," she purred, rubbing up against him suggestively.
Dev groaned inwardly. Two hours of make-up. . .the party already in progress, no doubt. . .He kissed her, briefly, before setting her firmly aside. "Down girl," he admonished her firmly, "or I'll return you to your cage. You finish with the rest of the outfit, and I'll change into mine."
"Well, alright--even if it goes against my feline grain to not get my way." She turned to the rest of the--pardon the pun, gentle reader--catsuit, and quickly completed the attire, save the gloves. Turning, she found Dev half clad in black velvet trousers and knee high leather boots, and holding up a black vest in confusion.
"Therese, where's the rest of this get up?" he asked.
Seeing him, standing there before her in the skin tight black velvet, Therese gulped. "R-right there," she stammered, pointing to the armbands and whip.
"That's it?" he asked incredulously, slipping his arms into the vest. "That's all I'm wearing?"
Therese nodded, her throat dry as she contemplated his broad expanse of bare chest, most of which was still exposed by the slender black vest he now wore, and the tightly corded muscles of his upper arms. And I don't intend to let you out of my sight for a moment. Eamon de Velara's appeal was considered somewhat more subtle than some of the other men of the cast, this Therese knew--something she found somewhat of a relief, if she were to be completely honest. Eamon didn't cause the swooning and heart palpations that followed Hans, Valmont, and Mesmer wherever they went, and he didn't garner the attention of the more quietly handsome Brandon, Hamlet or Dwight. . .but to look at him now? Therese considered him critically. He was the tallest member of the cast, save Sifuentes, and with his blond highlighted hair, lengthened to fall to the top of his shoulders, the absence of his spectacles due to contact lenses, and the metal cuffed armbands that he was now strapping on himself, coupled with those endlessly long velvet clad leggings and knee high boots--
"Therese?" his query broke her revelry and she snapped to attention. "I asked you where the rest of this get up is?"
"You're wearing it," she responded weakly. "Save for that, at any rate." She pointed to the coiled bullwhip which remained on the side chair, and picking it up, fastened it onto the belt at his side.
"I'm going to be a laughingstock," he muttered, looking toward Therese, "though I may need my whip indeed if I'm to keep the blokes away from you." He took in the form fitting black bodysuit that she wore beneath the tiger striped additions of the costume.
"Trust me, my dear--the only ones who would be laughing at the sight of you would be the men. And that laughter will abruptly cease when their women are swooning at your feet."
He moved to her side, carefully laying an arm across her shoulders. "Look that good, do I?" he inquired, nuzzling at her neck.
"Listen, Gunther, if we don't get going, we're neither of us going to get to this party," she told him, slipping into the specialized gloves that gave her long, wicked looking claws.
"You might be correct in that," he agreed, reluctantly moving away from her. Taking a slender gold chain that still remained on the props counter, he fastened it to the black leather collar around her neck. "Shall we, my pet?"
Turning to consult themselves in the mirror one final time before they walked to the party, wide grins covered both faces as they took in the effect of their labours. For looking back at them was the famed animal trainer Gunther Gebel-Williams and a very realistic looking tiger on a golden leash.
Therese
Annual Halloween parade tonight along the Mississippi River--will be riding a horse and throwing candy to the kids along the route--doesn't sound *quite* as fun as this party of Cindies! , - Tuesday, October 31, 2000 at 07:05:51 (PST)
FOF set, Wardrobe:
"Well, Christopher, what do you think?"
Christopher Brandon takes a long, critical look at himself in the triple mirrors . . . and smiles, then turns to kiss Mary Anne on the top of her head. "A splendid choice. I shall very much enjoy wearing this." A pause. "And may I say that you are looking so beautiful . . ."
"Of course you may. Feel free to say things like that whenever you wish!"
Brandon raises his hand. "Allow me to finish. As I was saying: so beautiful that I shall probably be compelled to defend you all evening. However--" He glances down. "--I seem to be well-equipped for that."
Mary Anne giggles. "I wouldn't be making remarks about being well-equipped, not after all of those sword comments in our last scene! Or would those be sword-ed comments?"
Brandon rolls his eyes and groans--The Mad Punster strikes again.
Mary Anne is still gazing at him admiringly. "Actually, I think the sword is the best part of your costume. Very impressive."
Brandon gives her a teasing grin. "Actually, when I saw this costume, I was simply relieved to find out that I would not be a highwayman or a pirate. Again," he adds witheringly, as Mary Anne allows her eyes to rove over him. "And there is one more thing, Mary Anne . . ."
"And what's that?" asks Mary Anne, all wide-eyed innocence as she makes a few adjustments to her own costume.
"You can drop the innocent look; you don't fool me with that. No, besides being relieved not to be a highwayman or a pirate, I must insist that I retain this costume throughout the evening. Is that understood? I am fully clothed and intend to remain so!"
"Why, Christopher, I don't know what you mean!" coos Mary Anne--though she cannot help smirking at the memory of the FOF "Full Monty" that had been staged for her birthday celebration.
"You know perfectly well what I mean," insists Brandon, drawing her close to him and tilting her chin up so that she has to look him in the face. No fear--he has her entire attention. "Besides," he intones, leaning closer, "it's for your sake as much as for mine . . ."
Mary Anne snuggles into his arms and they simply stand for a moment, enjoying each other's closeness, although they take care not to entangle their costumes. Finally, Mary Anne steps back. "Now, Christopher, you don't have to worry. It was Claudia's idea, remember? Would I do a thing like that to you?" Batting her eyelashes.
"In a minute," retorts Brandon. Nevertheless, he smiles as he slips his arm though hers. "Now, shall we be on our way, my lady?"
Mary Anne accepts the proffered arm. "About my costume--I hope you don't mind. I mean, in all the stories, she--"
"Never mind about that," soothes Brandon. "It is still you in that costume, and whatever she may or may not have done, about you I have no doubts. We shall change a few of the old stories this evening. Now--we mustn't keep our people waiting." He strikes a regal pose, and Mary Anne takes her cue from him, as they sweep out of Wardrobe toward the set for the costume ball . . .
MA--time to PAR-TAY!! Grrrrrrr-eat costume for Alexander, BTW: Dane, Lord of the Desert. I love it!
Like the portraits, too. Hmmm, when did Mister I wear a cloak like that? Perhaps when HE was imitating The Highwayman? Mmmmmm, yum., - Tuesday, October 31, 2000 at 05:33:00 (PST)
The Fancy Dress Ball:
Sandy shrugged her coat off and gave it to the attendant. "Thank you and enjoy the party," the woman told her. "Thank you," Sandy replied with a warm smile. She wandered forward slowly and gazed about in amazement at the transformed set. Wow. Cindie did a an absolutely spectacular job with the arrangements, she thought to herself. She stopped in the gallery, admiring the portraits of the cast.
"Happy Halloween, Sandy." A soft velvet-voiced baritone interrupted her silent reverie. "You look very nice tonight." Sandy turned around and her eyes widened in surprise and then delight.
Alexander stood a few feet away from her, dressed in a short-sleeved tunic covered with a richly-pattened vest. A sash was tied around his narrow waist and a scimitar encased in a jeweled scabbard hung rakishly at his left hip. Simple white pants were tucked into black boots, and a turban covered his head.
"Alex, you look..." Sandy started to say when Alex rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips. "Go ahead. Say it. I know you can't resist," he growled, his face set in a scowl. Sandy blinked and shook her head in amusement. "Actually, I was going to say that you look great," she informed him. Whoa. Rudolph Valentino, eat your heart out, she thought to herself. Her blue-gray eyes began twinkling in mischief. "However, if you want me to...."
"NO, that's quite all right!" he informed her with a raised eyebrow and a stern glare before his lips curved into a reluctant smile. "It seems that we both were thinking in the same way," he remarked, taking in her own costume consisting of a sleeveless gold sequined top, black harem pants, a matching gold sequin headband with a veil, strappy slide-on heels and a clear jewel stuck in her belly button.
Sandy looked down at herself and her cheeks turned a slight rosy hue. "I wasn't planning to wear this," she confessed. "I was going for 'Elivra, Mistress of the Dark', but it didn't exactly work out the way I wanted it to."
Alexander's face lit up in a huge grin as he imagined the petite blonde in the costume. "That would have been interesting. Why didn't you?" he asked curiously. Sandy's face turned a deep scarlet and she muttered something. Alexander didn't quite catch what she said, but he could have sworn she said something along the lines of "leaving nothing to the blasted imagination."
The two lifted their heads as they heard the band start playing a waltz. Alexander offered the crook of his arm to her. "May I?" he asked her with a smile. "Thank you," she returned the smile as she linked her arm in his and the two walked down the grand staircase to join the others that had already arrived.
Sandy - Rosie looks absolutely adorable.
Happy Halloween everybody! Taking the advice of 'posting early....', - Tuesday, October 31, 2000 at 03:17:55 (PST)
The admirer of Rickman, and the FOF authors, puts the finishing touches on her "costume". Perhaps "costume" is a bit overstated, as she is wearing her usual gardening outfit-an old pair of paint stained jeans, a flannel shirt, gardening gloves, sunblock, sunhat and wellies, of course. The crowning glory of her Halloween couture is a nine pound four legged red shorthaired mini dachsund with a red ruffle around her neck. What gardener would want to be without a little "Rosebud" in a pot? Of course,the challenge is to keep the little rose in the container, instead of running around looking pitiful and hungry around the food!!A Rosie by any other name would still want some of that chicken!
a Rickman admirer
sorry Chris-but still want to hear about the horses! and Mr I too, BTW!, - Tuesday, October 31, 2000 at 00:38:51 (PST)
Nice party Cindie! Its already Halloween here, so you aren't too early. I won't be able to post today, as going to a village party in the part tonight with the boys. But don't worry - FOF parties are notorious for going on for weeks!
Claudia
- Monday, October 30, 2000 at 18:47:18 (PST)
Egypt, en route to the Valley of the Kings:
Laughter and loud applause broke out as they finished the song, but the good-natured mood was short-lived. An uneasy silence settled over the groups in the jeeps as they contemplated the day’s events. Alexander glanced in the mirror and saw that Melanie had fallen into a light slumber in the back seat, a troubled expression crossing her features while David stared out the window dispassionately.
A car passed by them on the opposite side of the road at top speed, the driver blaring his horn to make sure that the drivers that he passed weren’t falling asleep. Roberta and Shelley blared their horns and blinked their lights in reply as they sped by. Slowly but surely, the terrain was finally starting to change from the endless stretch of sand and badly paved road.
"I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see rocks in my life," David finally spoke up from the back seat, breaking the silence. Alexander chuckled ruefully before answering. "Anything's better than being stuck in the sand," he replied, blowing his breath out in a loud whooshing noise. Shelley nodded in agreement, trying not to burst into laughter as Melanie began to snore softly.
The group passed through a rock-filled and hilly area, taking care as they passed through, as some larger boulders had fallen into the road. Alexander, glancing up in the rear-view mirror, noted with relief that some loose rocks didn’t fall down the hillside until after they had left the vicinity. We’ve had enough disasters today, and I don't even want to dwell on what happened between Jack and Melanie. In all the years that I’ve been doing this, I’ve never seen anything like this happen before, he thought to himself, a frown crossing his face briefly as he rubbed his throbbing temples.
The two jeeps continued their way down the road for another 5 miles when Alexander picked up the two-way radio mike. "Roberta, we’re turning off here," he said. There was a mumbled reply of assent over the tinny speaker as Shelley pulled off the main road and turned in the direction that Alexander indicated.
In the back seat, Melanie awoke with a startled, "Wha...?!" as Shelley drove over a particularly bumpy section. "Are we there yet?" she muttered, not fully awake, trying to hide a yawn behind her hand as she blinked. Alexander’s lips curved up in a genuine smile. "Shortly," he reassured everyone as the landscape became lush with vegetation as they entered the Nile River valley. "Stop over here," he directed the two drivers after they had driven for approximately 2 miles by the riverbank. The jeeps were pulled over and everybody quickly exited from the vehicles to stretch. "Now that's a sunset," Roberta said quietly as brilliant pinks, purples and oranges streaked across the sky. They all watched in companionable silence as twilight settled across the valley.
Sandy
As promised, a sand-free scene for Alex! The party arrangements look spectacular, Cindie., - Monday, October 30, 2000 at 18:41:29 (PST)
The Fancy Dress Ball:
As guests begin to arrive, (cast, crew, their guests, lurkers) they first notice that the façade of the FOF set has been altered to now look like an old English manor house. The double doors stand open and the “staff” is there to great the new arrivals, take coats and hats, and tend to any immediate needs. Off to the side of the building are large panel trucks with “Danver’s Catering” printed on the sides.
The doors open to: The Great Hall. The floor of flagged stones. At the far end, the grande staircase and Minstrels’ Gallery. The band is in place. Along the gallery are portraits, photographs really, but produced to look like portraits of many of the cast members. Some of them include -- Brandon in his regimental finery; Renie, a confection in chocolate brown; Valmonte, dressed from head to toe in creamy white; Claire, Sinclair, Dana and PL in the foreground of a western landscape; Claudia, tall and proud in black thigh high boots; Mary Anne in a blue gown that matches the color of her eyes; Hans Gruber looking suave in a business suit but giving the impression, even in a still picture, of turning into the teutonic terror on a moment’s notice; Grace and Hart waving from the Sea Dove; the Interrogator in a long black cape with royal blue lining; Ed in profile as he works on one of his own creations (some editing here as the technicians added some additional attire to the subject of the portrait—we can no longer make out her face either); Therese and Dev in a poignant shot of their most recent scene together in Delaford's stables; Andrea rallying the troops of rebels in revolt; George and Joya, George’s scowl as deep as Joya’s smile is lovely; Alexander Dane, knee deep in sand of course; Hamlet and Chris posing with a unicorn with a ruby horn.
A feast is laid to one side along tables covered in crisp white linen tablecloths. There are red roses in silver bowls on the white cloths. The food is varied and includes everything from whole roast chickens ready to be carved to delicate lobster puffs. There are also beverages available to accommodate every taste.
Long windows open to the terrace. Later in the evening this will be a lovely location from which to enjoy the fireworks.
There are other rooms as well, the library, the drawing room, the morning room, all open should anyone want to escape, momentarily, the revelry of the party. There are flowers everywhere, lilacs, lupins, delphiniums, lilies and roses of every variation and hue. These are all cunningly arranged to great effect.
The band is playing a waltz now, but should there be any special requests, no doubt they can be accommodated as well.
Cindie
I know I'm a day early on this but I wanted to make sure it was posted in time for the festivities.
Rickman admirer, I think you mean Chris, I'm waiting to see what happens with Hamlet, Chris and the talking unicorns myself. Meanwhile, I hope you'll be attending the party., - Monday, October 30, 2000 at 17:08:26 (PST)
Well Cindie, I am waiting patiently to hear more about Hamlet, Cindie and the talking horsies...............
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, October 30, 2000 at 13:54:51 (PST)
Magda, I don't think anyone would ever complain that your posts are too long.
Cindie
- Sunday, October 29, 2000 at 12:13:46 (PST)
"Day the Hundred and first, in the month of February – In which my companions and I attend the wedding feast."
"No, I cannot support your plan." Eyes closed, Adam took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in a rush. His hands pressed flat on the table in front of him. Then his control broke and his eyes popped open. "By God's holy rood, you can't be serious!"
"Why not?" Peter lowered his tankard far enough to ask. "Sounds like a good scheme to me."
I looked across the room, taking a moment away from fastening my chain mail. For all of Adam's eagerness to marry Melisant, it was amazing how squeamish he was when it came to doing anything practical. Explaining the whole thing to him had taken longer than I'd anticipated. Beneath the window the cries of the vendors in the market were dying away as servants and housewives hurried home before evening fell. It was an unwanted reminder that time was of the essence. But Adam was deaf to the sounds.
"George, you must be reasonable. The best thing we can do is put everything before the king and trust to his good judgement." He forced his features into what he probably thought was an austere, superior manner. It fell woefully short. "He is certainly not going to allow combat to the death on the eve of the wedding! It's too ridiculous for words."
"Keep your voice down. I don't want the whole inn hearing us." I walked over to my kit laid out on a bench against the wall and picked up my wrist guards. "Peter, you'll have to play squire and help me with these things."
Peter set his drink on the table and joined me. Adam watched us miserably. I looked away to hide my smile. For all his pusillanimous objections, he would do what I wanted because he couldn't think of anything better himself. And I couldn't help noticing that for all his faith in the Lionheart's "judgement", he wasn’t up at the castle making a case to the king. I propped my foot on the bench and laid my wrist on the leather guard on my knee. Peter began to lace the thongs through the holes, humming in snatches under his breath as he worked.
The monk's robe was voluminous but there wasn't much give when it overlay an under-tunic and mail. I adjusted my sword and dagger so that they didn't bulge out in too obvious a manner and then we started out. It was already dark outside but as we climbed the hill towards the castle, it became lighter. At the top I looked around and watched the sun just set below the walls. Through the gloom of the dusk it was a blood-red orb. I turned away, pleased at such an appropriate omen.
The marketplace was deserted, the streets empty of people. Most of the town would be crowding the common tables in the great hall, ready for the pre-nuptial wedding feast. I kicked at a stone in the roadway. A massive expenditure for absolutely nothing, if everything worked the way it was supposed to. I took some comfort from the reflection that by this time my funds would have been depleted and Locksley or Krone would be paying for it.
As could be expected with the king in residence, there were more guards at the gate and they knew their business. No more casual waving through of familiar faces; now proud merchants and local dignitaries were reduced to cringing supplicants under the steely-eyed gazes of well-armed soldiers. Even Adam ran into some obstruction until the senior guard recognized him. Even then the others watched us narrowly as we entered.
It was dark now and we could barely see our breaths misting the air as we trudged through the inner bailey to the main building. More men-at-arms waited there but only to pull open the double doors to the great hall. We passed through and blinked at the scene in front of us.
The doors shut with a bang and cut off the clean, cold air of the night. We were plunged into a fusty atmosphere of scorched meat, barely washed bodies and dog. By the great hearth, cooks cut chunks of beef from roasting carcasses and slapped them down on trenchers for servers who waded into the crowd staggering under their loads. Other servers, now empty-handed, ran back for more. Hounds wearing expensive chain collars that identified them as the king's prowled along the narrow paths between benches looking for scraps of meat. At the end of the row of cooks, servants almost rigid with liveried dignity waited as the best delicacies were prepared for the head table. I looked in that direction and saw that they were all in their proper places: Locksley and Marion, Will Scarlet and Melisant, King Richard and Queen Berengaria, a senior cleric who I didn't know but was probably the new bishop, Walter of Krone and Joya. Locksley and Marion rubbed noses and fed each from their shared trencher. Melisant sat stiff and unhappy beside her soon-to-be husband as he waved at friends and drank too much. The king looked bored, gazing out at the crowded benches under half-closed lids and responding only perfunctorily to his wife's efforts to make conversation. Krone and the bishop were having an intense discussion about something with many hand gestures on both sides. Joya picked at her food and paid no attention to any of them.
As instructed, Adam marched through the crowd to a table where other members of Krone's household sat. He carefully avoided looking at us. Peter and I made our way to an area of the room that seemed to have been set aside for members of various religious orders. We found a table far enough away to avoid even the most casual official notice. I sat with my back to the head table and Peter sat facing me, keeping me advised of everyone's movements. I kept my hood pulled low over my head and listened to him. Aside from a waiter who dropped two full trenchers and goblets of wine in front of us, we attracted no attention.
The noise in the place was uproarious and grew even louder as the night advanced and the wine flowed freely. The king's guards roamed the hall, removing those who became too boisterous and providing an unsubtle hint to everyone else to watch themselves in the royal presence. Used trenchers were thrown to the dogs that fought lustily for the gravy-soaked bread, thus adding even more to the overall din. People turned around in their seats and looked expectantly at the empty space in front of the head table. The noise began to abate. Then a juggler ran into the space with an armful of coloured balls, two tumblers took up positions on either side of him and the night's entertainment was underway.
Careful to keep as much of the cloth as I could over my face, I hazarded a glance over my shoulder. Everyone at the head table was watching the performers. I looked across the room at Adam. His eyes darted in my direction and then back at the players; after a moment, he nodded. I turned my back on the room again. Across from me Peter stared into the depths of his goblet, his white-knuckled grip on the stem the only sign of his tension.
The juggler seemed to be possessed of an almost superhuman energy but no doubt that was just my perception. He finally finished his performance and ran off, followed by his companions. Cheers from the benches echoed to the rafters and easily drowned out the tepid applause from the head table. There was a pause as more wine was brought out and half the cups in the hall were refilled. I dropped my hand to my side and traced the hilt of my sword through the cloth. My ears strained to hear the agreed-on declaration cut through the babble around me. Nothing happened. I flexed my fingers on the sword; from the other side of the table, Peter wrapped his other hand around his goblet.
I was watching Peter's vessel tremble under the pressure of his double hold when it finally came. The general cacophony had diminished to conversational proportions when the sound of a bench scraping against the stone floor indicated someone had stood up. Then Adam's voice rang through the hall and all other talk hushed. Peter and I slumped in our seats with relief.
"I say there will be confusion! We cannot have two weddings without it! Why surely the bishop might marry the wrong bride to the wrong groom." Laughter erupted from the others at his table. He stood up and swayed a bit, as if he'd had too much liquid celebration. "I appeal to everyone here! Is there not a chance that a mistake will be made tomorrow?" More laughter and some around him shouted their answers. The "Aye's" easily drowned out the "Nay's". Adam nodded wisely and gestured with his wine. "It is as I feared. There is no time to lose. We must practice the ceremony so that no errors are made. Master Will," Adam addressed the Locksley end of the head table. "Do you take the Lady Melisant for your lawfully wedded wife? Try to remember if she's the right one." He paused while loud acclamation rang through the hall. It was safe now so I half-turned and watched.
Young Scarlet blinked at the unexpected attention. "Yes, I do. I mean, of course I do!" He glanced at his brother beside him, then scowled at Adam. Melisant stared at Adam, her teeth biting her lower lip. The cheers from the crowd were intermingled with jeers as some took exception to Scarlet's refusal to play along.
When the tumult died down, Adam cleared his throat and hurried on. "And Sir Walter, what about you? Have you been practising your answer so you don't make any mistakes?"
Krone had obviously learned from the earlier example and was ready. "Of course I do! This lovely lady by my side." He leaned over to Joya and lifted her hand to his lips for a kiss. She smiled tightly and pulled away almost immediately.
"No, I don't think so. It was too easy." Adam pretended to consider as he looked around the hall. Anticipatory laughter broke out. "After all, she's sitting right there. But can you pick her out when you're over here?"
The merriment was loud and prolonged. Krone stared at Adam for a long moment, then smiled and picked up his goblet. He rose from his chair and walked around the table, climbed off the dais and crossed the floor. Everyone watched his every move. When he reached Adam's side, he looked back and pretended to scrutinize the front of the room. "Why yes, of course, there she is!" He saluted Joya with his cup, drained it to loud cheering and held it high for everyone to see.
Since many followed his example the servitors passed along the benches again dispersing wine and ale. I got up and slipped through the crowd until I was mere steps away from my quarry and then sat down in a vacant space. I watched as Krone indicated that he wished to return to his seat and Adam prevented it by closing his hand on the other's arm. I untied my belt and secured my dagger.
"No, no Sir Walter. Can't have that. Now we have to rehearse you!" Adam grinned around the room drunkenly. "We want to make sure you get it right. Now everybody say after me: 'Do you take this woman for your wife?'"
"Do you take this woman for your wife?" could barely be understood from the multitude of voices asking it. Everyone watched Krone's reaction.
He was still being big about the whole thing. With a grin he put his hands on his hips and declared in ringing tones, "I do!"
Adam waved his goblet in the air. "Louder!"
"I said, I do!" Krone obeyed.
Adam raised both arms and the crowd responded. "Louder!" I adjusted my stance in preparation.
Krone threw back his head and roared. "I do!"
I stood up and the clerical robes slid off my shoulders and dropped to the floor like cast-off resolutions. My dagger was free and in my hand. In three quick strides I was behind Krone, wrapping my left arm around him and grabbing his chin firmly. I yanked his head back and bared his throat for my right hand, which came up holding the dagger. He gargled something with great emotion but choked it back as I pressed the cold blade to his throat. Around us, the crowd gasped.
"Sorry Krone." I hissed into his ear. "Wrong answer."
"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."
Magda
Sorry for the length but it's all of a piece, - Sunday, October 29, 2000 at 10:51:35 (PST)
MA, sorry for the GB problems you're having. All right, don't worry. We'll look into it. What browser and version are you using?
The GBs are working fine for me, so if anybody else is getting error messages, please let me know.
I used to have a cat who liked to, um, type on the keyboard. But nothing near as legible as these talented pooches. I guess she was chewed on one to many times by the dog. ;-)
I had a wonderful time in Houston. Les Miz was incredible, love the music, Brennan was fantastic! And Renie, the icing on the cake. It was over all to quickly.
Suzanne
*hugs*, Renie, - Sunday, October 29, 2000 at 09:36:01 (PST)
The Stables--Delaford
Tell me. . .
Eamon's words echoed in Therese's mind as she fought to order the conflicting rush of words that rushed to mind at his request. She wanted to scream NO! to deny that this was something of which she was capable, and yet, she knew that if she delved deeper, there was the need, the desire, even, to tell him. Everything. She had fought this, yes, had not wanted it, but knew that her initial urge to bury the memories of The Interrogator and what she had suffered at HIS hands, would have done none of them any good. For the types of wounds she had suffered did not heal cleanly when buried and ignored. No, they needed to be brought out into the light, and cleansed with the salt of tears.
With a small sigh of determination, Therese leant back against Eamon's chest, feeling the solid warmth of him behind her, and drawing from him the strength that she would require. He gripped her tightly in response, then supported her as she moved to face him.
The words, when they finally came, were faltering and piecemeal, but as she continued, her tone grew stronger, her explanations more detailed.
Eamon struggled to remain impassive as Therese spoke, and wondered at his ability to do so.
She told him of the violence, how HE had set the tone when she had regained consciousness by backhanding her, and sending her to the floor. She remembered now, her initial feelings of surprise--she had never been struck by a man before, and her first response was one of shock rather than pain and fear. Those two feelings had come along all too soon.
She recounted for Eamon how HE had toyed with her, that at the time she had told herself that if she just could remain beyond HIS grasp, that she would be okay, but had not realized the impossibility of that goal. HE knew, and used that emotional response as part of HIS plan.
Perhaps of all things, the worst had been that first day, the first hour, really, when HE had caught her and torn the clothes from her body. It had all been inevitable, in hindsight that was plain, but at the time, it was her first glimpse at the powerlessness of her situation.
Eamon knew the basic tenants of interrogation, indeed had even used similar tactics himself. Among soldiers in times of war! he thought to himself angrily. He also knew, all too well, the reasons The Interrogator would have for stripping her. Not a sexual tactic--necessarily---for prisoners of war were frequently left with little or no clothing. It was a mental technique to inspire helplessness and vulnerability, one that was unerringly effective. But Eamon knew Therese well, could imagine the defiance with which she faced HIM, and knew there were far more serious ways to humiliate and demean when faced with such obstinance. His hands clenched tightly as Therese's story progressed, but he had been determined to utter no sound.
Therese paused in her account, saw the tension in Eamon and looked away from him for the first time since she had began. "Would it really matter so much?" she asked him, her voice a mere whisper.
Therese
- Sunday, October 29, 2000 at 07:31:10 (PST)
MA - Fanning madly, for all the good its doing me.
Cindie
- Sunday, October 29, 2000 at 06:21:51 (PST)
Bravo, dearest. And what a delivery . . .
*swordplay*! That deserves a whole plate of Kate's scones!
R, - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 21:30:49 (PDT)
That error is "800c0007." It did it again just now when I posted.
MA
Who would really love it if this bloody thing would just work, y'know?! Grrrrr., - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 20:04:22 (PDT)
Suzanne--as I open this page and the GB, I'm getting some kind of error message about "Cannot open due to error 8000c700" or some such goofiness. The page does open, but doesn't load fully, and I notice that the bat icon here at FOF and the pumpkin icon at the GB are messed up. Could these be causing the problem, or is the problem affecting them, I wonder? Strange; it wasn't doing this earlier.
MA
Anyone else having trouble like this?, - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 20:02:20 (PDT)
WOW, dearest! We posted about four minutes apart--how close is THAT?! Ah, well, great minds and all . . . ;-D
MA
Closing those bed-hangings, fast--no peeking!!!, - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 19:09:36 (PDT)
Delaford. Brandon’s chambers:
Brandon’s remark about his Salamanca sends Mary Anne into her own bout of giggles, and she cannot resist. "Well, Christopher, you know how much I enjoy . . . swordplay," and then they are both howling once more, until Mary Anne has to stop and wipe away tears of mirth. "Ooooh, that’s better, now. I thought I was going to hurt myself."
"I cannot remember," agrees Brandon, "when I have laughed so, about anything. Perhaps the pies, at the Safehouse? And the water fight?"
Mary Anne is all smiles, remembering. "Or maybe when Sinclair and the twins walked in on us, in the sitting room."
"You were the one laughing then, as I recall. Though what was so amusing—"
"As if you have to ask. What the poor man must have been thinking! To walk in like that and find us . . . and you with your coat off and your shirt open and that crop in your hand, for heaven’s sake—"
Brandon grimaces, remembering Sinclair’s openly speculative look as he had hustled the twins out of the sitting room, though he does finally allow a reluctant smile, thinking of how Mary Anne had burst into laughter seconds later. "The amusement was all in his mistake. If I had truly been about what he assumed . . . that would not have been amusing."
That sobers Mary Anne. "No, it would not."
Brandon retrieves the paperback and flips through the pages for a moment. "And yet, such treatment—and worse—qualifies here as entertainment."
"Many things do, as . . . fiction." Glancing at the gaudy cover art on this particular work of fiction, she refrains from calling it literature.
He sets down the book. "What, then, of reality?"
Brandon’s voice is soft and deep . . . and his eyes are inches away. Mary Anne is suddenly aware once more of his proximity in the armchair, the warmth of him close to her, the reminders of his muscular solidity at every slight shift of his body: two people will fit in this chair, yes, but it is not exactly . . . comfortable. Not for long.
"Reality?" she echoes.
Brandon does not answer in words, but reaches out once more and lifts her hand, as though to kiss it; however, he pushes back the lacy sleeve of her robe and there, plain upon her wrist, are his fingermarks.
Mary Anne risks one glance at Brandon’s face, but he is not looking at her—he is studying those marks, as if he can will them away, and with them, that entire night when, driven by The Interrogator’s drug, he had carried her away in his arms and loved her with a ferocity of passion she had never suspected, never dreamed . . .
Mary Anne shakes off her reverie. These things do not appear to Brandon as they do to her; that much is obvious. If he had deliberately hurt her, that would have been different—but he had not.
Silently, Mary Anne picks up the book and leafs through it, and then, finding the passage she seeks, begins to read aloud.
"Jewel herself understood that she should have been wild with terror, but felt herself wilder instead with something beyond all fear. Anger? No. Perhaps she would be—should be—enraged, later, that this man seemed to know her own body better than she did, that he understood, from the light brush of his lips against her skin to the sure touch of his fingertips to a whispered word in her ear, how to melt and inflame her and vanquish all resistance. I want him, she thought, even as he drew from her gasps and sobs of longing, a small cry of ‘Please, please . . .’ I should hate him for this—for all of it—but I want him. I don’t know anything, but I do know that . . . God help me . . .
He murmured comfort to her, even as with lips and tongue and fingertips he exacted his sweet revenge for all of her hard words to him. ‘Trust me—will you trust me, my darling? Even after all that I have said, you must know I would not hurt you for the world. Trust me to please you and not to hurt you.’
He required no reply of her save her inarticulate whimper of desire, her body rising to meet him as . . . "
Mary Anne falls silent.
The flames hiss in the fireplace.
Mary Anne closes the book and carefully sets it aside before turning back to Brandon. "I . . ."
He can hear her breathing, can almost hear her heart beating, even over the crackle of the fire.
"I . . . believe this is the part where . . ." A tiny smile. " . . . you’re supposed to ravish me, sir."
Brandon leans forward, closing the small distance between them and pushing Mary Anne’s hair aside to set a lingering kiss on her throat, and as she shivers against him, he replies, "Then ravish you I will." (homage) And even as he rises from the chair she is in his arms, each loving the other in the slow walk across the room to the bed with its emerald counterpane and hangings, such as might have inspired Solomon the poet-king in yet another story of romance:
Our bed is green, and pleasant . . .
Thou hast ravished my heart with one glance of thine eyes . . .
MA--Renie, I told you I'd find a way to work in that line! 8-) Hope you and Suzanne are having a wonderful time.
"Then ravish you I will." Sherri Browning, Once Wicked, - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 19:03:58 (PDT)
*snicker* Cannot resist (as some of you obviously have) the observation that FOF has gone to the dogs . . . .
Apparently, well-educated and bred dogs, at that. ;-)
Take a bow-wow
With a Houston woo-hoo to the Empress, then back behind the curtain--R, - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 18:59:48 (PDT)
Rosie,
I'm not allowed to eat rawhide either and I don't have a cat to chew on like Tory and Baxter do, but I do have a really great chew toy called a "Gallileo" bone. They're a yummy beef flavor and it lasts a long, long time. It helps to keep my teeth nice and white too. I also have lots of toys to play with, tons of attention, and while I'm not into the Teletubbies, I do watch Animal Planet and the Cartoon Network when my humans aren't around.
Oliver
Sitting back and watching the "Scooby Movies Marathon" on the Cartoon Network, - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 15:17:36 (PDT)
Rosie,
Please tell your mum that chopped, pressed rawhide treats aren't harmful to us. The whole ones are too tempting, and sometimes we like to swallow large pieces, which can lead to the blockages she mentioned. The chopped ones crumble when we eat them, leaving a delightful mess on the floor.
Tory and I still prefer chewing on the cat, however.
Baxter
Tory's buddy--who doesn't walk the boards, - Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 14:39:08 (PDT)
Perhaps some of you would like to join me at Delaford sometime? It's a very large place with lots of room to run and many fun things to do, and the lady of the house believes in spoiling animals at every possible opportunity. My Colonel is good to animals, too.
And don't be afraid of the housekeeper. Her bark is worse than her bite.
Woofs,
Nox
- Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 14:08:17 (PDT)
Hi-this is Rosebud, known as Rosie-I am a nine pound smooth mini dachsund little girl, and my mama says that I can't have rawhide, because it can get into my intestines and cause a blockage--I wish I could have it, as I bet it is nice to chew on, but my mama won't let me-BTW, I get to watch the telly when my humans are not home-teletubbies is my favorite, then animal planet!!
Rosie's mama-a Rickman admirer
- Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 13:58:47 (PDT)
Lassie
Apparantly your person isn't quite so accomodating as mine. I mean, after all, much as women were once considered property of men, animals are still considered property of their owners. Barbaric, yes--but that is the situation which prevails. That said, I frequently stay at home, in bed, while my person heads off to work. When I go with her, I am left with an assortment of toys and rawhides, as well as not having anyone around to tell me to stop chewing on the cat. My every need is met, my every comfort seen to, and I've no doubt whatsoever that my person is mine to command. In fact, I've little doubt that she wouldn't know what to do without me.
No, my lot in life does not warrant complaint.
Tory
- Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 13:40:35 (PDT)
i would like to lodge a protest. surely it is some code violation to keep such obviously clever canines penned up in a cube all day. it may be all right for you humans but dogs know better. we demand larger quarters and bigger speaking, er, woofing parts. also, bones from the commissary and the right to associate with others of our kind.
Lassie
- Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 12:16:00 (PDT)
Off set--FOF
Therese headed back to her cubicle, the skin of her face shiney from scrubbing off the make-up lines that Dev had created on her features. She knew that she had some writing to do--it was never a good idea to keep The Director waiting, besides, she knew she needed some time to unwind given her previous shoot and some heavy scenes ahead. As she approached her desk, however, what she saw there did nothing to bring her any sense of calm.
The wooden baby gate that prevented Tory from running amok on the set was jauntily askew, tipping sideways from one corner as if the hind leg of a certain German Shepherd might have caught it in mid-jump.
Therese sighed. Everyone who knew Tory was accustomed to her antics, and realized that even though her puppyish enthusiasm was occassionally boisterous, she was completely harmless. Those who were new to the set, however, might be alarmed at her appearance.
She was standing outside of her office, briefly undecided at which way to proceed, when a low, startled human yelp of surpris ewas heard, followed closely by the same voice proclaiming, "Good Lord!"
Therese set off at a run.
Tearing around the corner, Therese could see four figures grouped at the end of the hall, two canine, two human--two of whom were obviously in distress. Tory, however, had no such qualms, and her tail waved wildly, brown eyes gleaming in mischief. "So sorry--didn't mean for her to frighten you," Therese gasped, coming to a standstill in front of the others. "I hadn't realized she'd escaped from my office." She paused, taking in the identity of the man who stood patiently watching. "Alexander Dane! Uh, Sir--oh my, it's a pleasure to meet you--I uh. . .wow. . ." she finished lamely. He looked down upon Therese skeptically. "Indeed," he commented, "the pleasure is mine. It seems that all the dogs in this place are escape artists." Therese was mesmerized by the voice, astounded by the presence of a man she had always considered to be one of the finest Shakespearian actors of his time. Sure, there was that one television show--but it certainly didn't impact on an unparalelled stage career. She looked at him dumbly. "Five curtain calls. . ." she finally managed to stammer. "Pardon me?" he responded, his tone cold. "I'm sorry, sir--I don't mean to gawk. I have just always adored your work. Your Richard the III was incredible--beyond words." He considered her. "You saw that show?" "Twice." "This isn't some joke?" he demanded. "Heavens, no!" Therese assured him. "I was an English majour at university, then taught before I started acting." "You're not suddenly going to ask me to quote some silly piece of science fiction rubbish?" "I've never even seen the show," she assured him, stretching the truth only minutely. He extended his hand with only a minor amount of hesitance. "In that case, it's a pleasure to meet you--" "Therese--Therese Gellert." Therese shook the hand that was extended to her, and then offered similar greetings to Sandy before corraling her errant pooch, and leaving off with assurances that Tory would not be running around unescorted in the future. "We'll have to make arrangements for these two to play together again sometime, Sandy, it was lovely to finally get to meet you." "Thanks, Therese, we'll have to do that," Sandy replied, her smile warm. Turning back toward her cubicle, dragging along an obviously unrepentant Tory with her, she could distinctly hear the carrying, Shakespearian tones of Alexander Dane comment, "No one ever told me when I'd signed on that this place was going to the dogs. . ." FOF Set – The South Rose Garden: The roses were long past their peak but even this late in the season there were still blooms. Patrick and Cindie strolled along the path, Patrick pointing out the various varieties. “They are mostly modern roses that were bred with the old fashions, that way we get the look of the old roses but the repeat blooming patterns of the modern varieties. Helps extend the blooms for a longer shooting season.” Cindie listened, her attention to him complete. She was very interested in what he was saying but in truth she would listen to him speak on any topic. His voice, so , so… everything she could want a voice to be. She sighed and looked up at him. “I’m not being tedious am I?” he enquired. She shook her head and rested it on his upper arm. Her arms entwined around his forearm. Their pace was leisurely. Their universe, for a time, contained in this garden. They walked on and he continued in his mode of guide, pointing out all the David Austin’s by name. At length he stopped and turned to face her. He held her hands in both of his own and indicated towards a wrought iron bench. It was nestled among an arbor threaded with a lovely pink climbing rose with petite blossoms. The flowers were small but their fragrance heady. “So, have you decided?” she began, as they sat down. “Decided what?” he asked in turn, looking perplexed. “What you’re going to do with me.” Such a mild question but fraught with possibilities that made him ache. “I haven’t worked out all the details yet,” was all the reply he allowed. “You’ll keep me posted?” “On a need to know basis.” She laughed. “I should be at least annoyed, but I can’t bring myself to be. But I do want to ask you something, in all seriousness,” she paused, this was not easy for her. “Do you really think I am afraid of you?” Her look was all sincerity. He searched her eyes, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings but he owed her an honest response. “Yes, I do.” Her heart sank. “I also don’t blame you.” He took her hand. His gaze was level but softened by the feelings it conveyed. “I play a bleak and evil man. It is bound to be – disconcerting.” “I might be afraid of HIM. Any sane woman would be,” she protested, as though accused of something terrible. “Yes, of course. But you need to come to terms with the fact that it’s me behind the character.” “It would be much easier if you were there while I watched you be HIM.” “Yes, I see what you mean.” He smiled but there was no derision in his manner, “You didn’t think that would make sense to me did you?” He absently plucked a blossom and twirled it by its short stem. “Actually, I counted on it making sense to you.” He put his arm around her and she nestled there, any concerns forgotten for the moment. After a while he stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. “Do you have a costume in mind for the party?” he asked her. “Yes, it came to me just a bit ago.” A trace of a smile played about her lips. He waited for her to continue, but when she did not he asked, “are you going to tell me what it is?” “It’s on a need to know basis.” She arched an eyebrow, “suffice it to say, you’re going to get the surprise of your life.” “I’m not easily surprised.” “Good, then this will be something you’ll remember.” He gave her a sidelong glance, half incredulous, half wondering, but said nothing. He stood up, and extended his hand. “Back to the salt mines.” “I seem to be forever taking your hand.” She did take his hand and stood up. “Back to the salt mines indeed. No rest for the wicked.” “But you, my dear, are far from wicked.” Cindie just smiled. They headed back, arm and arm again. The Stables, Delaford Eamon's eyes followed Therese's gaze as she took in the appearance of the terrified, struggling mare, and he stepped behind her, supporting her body as her knees buckled at the horror of the sight. Easing her gently back into the tack room, he lowered himself to the floor, cradling her on his lap. He soothed her with soft endearments, spoken in the gentle lilt of the Gaelic tongue, knowing that for the moment there was little he could do other than to hold her. Therese had her demons to slay, and until she would allow him to be her confidant, there was little he could do. For a decisive man of action such as himself, it was a poignant torture. For in his arms he held the one person for whom he would do anything: he had told her once he could not give up the Irish cause for her, but he knew now that this was untrue. Should it have been required, he would have left Ireland, laid down his life, or sold his very soul. . .for her, anything. But to have him remain thus? Impassive and unable to do something--anything? He wanted to fight for her, to provide for her, and of all things, he wanted to feel his hands upon The Interrogator, his fingers tightening slowly around that creature's throat, delicately squeezing the very breath of life from his body, one long heartbeat after another, until HE was no more. Eamon considered this thought, pulled it forth and examined it as if it were a living, breathing entity. He had not taken a life in such a manner before, and had never imagined it was something of which he would be capable. Yes, he had fought, yes, he had killed, but they were honest, fair fights, battles for a larger cause, and conflicts which could not be resolved by other means. In those instances he and those who had come to their demise were merely pawns in a much larger game--one in which he well knew that his fate might rest. In this instance, however, there was no larger picture. He wished to eliminate The Interrogator out of pure, simple, human desire, in the most personal manner possible. Eamon knew that The Emperess would never allow him this. She was a fair ruler, an intelligent and brilliant strategist worthy of any kingdom--but in this instance, he could not bring himself to see the sanity in her rule. He knew himself to be a loyal subject of the realm, but in this instance, he knew he would go against the express wishes of her majesty, without regret or hesitation, if ever given even the most remote chance. He was silent after a moment, the lilting sound of his voice fading in the small room, replaced only by the faint noises still audible from outside the door. He imagined the horse would have been contained by now, and was safely in one of the large box stalls where she could be looked after properly--should the animal ever allow a human hand upon her again. His hands played gently over her shoulders, neck, and arms, for he could not be this close to her and resist touching. She responded to his ministrations, hesitantly at first, then leaning into the strength of his fingers as they eased the knotted muscles and worked the tension from her form. Placing a single hand upon his cheek she turned to look at him, the struggle plain within her features. Taking a deep breath she said, "Eamon, there are some things I must speak of. . ." With a slight intake of breath he clutched her to his body, holding her close against him. Could he begin to hope that she would finally be able to confide in him at last? He buried his head in the silky blonde hair below his chin, breathing in the scent of her. Would he be strong enough to listen to what she must now say? "Tell me." Oh, you guys slay me! *grin* I don't think any of us will ever regard Christopher Brandon's Salamanca in quite the same light. Yow, Magda--that may be a trifle harsh! *grin* Though there could be a compliment buried in there as well, I suppose. ;-) Call it what it is: his brain. you people are embarrasing me-considering halloween--something along the "Vlad the impaler" line? ROFL, I've heard it called an awful lot of things, but a SWORD??? Ouch! Now, let's see...someone I know used to call it his instrument...and I've heard love banana too... oh oh, let me try! How about his "throbbing attraction"? But I prefer Ling's term (not used in romance novels) the "dumb stick". ROFL!! Suzanne, I think you're going to be absolutely forced to put the "No porn, please" disclaimer back. Rather quickly, too! ;-) Hey! Since we seemed to have dropped the rating on this here guestbook of Suzanne's. . .does that mean we can get away with saying things like-- Turgid manroot!? Delaford. Brandon’s chamber: "’--choice is not yours, my lady wife. I could take you and have done with it—‘" Mary Anne smiles to herself, remembering a pageant for the good people of Egdon Heath, and a particular scene: Brandon, as The Highwayman, addressing the audience. His growl of, "Oh, proud, disdainful beauty! I could take her by force—" She can remember well the quiver that had passed through her that evening, as Brandon had declaimed that line with a black frown that elicited gasps from the spellbound playgoers. And then, the line that followed: "—but force is not the way to a woman’s heart." She can still hear, even now, the ripple of sighs from practically every woman in the house . . . every woman, that is, who had still been conscious. Brandon, meanwhile, continues reading with spirit and gusto—perhaps a bit too much, as though he relishes the task for its very absurdity. "’--and I would be within my rights. Were I such a man as you seem to have expected, I would have you in my bed at this very moment, and you would have no recourse but to submit.’" Mary Anne closes her eyes, the better to concentrate on Brandon’s voice—and the better to dwell on her thankfulness that she has such a husband as Brandon. No matter the melodrama of the novel, she knows it had been the fate of many young women to find themselves married to men they had never seen until the wedding day, matched for convenience, knowing little or nothing about the physical side of the business . . . inexperienced though she had been that first night with Brandon, she had at least understood what to expect and had given herself to a patient, gentle, loving man. How terrifying it would all have been with a man whose only concern was his own gratification . . . With a little shiver, Mary Anne opens her eyes. "’Then take your ‘rights,’ sir, and be damned to you!’" "That’s telling him," murmurs Mary Anne, watching Brandon from the corner of her eye, seeing his lips curve into a smile, though he continues his reading. "Jewel knew her defiance for the paltry thing it was--" Abruptly Brandon breaks off the reading. "Jewel, yet." He laughs, softly, and Mary Anne feels her skin tingle at the sound of it. "Aptly named, for a woman who is abducted by a highwayman!" Mary Anne nods, grinning. "They generally have names like that. Jewel and Flame and Storm—" "Storm? Let a man look well to himself, if he gives his heart to a Storm!" "Or a Flame, as well. You obviously haven’t read enough of these novels, Christopher," needles Mary Anne. "It doesn’t do for the heroine to have a practical everyday name, like Jane, or Sarah, or Mary . . . or Anne." Holding the book in one hand and keeping his place in it with his thumb, Brandon reaches out with his free hand to lift Mary Anne’s fingers to his lips. "And yet . . . there is many a jewel among such names as these." Mary Anne smiles her thanks, and looks a thousand other things. "And many a flame and storm, as well." A pause. "Keep reading, Christopher." "Very well." He withdraws his hand and devotes himself once more to the book. "Jewel knew her defiance for the paltry thing it was, seeing in her captor’s stance that ruthless power capable of exciting both fear and fascination, understanding that she had no least chance of resistance . . ." Brandon raises an eyebrow as he glances further down the page, scanning what lies ahead. "And she does not seem any too alarmed at the prospect, either." "It’s fiction, sir. Pure escapist fantasy." "She does not seem intent on escaping, that is for certain." "Nor should she be. Read." Brandon makes it through a few paragraphs without feeling the need to comment on the narrative, as the highwayman attempts a gentler approach. "’—give you pleasure as well, my sweet.’ "Jewel gasped as he let fall the remainder of his garments and stood before her, triumphantly revealed, his--" Brandon turns the page, and Mary Anne sees his mouth open as if to continue the line, but then he stops and stares in unbelief. There is a small, strangled noise, followed by an outburst of coughing, as the book slides from his helpless fingers. "Christopher, what--? Are you all right?" And then, once the coughing has cleared—Brandon goes off into that rare thing for him, an absolute roar of laughter. So infectious is his mirth that Mary Anne laughs with him, though she has no idea of why, until she retrieves the book and, finding the passage in question, ruefully exclaims, "Oh, I had forgotten that part!" "Part?" chokes Brandon, still laughing. "Pun intended, my dearest?" Getting himself under control with a mighty effort, he draws a deep breath, though an explosion of hilarity still threatens. "Do all novels of this type employ such terms?" He shakes his head. "Love-sword, indeed. In all honesty, I shall never regard my Salamanca in the same light again!" Correction made. Oh darn, that should have been "dark and tapping shoes". One pair of shoes, not 2 :^D FOF Set - after the last Ed and Claudia Scene: “God, I’m getting fed up with this, its so depressing!” said Claudia picking up the prop bottle of red wine from the table on her way out and taking a swig, then setting it down again with a grimace. It was really cranberry juice. “I thought things were going to get fun again when I knocked you to the floor.” Ed grinned, and poked her in the rips with his index finger. “You have no one to blame but yourself. You wrote the thing!” “Yes, but its got to be realistic! We can’t just make up and be lovey-dovey and everything’s fixed, just like that. I have to put a bit of heart-wrenching stuff in there.” They made their way out of the studio and along the corridor towards all the writer’s workspaces. “Well, you’ve done that alright. You could have written a better make-up scene though.” “Oh, yes? And what do you suggest? I tell the Director that I’m not happy with the last few scenes, and can he please destroy the film and let me write something new? I don’t think so!” “Hardly appropriate, especially when some of it has gone to air already. Come here, I’ll show you my suggestions.” Ed grabbed her hand and pulled her into the nearest doorway, pushed her against the door, and held her firmly so she couldn’t escape. Claudia had no intention of trying to escape. Instead she threw her head back and laughed, as Ed kissed her neck, tickling with his hairy chin. “Don’t! We’ll get into trouble!” “As if that ever bothered you before,” mumbled Ed into her neck, as his fingers walked up her ribcage tickling as they went. Claudia squirmed under his touch and half-heartedly tried to push him away. “Oh, Ed, stop it!” Just then the door they were leaning on opened, and Claudia and Ed fell through the opening, sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs, their noses inches from a pair of dark and tapping shoes. "Awwwww, who's a sweetie then?" Chris smiles down at the exited dog, who is now attempting to climb the bookcase. "Oops, you'd better grab him Sandy, before he elopes with me!" Sandy quickly picks Ollie up and holds him up to Chris to say hello. Chris goes through the almost automatic hand-sniffing, with added hand-licking, and moves in closer, receiving a huge, wet, slobbery kiss from the exited dog. All three laugh as Ollie tries to climb out of Sandy's arms to the wild world outside the cubicle. "I was actually looking for the canteen," Chris explains, as Sandy puts the poodle down on the floor again. "I took a wrong turn and ended up going round in a circle-I even ended up back at my own desk!" "Oh Chris, how did you manage to do that! That's pretty good even for your sense of direction!" Sandy turns to Alex and says "Chris was always getting lost for like the first three weeks where we used to work-and that was a clearer layout than here." Alex just groans in response, raising his eyes to the ceiling, finally saying "Not another one!" The two girls look at him curiously, but decide not to pursue the comment. "So, can either of you point me in the right direction? I should be able to find it if I can just get my bearings again." Sandy points towards the end of the corridor, and gives some rudimentary directions. "Thanks Sandy, I'll be back later to play with Ollie some more! Right now, I need my tea!" And she wanders off in renewed search of the elusive water. In the Green Room--FoF Set "Here, go like this." Therese couldn't manage to quite surpress her giggle as Eamon knelt before her in the make-up chair, making what she had dubbed a 'squinchy fish face' for her to duplicate. "Do you have any idea how silly you look?" she asked between chuckles. Eamon sighed. It hadn't escaped his notice that Therese seemed to take perverse satisfaction at witnessing him in undignified situations. "If you don't make these 'squinchy fish faces' for me, I can't see the natural lines of your face, and then the make-up will merely look as if there were lines drawn on your face, rather than accentuating the desired effect." Therese shook her head, "Why thank you Mr. Make Up 101--I have done this myself a time or two you know." "Look, you're the one who thought we should practice this several days before the actual event," Eamon said, standing upright once again, and tossing the soiled scrap of base applicator foam into the rubbish bin. He turned the swinging chair she sat in around to face the mirrored wall on the opposite side of the room. "So are you going to behave yourself or not?" "Yes sir, I am going to cooperate!" Therese remarked, giving Dev a jaunty salute. "I am skeptical, at best," Eamon commented dryly, before continuing on with the description of what he would do to complete the make-up. He drew detailed lines across Therese's cheeks and brow, extending the length of her forehead to encompass the additional eyebrows she would require, as well as enlarging her eyes, and deepening the facial cranial gaps alongside her mouth. He indicated the sfx that would go into those areas, commenting on the anticipated effect. "You're really good at this," Therese commented, her tone serious once again. "Yes, well not all of us started out at the top, as you did, with special staff about to do this sort of thing for you. I'm afraid that most of us spent a great deal of time in far more minor productions, where we dealt with every aspect of production. You pick up on things as you go along--you'd be surprised at the get-ups I've been forced into over the years, things that would probably even make your leprechan idea seem bearable. NOT, mind, that I would consider it, not even for you," he quickly added, sensing her train of thought. "Given your reaction, what could possibly have been worse than you being one of the wee folk?" "Imagine me as a woman for a moment--should you dare." "A woman? Eamon, oh. . ." Therese burst into giggles again as she considered Dev's distinct features. "You are a devestatingly handsome man, my dear, but you, female? WOOF!" Eamon scowled down at her, and taking her by one arm, pulled her out of the chair. "My mistake for mentioning it, I see," he groused, plunking himself down in her place. "Your turn to work on me, woman--we need the hair to be a bit longer, and more blond." "Right away, ma'am," Therese deadpanned, lightly stepping aside from Dev's arm which shot out to grab at her shoulder. "Temper, temper," she admonished him, "you are soon to be at my mercy." "As if that would be a novel feeling," he responded, crossing his arms tightly over his chest before leaning back in the chair. Therese quickly set to work, organizing the materials she had brought with her along the props counter, before setting to work with her brush. Combing Eamon's hair straight back, she ran her fingers through it gently, looking for the natural end to his existing layers. He groaned in pleasure at her ministrations. "Well you're certainly easy to pacify," she commented, tipping him backward slightly so she could better reach the back of his head. "You get away with bloody murder 'round me, and you well know it," Dev grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes drooping closed. "Fair enough," Therese conceded, continuing with her task. After adding the weaves to provide length, she quickly powdered his hair, working it through his darker locks until they took on a lighter hue. "We'll use real hair powder on the night of the party, but I just grabbed baby power for now. How does it look?" she asked, passing him a hand mirror. Dev looked at himself curiously in the reflection, holding the glass above him so he could see the back of his head. "You've got me looking like Mesmer!" he exclaimed. "I don't think Franz would approve." Therese considered him carefully--then reached for the hair gel she'd brought along with her other supplies. "Here, this will fix that." With a liberal application of gel, and a deft sweep of the comb, she smiled at her success. Eamon nodded his approval, "Much more the effect we were after." Therese gave him a wicked grin. "Ladies and gentleman, children of all ages--I bring to you in the center ring--" Can't eat, (woa ooo), can't sleep, (woa,ooo) gonna have to face it you're addicted to angst... Claudia and Ed had moved their reunion to the sofa, where they sat, torsos twisted so they faced each other, and arms held out in front, as if they were about to play pat-a-cake. But instead of a clapping game, their finger tips touched, were moving slowly, intertwining as if playing an invisible game of cat’s cradle. “It’s hard for me to talk about what’s inside, the ideas and feelings have only had each other for company. I find it so difficult to make sense of everything myself, let alone make you understand.” Claudia was trying hard to tell Ed everything, more than she had before but the words wouldn’t untangle themselves. “I know… my anger and frustration has made it the same for me. I want to shout and scream at you, because I’m frightened of what I’ll say and what I’ll hear if we talk calmly.” His fingers stopped their circling, and he grasped her hands tightly in his own. “But we have to. We can’t have any secrets… I have to know.” “I’ve told you before Ed, I gave myself up to the cause. I thought I was doing the right thing, and I would have done anything to make the plan work. To make HIM trust me. Of course, I can see now, HE was playing me. He was pushing buttons HE knew would get a certain reaction, would make me want to please HIM. I had the hardest time coming to terms with my feelings, because HE knew precisely how to get me hooked. HE knew how to get me addicted to HIM, and so guarantee my loyalty.” “You slept with HIM.” Ed had known this all along, but saying it out loud made his lips tremble. Claudia wasn’t sure if he was about to boil over and yell at her, or burst into tears. “Yes…” she squeezed his fingers. “But it was more than that… it was like I let myself go… I was falling into a dark hole. I gave myself up to HIM, and I thought HE’d stolen my soul. I knew why I was there, but I didn’t ever see myself getting away. Even if my plan had been successful, I didn’t see myself ever leaving that hole… ever being accepted in the outside world again.” A single tear rolled down Ed’s cheek, and was mirrored by another falling from Claudia’s lashes. “You break my heart. You gave up yourself for what? To know you’d finally beaten the Interrogator? All you’ve done is help HIM make us all suffer more.” “I know…” breathed Claudia, and fell into his arms, held onto him tightly as if it were for the last time, then stood up. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you again, before the trial. I don’t know what the Empress has in mind. But I do love you Ed, believe me. I’m in way over my head, and I wish it would all just stop, but I have to face up to what I’ve done.” “You haven’t done anything…” “I’ve done everything, and I’ve probably damned my soul into the bargain. I only wanted to help my friends… and now I have none.” There was a knock at the door, and they both looked at each other wide-eyed, and full of hurt and love for each other. “Looks like I have to go. But I’m glad I got to see you again.” “You aren’t lost… I can rescue you.” “We’ll see.” She smiled and blew him a kiss. “You’re too good, Ed.” “And you’re so infuriating!” Claudia turned to the door and said, “Come in, I think we’re finished.” *he he* Thanks! I think he's cute, too. "You shall be sure of me darling..." said the flying bat. FOF Set, Sandy’s cubicle: Alexander smiled as Oliver continued wagging his tail, gazing up at the new arrival. "Hello Oliver," he said, and the dog’s ears perked up with interest and his head cocked to one side. "He likes you already," Sandy noted, chuckling as Oliver turned his head back to her. "Come here," she beckoned and picked up the dog. Once comfortably nestled in her arms, he turned and licked her on the cheek, making her laugh. "I love you too, you nut." Sandy turned to Alexander with shining eyes. "Why don’t you use a puppy gate?" he asked. "He’s been able to jump them since he was about 5 months and he's four now. Could you hold him while I push the bookcase aside?" she asked. "I don’t want him running around loose in the office. He’s very good but on rare occasions he decides to be a mischief-maker and he’s rather quick on his toes. I don’t feel like chasing him. He gets the idea that it's a game and just as I think he's going to come over, he takes off," she explained as she scratched between Oliver’s ears. The dog made a noise of complete contentment and placed his head on her shoulder as she continued. "Much like his owner – at least in the mischief making sense," Alexander teased with a wink. "Ha, ha, ha. Very funny, Alex. You should be a comedian," Sandy replied with a mock scowl before returning the wink. "What are you doing here so early, anyway?" Alexander automatically balled his right hand into a fist and put it towards the dog’s long elegant muzzle so he could sniff before replying. "I have an on set call for 7:30. Madness, absolute madness, I tell you," he groaned unhappily. "I heard the squeaking and I decided to investigate," he explained with a soft sigh. Oliver placed a very cold, wet nose on Alexander’s hand and licked it. "See, he likes you. Ollie has good taste," Sandy said with a grin. Alexander’s left eyebrow shot up. "You’re sure he’s not checking to see if I taste good?" Sandy’s laughter rang out. "I’m positive that he likes you. Are you ready for him?" Alexander nodded and held his arms out so Sandy could pass Oliver over. Once settled into his arms, Oliver looked into Alexander’s face with intelligent deep brown eyes for a moment before he licked Alexander’s cheek. "Yuck! He’s very affectionate, isn’t he?" Alexander asked, chuckling as the dog licked him again. Sandy looked up from pushing the bookcase aside. "Yes, and he’s a complete ham too." She stepped aside so Alexander could enter before she blocked the entrance again. "Down you go," Alexander said as he lowered the dog to the floor, who immediately walked over to a small pile of toys, took one that looked like a figure eight and laid down on a dog bed after circling a few times. The loud squeaking noise started up again as the dog chewed happily. "Please, have a seat Alex," Sandy invited Alexander to sit down. "Thanks." He stretched out his long legs. "It feels good to relax before I get my daily dose of sand dumped on me. We’re all placing bets as to when we get a script that just says: cast stands in a line, a large truck pulls up, dumps sand on everyone and drives away," he remarked. Sandy looked up from her typing and chuckled evilly. "That’s my next script, if you want to know the truth." Alexander rolled his eyes before starting to laugh. "I asked for that, didn’t I?" "Yes, you did. By the way, you get a break from having sand dumped on you today. The new supply came in last night, and it’s pink," Sandy informed him. "Pink sand? You're kidding." Alexander’s eyes widened in astonishment. "Yup. I think the props department is going to try to dye it or something like that," Sandy nodded. Alexander snickered. "Good luck to them. Did you see the Halloween party invitation?" He looked down when he felt his leg being poked and saw Oliver leaning his head on his leg with the toy figure eight in his mouth, tail wagging. "You want to play, huh?" he murmured, taking the other end of the toy. He was surprised at the strength in the little dog’s tugging. "Yes I did and I have no idea what to wear," Sandy replied, looking up from her typing. "Perhaps you’d like to reprise your Doctor L..." she started to say and giggled when Alexander’s head shot up, an expression of outrage crossing his features. "I’m kidding, Alex! Really!" Alexander’s features softened and he returned the smile before gazing at Oliver. "There’s times when I really question your owner’s sanity," he confided softly. Oliver wagged his tail in complete agreement. "HEY! Cut that out. Oh, that script you suggested is looking really good right now," Sandy mock-threatened before dissolving into merry laughter, Alexander joining her. "I knew that was you! You’re the only person that would be in here at this ungodly hour. Sandy, when are you going to stop torturing poor Alex? Oh, you brought in Ollie, too!" a female voice filled with laughter interrupted them. The two looked up and saw Chris standing behind the bookcase, carrying a teapot in her hand. Delaford—Brandon’s chambers: Though Brandon had made no objections to her remaining present during his bath, Mary Anne finds that this time together is not turning out as she expected. Her husband voices no objections to her presence . . . nor to her assistance, and makes not the least attempt to conceal his pleasure in the situation, yet is plainly content to let matters develop in a more leisurely fashion. Though his desire for her is flatteringly evident, Brandon makes no move to take her at once into his arms when he leaves the bath, though he does grin a little as she slips her arms around him and makes a point of breathing deeply. "Mmmmmmmmm," she murmurs. Warmth, fresh soap and damp skin, and Brandon’s own scent, that dark note like cinnamon . . . after a moment, Mary Anne remembers to breathe again. Brandon smiles into her hair. "An improvement over this afternoon, I trust?" "Somewhat. Though the other had its charms as well." Gently, Brandon sets her back from him as he finishes towelling away the last of the water, and though Mary Anne is beginning to be puzzled, she cannot deny the effect this has on her: to watch Brandon, whom she has always known as a physically private and modest man, drying himself off in her presence without the least trace of self-consciousness . . . Well, this is a change from old times, reflects Mary Anne, seating herself on the bed, prompted to do so by the sudden weakening of her knees. It is only now becoming clear to her that Brandon’s modesty, as she had always perceived it, was all of a piece with his concern for her reputation and his determination to win her trust. At times doubting his ability to control himself, he had controlled their circumstances instead. As far as he could. She does not have to think hard to remember those times when the barriers had given way—The Interrogator’s cell; the sitting room of the Manor House; Brandon’s own bedchamber in the Manor, when she had awakened him from his nightmare . . . Simultaneously absorbed in her reverie and the contemplation of her husband’s body, Mary Anne at first misses the look he turns upon her, and his smile, amused and tender, waiting . . . He does not wait long before she takes in the look on his face, and her own eyes narrow in speculation. "Christopher . . . now you’re just showing off!" "Well, if that is not permitted with one’s own wife . . ." "You know what I mean. You are driving this wife, who happens to adore you, absolutely insane." It appears that Brandon is in a mood to tease. A bit. "Now, Mary Anne, it is said that good things come to those who wait . . ." She allows her gaze to travel over him, her eyes gone smoke-blue. "I can well believe that," she drawls, leaving the bed and once more insinuating herself into his arms. "Tell me more about these, ahhh, good things," she purrs, smiling against Brandon’s chest at the unmistakable tremble in his fingers as they pass over her. So he wants to play teasing games, does he? We’ll see about that. She notes with pleasure—which she does not bother to conceal—that Brandon has a great deal more difficulty moving her away from him this time, though she acquiesces gracefully, intrigued by the spark in his eye as he considers her. Remembering that hint of challenge in his look on the stairs, she smirks back and waits. And Brandon? Never taking his eyes from Mary Anne as he moves toward the armchair and wraps himself in his dressing gown, he thinks back over the day, how trying it had been to both of them. But here, alone with Mary Anne . . . a haven. To say that either of them can forget the troubles of this day would be naïve, but if playfulness and love games can lighten the burden—well, who is he to quarrel with so delightful a solution? Delightful, indeed . . . Mary Anne, whose clothes had become rather soaked while "assisting" her husband with his bath, had changed into her lace robe, his gift to her that now shimmers silver and rose and violet in the firelight, its translucence hinting at . . . The small shock of Mary Anne’s voice. "Well, sir? I am waiting. Where are those ‘good things,’ now? You have . . . aroused my curiosity." A smouldering pause. "Quite unbearably . . ." Brandon gathers his wits about him—rather more decisively than he had gathered the robe. After one more quick glance at the armchair, he extends his hand to Mary Anne, who takes it—and makes no protest when she is drawn toward that chair, rather than to the bed. "I had thought," begins Brandon, once they are comfortably settled together in the chair, "that perhaps we might . . . read . . . for a time." Mary Anne raises an eyebrow. "Read? As much as I love a good book, this is hardly the occasion—" "Quite the contrary," assures Brandon, with an internal sigh of relief that the book is there, within reach. "Especially . . . this book." And as he show the cover, Mary Anne blushes to find herself face to face with Bride of the Highwayman, and hardly dares raise her eyes to Brandon’s mirthful gaze as he offers, "I had thought we could read . . ." She can hear the ripple of laughter in his voice. " . . . some parts of this to each other." The "good" parts, thinks Mary Anne wryly, knowing that Brandon is very much aware of the effect of his voice. But it might just backfire on him, reading things . . . things like THAT. The chance of seeing Brandon undone by his own challenge, to say nothing of the prospect of hearing such passages rendered in that velvet baritone, is simply irresistible. "All right," she agrees with her most vixenish grin, before taking the book and flipping through it, then handing it back to him, opened at one of the dog-eared pages. "You first!" "Very well," replies Brandon—feeling himself already quite distracted by his wife’s warm proximity in the armchair. But, never a man to shirk his duty, Brandon takes the paperback novel from Mary Anne, clears his throat, and begins to read . . . The Cubicles--FOF Set "Guess who?" Therese slipped up behind Eamon, and covered his eyes with her palms. He was working at his desk, the stereo playing softly, a black Sharpie inkpen in hand as he hunched over the pile of letters that awaited his attention. Keeping her hands in place, she leant over his shoulder, and kissed him playfully on his left ear. "Hmmm. . ." he murmered slowly, "I wonder who it could be? I should warn you, if Therese sees us, we're both in a bit of a fix." "Funny, very funny," Therese responded, swinging the wheeled office chair he sat in around toward her, she plunked herself down in his lap. "Guess what?" she asked, smiling up at him. He raised an eyebrow and looked down at her sagely before turning her so she sat more comfortably against his chest. "One can only imagine it has to do with this." He held forth the parchment invitation that announced the Halloween party, and dangled it in front of her face. "Correct. As usual, Mr. de Valera you are amazingly astute." Therese grinned up at him, "I have the perfect costume idea for us." "I'm almost afraid to ask." "You could go as one of the wee folk, and I could be a woodsprite!" Eamon peered down at her in disbelief before shaking his head slightly. "I'm loathe to dampen your enthusiasm, Therese. But me, as a leprchan? Absolutely not." Therese's smile faded, replaced by a small frown. "I thought you might be difficult about this. It would have been utterly adorable. Couldn't you imagine it? We could have put you in green leggings, an emerald green tunic, and those cute gold slippers with the rolled up toes. A little sfx magic to provide some pointed ears. . .you would have been SO cute!" She sighed dramtically. "But now my plans are all for naught." Eamon rolled his eyes. "I am many things, my dear. . .'cute' is not one of them. And as enticing as you'd be as a little sprite, we've simply got to come up with something different." "Well, to be completely honest, I thought you might balk at the leprechan get up--even if it IS a wonderful idea," she added quickly, given his grimace at the mere mention of the concept. "So how about this instead?" Cupping her hand to his ear, she quickly whispered her thoughts to him. "Well," he conceded after a few moments, "anything is preferable to rolled toed slippers." "Yes, well, as a leprachan I didn't have to worry about the other women on the set swooning at your very presence--this get up, however. . ." she shrugged. Then, with a wicked grin she clasped her arms about his neck, rubbed her cheek against his chin and gave her best feline, "MEEOOWWW!" Chris yawned as she dumped her bag under her desk and sat down unceremoniously on the chair. She switched on the computer and dug out the new electric kettle, a mug and some teabags from her bag. As she plugged in the base for the kettle, she thought back to the previous few days, trying to remember where she'd seen some water. As she couldn't remember any other place, she took the kettle and started walking down towards the cafeteria. I'm bound to find some water there, she thought. While wandering towards the cafeteria, she realised she had forgotten the way. Me and my wonderful sense of direction, she mumbled to herself as she continued walking. She glanced into one of the cubicles as she passed and sighed in resignation as she realised it was her own. She'd walked round in a circle! Gradually, she became aware of mumbling voices in the distance. That HAS to be Sandy, she thought. No one else gets up this early! She started walking in the direction of the voices... An aside: Who's Who has been updated, and has a new section entitled "Animals", as there seem to be rather a lot of animals in recent story lines. Please e-mail me if you want to add a description of your characters - animal or human! See the link for Who's Who at the top of the FOF Guestbook. FOF Set: Cindie went back to her desk and started making phone calls and sending e-mails. But first she created an invitation for the event with the particulars— **What: Fancy Dress Ball **Attire: Costume of Choice **When: Halloween **Where: FOF set She called a runner to take it to the copy room and have it run on parchment paper and delivered to everyone on the set. Then she set to work to place all the wheels in motion so that everything would be perfect. The next thing she knew there was, quite literally, someone breathing down her neck. She willed her body to stay still and looked to the left out of the corner of her eyes. “Do you plan to come up for air?” Patrick Mistral was behind her leaning over her shoulder. She had no idea how long he’d been there. His head was almost resting on her shoulder and he was peering at the monitor where the words she had been typing appeared. His breath was warm on the side of her neck. He turned his head slightly to look at her as she turned to look at him. They were almost nose to nose. The effect was disconcerting. “How long have you been there?” she managed to ask. “Why, do you feel like you’re being **stalked**?” His tone was playful. “Yes, you have a bad habit of sneaking up on me,” she said, vexed. “I’ll try to be more obvious. I don’t want to frighten you. Away.” “I may have to put a bell around your neck, so I can keep track of you.” She reached up behind him and ran her finder along the skin above his collar. Her finger tip brushed the ends of his hair as she touched the flesh on the back of his neck. He stood up. He looked down at her and put out his hand. “Come on, its time you took a break. I didn’t see you at lunch. You probably haven’t stirred from this wretched box all day.” His eyes were as warm as his breath had been just a moment before. “Patrick, I’m really too busy. No rest for the wicked you know.” Unable to resist the temptation of his proffered hand she took it and stood up. “It is good to stretch my legs though.” “Come on, you need a break.” He tugged at her hand. The impact of what he’d said struck her belatedly. “Did you look for me at lunch?” she asked. She didn’t want to appear eager but the fact was she liked the idea that she may have been missed, just a little. “Yes.” He didn’t elaborate and Cindie wasn’t the type to ask coy questions. His answer sufficed. “I’m glad,” she smiled up at him. His smile was more in his eyes than about his lips, but, it too sufficed. “A break would be welcome. I’ve about maxed the program for today. How about a walk?” “Precisely what I had in mind.” He pulled her along, “Come with me.” “Where are we going?” “You’ll see.” He threaded their way out of the office area to a side door. They stepped outside and proceeded along an expanse of lawn broken up by a cinder pathway. “You haven’t been to the outdoor sets have you?” he asked. “No, not really. Not in person. Is that where we’re going?” He just smiled. After awhile he drew up short and she gasped in amazement. “Is this what I think it is?” He laughed, a low rumble deep in his chest, “That depends, what do you think it is?” “It beautiful, the tapes don’t do it justice. The South Rose Garden. Isn’t it?” she looked up at him questioning. “Indeed it is.” He tucked her arm in his and proceed to lead her down the *rose* garden path. Ratherrrrrrrrrrrrrr....my computer at work does not have the capacity to bring any pleasure at all...not even solitaire or an interesting screensaver....we are not supposed to have fun, you see. FOF set, Monday morning, 6:15 a.m.: Alexander muttered a quick "Good morning" to the security guard, not even bothering to listen to the guard's reply. He strode down the hallway towards the cubicles purposefully, hiding a huge yawn underneath his hand. Whose mad idea was it to start shooting at 7:30 on a MONDAY morning? he thought to himself grumpily. He entered the low-lit cubicle workspace area and growled under his breath as he placed his leather bomber jacket on the chair and turned on his lap-top to read his e-mail. Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! "What the heck is that?" he muttered with a frown. His head shot up in alarm as he heard the noise again. With a raised eyebrow, Alexander cautiously stepped out into the hallway and tried to determine the direction of the odd sound. The squeaking noise continued and grew louder as he made his way through the maze of cubicles towards where the writers sat. A familiar smell drifted to him - the scent of freshly brewed coffee. A huge grin crossed Alexander's face as he walked in the direction of the scent. The squeaking sound, combined with the soft strains of music grew progressively louder as he headed towards his destination. He turned the corner and walked down the main passageway until he was about 4 cubicles down the row. "Hey...." he started to say when he stopped in his tracks and actually moved back a couple of steps, startled. He had a quick impression of dark, intelligent brown eyes, curly black fur, and long floppy ears flash before his face behind the bookcase that blocked his way. "Good morning, Alex. You're here early," Sandy's blue-gray eyes twinkled merrily as she rose to her feet and stood in front of the bookcase blocking the entrance of her cubicle. "Good Lord, you're a morning person," he growled as if it left an extremely bad taste in his mouth. Sandy laughed as she hung her arms over the bookcase. "Yes, it seems I'm the only one by the looks of things, too. I look at it as an opportunity to get things done without interruption for a few hours." She gazed around the barely-lit area with amusement. She jumped forward slightly, looked down and chuckled softly. "I'm sorry I'm ignoring you!" she murmured. Alexander looked over the bookcase curiously and blinked in surprise. Standing next to Sandy on hind legs with paws used to steady himself on the bookcase, was a black miniature poodle wagging his tail furiously as he looked up at the new arrival with bright eyes. "Alex, this is Oliver - Ollie for short," she said softly with a gentle smile. Better be careful when you stand up. Oooo, Magda, you have got me nailed to my seat in anticipation! This may cause some concern to my colleagues, as I'm at work... Space added. Suzanne, could you please put a space between "after that"? Thank you. "Day the Hundred and first, in the month of February – In which I decide that one romantic gesture deserves another."
The two visitors found this comment quite amusing and for some time general and unwarranted hilarity reigned. Finally Walter of Krone allowed himself to be persuaded to go with his friends and, after he'd returned to his room for his cloak, the three of them crossed the landing not five feet from where I hid in the shadows and descended the stairs. I heard another outburst of laughter just before they rounded the bend. When their voices tapered away, I emerged from my hiding place, shaking with rage.
Disgust and disappointment filled my mouth like bile. So close! I slapped my hand against the wall. Had I been minutes earlier the only ceremony Krone would have been anticipating was his funeral. Instead he was on his way to break the fast with his friends. After that he would be surrounded by servants and retainers and preparing for the king. And after that the king would arrive with his entourage and Krone would be surrounded for the rest of the night. I leaned against the wall and kicked at the floor, scuffing my heel along the stones. Perhaps I could wait in his room for him to return during the day for something he needed and then cut him down but a moment's reflection destroyed the notion immediately. He was more likely to send a servant and then I would be discovered.
Pushing myself away from the wall, I paced across the landing to an arrow slit and looked out on the courtyard far below. Through the narrow aperture I watched liveried men send snow flying as they swept the cobblestones. Getting ready for the royal arrival, no doubt. Mustn't let the king's horse soil his hooves on slushy stones. Turning away, I tamped down my anger until it simmered just below the surface.
I walked over to the staircase and sat down on the top step, my elbows on my knees and my chin propped on my fists. Joya had been right about one thing last night. The days when I could mindlessly fire off commands to quaking underlings were at least temporarily over. I had to think up a plan - a good one - to accomplish my goal.
My original idea had been very simple. I would kill Krone in his chamber before the king put in an appearance, then slip out of the castle through any of a number of routes that only the oldest servants might know about. (I had a major advantage over any pursuers: since I had grown up in the castle, I could find my way out of the deepest dungeon blindfolded.) Pandemonium would ensue. A few days later the king would arrive, find his loyal vassal dead and no murderer to be found anywhere, and try to put the place in order. He'd probably give the holding back to Locksley and after tidying up some loose ends like marrying Melisant off to Will Scarlet, he'd pack up his queen and his baggage and leave for France. Then I could emerge from hiding and hire the mercenaries I needed to take back my lands and castle. All along I'd assumed I'd have to fight Locksley; I could handle that. But it was all off if the king was only hours away.
I closed my eyes and pressed my fists to my temples. I had to think. Terminating Krone's existence with the king present was impossible. There would be too many people around, too many soldiers in the castle, for me to escape easily. And yet I couldn't just leave. In a little more than a day, Joya would be married to that crusading buffoon and sharing his bed. I was not going to allow that to happen. Not after her efforts on my behalf when she thought I was dead.
I snorted at the memory. What had she said? We had to be "methodical" and "logical" about all this. We couldn't be "emotional". I lifted my head and stared at the wall before me. Why couldn't I be emotional? After all, My Lady Joya hadn't exactly been practical when she came up with the idea of marrying Krone, had she? The "methodical" and "logical" thing to have done in her situation would have been to take the gold and run with it straight across the Channel into France. But she had chosen to stake everything on one throw of the dice and hope everything turned out for the best. Why shouldn't I try the same thing? The Adams and Melisants of the world were stuffed full of fanciful twaddle but surely they were not the norm? Wasn't it possible that everyone had one idealistic action in them? A romantic gesture that by any rational calculation would be considered mad but that just might win the day? Even me?
So be it. I stood up and shook out my robes. Let the king come with as large an entourage as he pleased. As I started down the stairs, I vowed that I would have my way - kill Walter of Krone, take back my lands and marry the mother of my child. And nothing and no one would stop me.
"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again." thank you one and all Delaford Mary Anne escorted Brandon up the stairs to their joined bedroom suite, and as he opened the door for her was startled, and then, as a wide smile graced his features, obviously pleased. For there, in front of the fireplace grate, with a low fire warming the chamber, stood the large, oversized copper tub which he had acquired for his bride's private room, its steaming contents plainly visible. He turned a fond, warm eye to his wife, and draping an arm about her shoulders, pulled her gently toward him. "You are most wicked, indeed, Mrs. Brandon," he whispered to into her ear, his low chuckle of amusement a deep, melodious sound. "Well, with all the time you've been spending with Therese of late, I thought. . ." she paused, her face flushing slightly at the thought of plainly stating her desire for him. No, gentle reader, such bald statements are not for the likes of one such as Mary Anne, and she begins anew. "I was aware you'd been at the stables, and thought you might, perhaps, enjoy a nice bath." She gazes into his warm hazel eyes,their expression glinting with his good humour, his incalculable love for his newly acquired wife, and, too, his growing desire for her. Wide blue eyes return his gaze unflinchingly, thankful that she can read his expression so well, grateful that he is so willing to share himself openly with her. She is under no illusions as to Brandon's ability to make his expression unreadable to those about him, understands that as a military man it was crucial in his role as strategist. . .but here, in her company, there is no censure, and she can read clearly his emotions. "You are not jealous of time I've spent with Therese, are you?" he inquired softly, "I'd not meant for us to remain apart for any time at all these first days." He drew her towards him once again, lips touching with feather light caresses upon her forehead, patterning downwards lightly until they reached her mouth. Mary Anne sighed, and leaned into him, the scent of horse and stable quite forgotten. "No," she murmurd softly, "I was not jealous of your time spent with Therese, merely saddened that it was necessary." She looked up at him, "She worships you, you know." He drew his head back slightly, eyebrows raised. "Worships me?" he asked taken aback. "Menelaus, perhaps, my stables, I could grant you, but hardly I." Mary Anne smiled, and touched his cheek softly with her palm. Brandon's little regard for himself and his power over the gentler sex was no small part of his appeal. "No, I think she appreciates your taste in horses, and is no doubt grateful of your generosity in sharing them with her, but it goes beyond that, dearest--do not underestimate yourself." "And this--" he made a sweeping motion with his hand when words failed him, "whatever you perceive Therese holds for me--does it trouble you?" Mary Anne smiled again, her expression kind as she thought of Therese as she had been before her abduction. Her impish behaviour as she ran down the halls in her bare feet, her obvious love for the furred occupants of Delaford, and her sincere love and loyalty toward the austere Eamon de Valera. She thought of Therese as a friend, not a rival in any sense of the word. "No, it doesn't trouble me, I have no doubt of your love, and I'm content that others see in you the qualities that make you so dear to me." She paused, considering what Therese had been through since her arrival, and knowing what was ahead for her friend. "And perhaps the regard with which she holds you will allow you to help her. I know that you wish the best for her just the same as I do." Brandon hugged Mary Anne to him, sqeezing her tightly to his chest in a loving embrace, thankful that they had come so far, knowing that there had been a time in their relationship when Mary Anne had not been so confident in him, or his devotion to her. "What was that for?" Mary Anne asked with a grin. "That, my wife, was for having the uncanny ability to say precisely the things that bring me the greatest joy. Now, I believe it is time for my bath, another example of your amazing thoughtfulness, I might add, before the water becomes tepid." He shrugged out of his overcoat, and laid it over a chair that stood beside the large mahogany wardrobe, then untied the simple caravat that held his shirtfront closed. Mary Anne remained rooted to the spot where she stood, observing him closely, waiting for an indication that she should depart, and leave him to his lavations. He made no such indication. Ah, my dear Interrogator--she has you, but she will not keep you long? You must have been having a chat with Alexander Dane! ;-) "Oh, wonderful, when devils tell the truth . . ." Oh fair, and ever fairer Empress: You underestimate me. You always have. You and--others. You may have me, but you will not keep me long . . . To "a Rickman admirer" and everyone else feeling a bit "Brandon deprived." Mary Anne hasn't posted the past couple of days because she can't get into the Guestbooks, but hopefully we'll have the problem figured out soon. Assuming the Interrogator isn't behind it. Though I would imagine that would be rather difficult in his, um... current position. :-) Magda, Of course that's "you're back". But I guess Krone had better watch his back. FOF Set: That Monday morning Cindie arrived at the set and headed to her desk. She set her things down on the extra chair and looked around her. She really hadn’t done much with her space and resolved to bring in some items to personalize the area. She gathered her notes and began to work on the latest projects. She had some things to work out before she followed up with the Director. As she sat focused on the tasks before her she realized that part of her mind was waiting for something, or someone. Although working, she’d had an ear cocked toward the door, waiting for any sound or sign of Patrick Mistral. Now as she tried to refocus her attention, she was completely unable to return to the papers in front of her. She checked the shooting schedule, hmmm, Mistral would be shooting some scenes with the Empress today. She could go down at watch…. No, actually, she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not today, maybe tomorrow. Maybe. Mad at herself, she slammed down her number two Dixon-Ticonderoga and picked up the outline of her latest proposal for the Director. “At least I can accomplish this much today,” she thought to herself. As she headed to the Director’s office she made mental notes, embellishing her idea as she walked. A conversation with Mary Anne had resulted in her resolve to arrange a party for the cast and crew. But not just any party! When she reached his office she observed the door was half open. She tapped the door lightly and stuck her head in. The Director was at his desk, scanning some pages and making notes in the margins. “Hey boss, do you have a minute?” she inquired. He finished making his notation and beckoned her in with a wave of his hand. “Sure, what’s up?” was his reply. “I have something I’d like to run by you.” Cindie sat down across from him and continued, “You know Halloween is coming up.” “Yessss,” he replied. His manner suggested that he already knew where this was headed. “We need to have a Halloween party,” Cindie said simply. Of course her plan was far from simple, but she had to start somewhere. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “You mean have everyone dress up and have cider and bobbing for apples and such.” “Not exactly.” Now the Director’s face was beginning to register concern. “What, exactly, do you mean. He placed his hands together, almost as if praying, and leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sure you’d agree that FOF has the best cast and crew there is.” Cindie did not wait to see what effect her words were having, but continued on, “I think the party ought to be in keeping with the quality of the show. What I had in mind was more on the order of a fancy dress ball, something along the lines of the party in “Rebecca.” You know, the costume party at Manderlay.” At this point she did look up to try to gauge the Director’s reaction. He seemed to be trying to look stern but the crinkle around his eyes betrayed his smile. “How much would something like that cost?” he asked, “I mean to do it up proper.” “Oh, boss, an obscene amount of money,” she replied in her best serious tone. “Well then,” he said, his tone equally serious, “See to it at once.” ‘You know, if you ever decided to try your hand at acting I’ll bet you’d make an excellent Maxim deWinter.” “Perhaps that will be my costume then,” as he pondered the idea a smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “But Maxim didn’t dress up!” Cindie sounded offended at the thought. “Then that will be my perk, I insist on it,” he said dryly. “Like I said, you’d make an excellent Maxim. But who will be your second Mrs. DeWinter, I wonder?” she said slyly. “Don’t press your luck,” he deadpanned. “Now get out of here, you have your work cut out for you now.” Cindie did as she was told in this instance. She didn’t want to linger in case he changed his mind. She had decided not to leave the outline with him. Perhaps it was better that he didn’t know all the details. Just yet. "Day the Hundred and first, in the month of February – In which I pay a visit on Sir Walter of Krone." You can tell a lot about a man by looking at the weapon he prefers to kill with. A longbow or a crossbow is a practical instrument of the battlefield or the hunt; as a tool for murder it would be used by a coward who did not want to get close to his victim or a peasant who couldn't afford anything else. A dagger is a practical weapon designed for ease of concealment and precision of attack but these very qualities ensure that it is primarily used for covert assaults on unsuspecting victims. Cords and rope are the same since few men will stand still to be strangled. Of course these instruments have their purpose and I don't disdain them. During the course of my career I have sometimes found it necessary to resort to them but always through a hireling. For personal use I prefer the longsword. A well-designed blade can be a thing of beauty in the hands of an experienced swordsman. And over the years I have had much experience. So I had a firm grip on the hilt of my sword as I stalked my prey through the castle corridors the next morning. I dodged servants running about on their morning assignments, keeping the hood of my robe pulled low and my face averted. Most of them were too busy to pay much attention to yet another monk and ignored me completely. I reached the great hall unmolested and, from a safe spot behind a pillar, looked around at the assembled company. The tables were set up to hold at least a hundred people but there weren't nearly that many so soon after a chilly dawn. A dozen men-at-arms shared one table and talked in undertones. Other servants wearing tunics in Locksley colours lounged on benches and stifled yawns. Three young men in expensive garments elaborately ignored everyone else in the room; their demeanour alone identified them as members of the Queen's household. There was no sign of Walter of Krone or the Queen or Adam or Melisant. Krone was probably still abed in the main tower. If I hurried I could catch him before he woke up. I pulled my garment closer and, after making sure that my scabbard was still concealed, proceeded to the staircase of the west tower. I had a pretty good idea where he was lodged but it would be a good idea to check each room carefully. Blundering into the wrong one would not be healthy. Joya might have known but I hadn't wanted to arouse her suspicions by asking her. I pressed myself against the wall as a couple of maids clattered past me down the stairs. Joya's request last night still bothered me. Despite my promise of last night, I had no intention of letting Krone stay alive. When I left our bed this morning, it was my intention to deal with the matter immediately. She'd watched me from the bed as I pulled on my clothes and struggled back into the voluminous clerical robe. "George, I appreciate your agreeing to go along with my plan. I know how much you want to deal with things yourself but I really believe it will be better this way." She hesitated. "There's so much I haven't told you - about me, about my family -" A final tug on my belt secured my robe and I looked over my shoulder with wide, innocent eyes. "Do not disturb yourself, my dear. Of course we will do whatever you like. I just want to be close to you to protect you if it becomes necessary." Joya frowned. Perhaps I'd overdone it a trifle. I rushed into speech again. "The last thing I want to do is to run into anyone who might recognize me. Much as I would love to frolic the morning away with you, I had better get back to the inn as soon as I can." Before she could respond, I was at the door and lifting the bar. Blowing her a kiss, I had stepped over the threshold and pulled it shut behind me. The maids disappear around a bend. I resumed my climb. Krone was probably still sleeping. It wasn't likely that he had a squire sleeping in the same room. I flexed the fingers of my sword hand. Soon, very soon now, I would remove Good Sir Walter from the kingdom - permanently. There was only one room at the top landing. I slowed my steps, careful now not to make any n
Therese
- Saturday, October 28, 2000 at 11:41:16 (PDT)
Cindie
Therese, wherever it comes from, keep in coming! Personally, I usually don't have a clue what's going to happen next. , - Friday, October 27, 2000 at 19:13:16 (PDT)
Therese
Does anyone else ever think to themselves, 'now just where did this come from?' when they write? This is not quite what I'd in mind., - Friday, October 27, 2000 at 10:33:38 (PDT)
Suzanne
And of course the rating stands (no pun intended!)., - Friday, October 27, 2000 at 09:47:24 (PDT)
Cindie
But I must admit I wouldn't mind regarding it in just about any light. (wicked grin)., - Friday, October 27, 2000 at 08:15:39 (PDT)
MA
Well, there is that saying that the major erogenous zone is the brain . . ., - Friday, October 27, 2000 at 04:53:01 (PDT)
Magda
- Friday, October 27, 2000 at 04:32:18 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Friday, October 27, 2000 at 01:17:32 (PDT)
Chris
Helpless with the giggles, - Friday, October 27, 2000 at 00:58:02 (PDT)
Claudia
- Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 21:29:15 (PDT)
MA--well, that's 2 out of the 50!
Good heavens, what have I started here?!, - Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 20:41:36 (PDT)
I'm not tellin'
- Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 20:23:57 (PDT)
MA--here, Clods, perhaps you'll find this a bit less depressing. ;-D
Romance Novel 101: 50 Synonyms for Male Anatomy . . ., - Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 20:03:43 (PDT)
Not unless one of our many four legged friends strayed into wardrobe...
D.o.C.
Claudia
- Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 19:31:57 (PDT)
Claudia
Oh, no, I can't look, - Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 19:29:31 (PDT)
Chris
- Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 09:48:37 (PDT)
Therese
Almost time to carve the pumpkins. . .have to make my annual Drac-o-lantern! (boo! hiss!!), - Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 07:44:53 (PDT)
robert palmer
- Thursday, October 26, 2000 at 06:42:45 (PDT)
Claudia
OK... I'm trying to give up the angst, but I appear to be addicted ;^D, - Wednesday, October 25, 2000 at 19:08:05 (PDT)
Suzanne
Guaranteeing he'll be sure to come in the night...? :-), - Wednesday, October 25, 2000 at 16:24:29 (PDT)
Cindie
Suzanne, he's just the cutest thing. (bat-wise anyway), - Wednesday, October 25, 2000 at 12:59:07 (PDT)
Sandy
Hmmm, sounds like the bunny hop would be in order...., - Tuesday, October 24, 2000 at 19:56:37 (PDT)
MA--"His voice was satin and smoke . . ." Adrienne deWolfe, Always Her Hero (seemed appropriate)
Re: costumes. No Brandon in a bunny suit in this scene!! ;-), - Tuesday, October 24, 2000 at 19:46:37 (PDT)
Therese
great idea, Cindie--this should be fun! Hmm. . .I always *wondered* when that 'Brandon in the Bunny Suit' footage might surface. . ., - Tuesday, October 24, 2000 at 11:59:14 (PDT)
Chris
Well, I have to go and meet Ollie! , - Tuesday, October 24, 2000 at 09:16:47 (PDT)
Claudia <claudia-riley@xtra.co.nz>
- Monday, October 23, 2000 at 18:15:14 (PDT)
Cindie <cynthiagreen@ameritech.net>
Sandy, Cindie will be sure to bring in dog biscuits tomorrow--or is there another treat of choice? , - Monday, October 23, 2000 at 17:25:00 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, October 23, 2000 at 16:41:56 (PDT)
Sandy
Well, what were you expecting, a Great Dane? :-D, - Monday, October 23, 2000 at 11:56:04 (PDT)
Magda
- Monday, October 23, 2000 at 10:23:48 (PDT)
Chris
- Monday, October 23, 2000 at 02:15:28 (PDT)
D.o.C.
Magda
- Sunday, October 22, 2000 at 16:45:58 (PDT)
Magda
- Sunday, October 22, 2000 at 16:44:25 (PDT)
a Rickman admirer
- Saturday, October 21, 2000 at 12:17:45 (PDT)
Therese (but posted by MA, because Therese said it wouldn't post when she tried it)
Mmmmmm . . . steeeeeeemy. And the bath is nice, too. ;-) Thanks, Therese! And "Rickman admirer," hope this helps . . ., - Saturday, October 21, 2000 at 08:06:25 (PDT)
MA (yes, back in for the moment--will post again when I get a chance!)
"I played Richard the Third . . . five curtain calls . . .", - Friday, October 20, 2000 at 17:13:33 (PDT)
To *turn* a phrase . . .
The Interrogator , - Thursday, October 19, 2000 at 22:36:26 (PDT)
Suzanne
Trying to be a good Empress by not taking advantage of HIM... much..... *grin* (Thanks, MA!), - Thursday, October 19, 2000 at 19:36:43 (PDT)
Cindie
- Thursday, October 19, 2000 at 18:50:07 (PDT)
Cindie
Oh Magda, I'm so glad your back--that was a much needed George fix., - Thursday, October 19, 2000 at 18:48:12 (PDT)
