Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Thanks, what a lovely thing to do.....Rosie sends a kiss.
a Rickman admirer
- Thursday, November 30, 2000 at 23:45:14 (PST)

As Mary Anne and Brandon are leaving the party . . .

Brandon is debating with himself whether to ask about Valmont or follow the gentlemanly course and pretend to have noticed nothing. Just as he is about to declare a plague on gentility, he and Mary Anne bump into a woman near the exit.

"Oh, excuse me!" she cries. "I’m sorry—"

Mary Anne has only enough time to see that the woman is wearing a gardener’s outfit when she feels a cool touch on her arm and looks down to see that the woman is holding . . . a flowerpot. And in the flowerpot is a dog, a tiny dachshund with a red ruff around its neck.

"Oh," exclaims Mary Anne, ever the pushover for animals. "What an adorable dog! What’s its name?"

"This is my ‘rosebud’—I thought it would be an original costume, anyway," replies the woman with a wry grin as she gestures to her gardener’s ensemble. "Especially if I added Rosie to it!"

But Mary Anne is only half-listening, fondling the tiny dog’s ears as it continues to nose at her arm and lick her fingers. "Hello, Rosie," coos Mary Anne, as Brandon looks on indulgently. "Who’s a sweet little rosebud, hmmm? Did you enjoy yourself at the party?" The dog’s eyes sparkle brightly at her, almost managing to convey a reply—a reply that would scandalize her owner with tales of dropped food scavenged from the floor and tidbits wheedled from indulgent partiers who were unable to resist the allure of that pleading puppy-dog gaze.

"Forgive me," puts in Brandon as he turns toward the woman, "but have we met before? I have seen you around the set, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced—have we, Mary Anne?"

"Why, no," replies Mary Anne, "and I can’t think why not ; I’d have noticed such a lovely dog before this—"

The woman blushes a little, and she edges toward the door. "I . . . I just prefer to be known as an Admirer." And then she is gone, dachshund, flowerpot, and all, leaving Mary Anne and Brandon to stare after her.

"Well . . ." begins Mary Anne helplessly. Brandon offers his arm and she takes it, and together they stroll toward Wardrobe to pack up their costumes before returning to their homes.

They walk for a while in silence, meditating on the enjoyable evening they have just spent . . . yes, it had its ups and downs, but all told, it has been one of the more successful parties.

"I do hope," Brandon finally offers, thoughtfully, "that she will not think of herself too meanly. If she prefers to be known as an Admirer, then let her do so, and welcome. For without them, where would we be?"

MA--where, indeed. It seemed the best way to exit this party . . .
with thanks to all the "admirers" who help make this so much fun! 8-), - Thursday, November 30, 2000 at 19:16:42 (PST)

Corrections made.
Admiring George's reach.
D.o.C.

DoC, please fix the second last paragraph: "the bottom of the tower" and "greater reach". Thank you.
Magda
- Thursday, November 30, 2000 at 17:47:22 (PST)

"Day the Hundred and first, in the month of February – In which we get the details settled."

Have you ever had one of those lives where nothing goes the way it's supposed to? For days I'd listened to Peter vow revenge on Walter of Krone and just when he's mere moments away from getting his wish, he disappears. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.

"Your proof, Nottingham?" King Richard's voice was soft but insistent. "You do have some, don't you?"

I glanced over my shoulder at Adam. He was gawking at the empty bench, his face blank with surprise. There would be no help from that quarter. I turned back to the king. "Indeed I have proof positive, sire, the best proof you could possibly hope for. And I will unveil it….uh….at the proper time." Even to my ears, it fell short of compelling. Joya covered her eyes with her hand as if she had a bad headache.

"At the proper time. I see." The king leaned back, one finger tapping the arm of his chair. "Well, that doesn't help us right now, does it? Or perhaps I should say, it doesn't help you."

"Don’t listen to his stories, sire. It's a trick to avoid answering for his own heinous crimes." Locksley sat with his fists on the table in front of him, glaring at me. I had no idea he could carry a grudge so well.

Beside me Krone was breathing hard, dragging quantities of air into his lungs through clenched teeth. "He has slandered my name and maligned my honour." He marched up the aisle to the head table and knelt on one knee before the king, his hands lifted in supplication. "I beg of you, sire, allow me to meet this villain on the field of combat so that I may deal with him properly. Please, sire, grant me this favour!"

"Combat?" King Richard sat up straight in his chair. For the first time he looked really keen. "You want to fight about it?"

Had I not been so intimately involved in the outcome of the discussion, I could have sympathised with him. Sitting at a wedding feast, surrounded by the riffraff of the Midlands and a couple of has-beens like Krone and Locksley, expected to be attentive to his wife when he usually couldn't be bothered to acknowledge her existence: this was tepid stuff compared to what he'd become used to. After four years of invading and pillaging everything between London and Jerusalem in the name of a Higher Authority, it must have been awfully dull to confine himself to hunting the occasional boar in the forests of England. No wonder the prospect of imminent bloodshed lifted his spirits.

Krone's request was not universally popular. Locksley leaped to his feet. "Sire, no! Forgive me, but surely he must pay for his iniquities. To allow him to take part in a duel as if he were some knight in good standing with the court - surely you cannot allow it, sire!"

"Of course he will, Robin. Have no fear that I will allow the rogue to escape his fate." The king stroked his beard thoughtfully and looked at Krone again. "How do you want to do this? Sword and shield, or perhaps javelins?"

I judged it time to reintroduce myself. "If you please, sire, I would prefer the broadsword alone. You might remember that you favoured me with your approval when I fought in the tournaments at your coronation. The memory is one I cherish."

"Ah! Yes, I remember. How much blood was spilled during those days!" The king's eyes gleamed. "Very well. Both of you may use the broadsword of your choice. Take tomorrow to prepare yourselves for battle and then the morning after you shall meet in the forecourt of this castle immediately after matins. And since this is no ceremonial bout but a matter of justice, there will be no time limit. You will fight until one of you is dead."

The crowd that had been breathlessly silent while listening to the proceedings now exploded into cheers. At the table, Locksley leaned across to talk earnestly with the king who waved him away without looking at him. Marion plucked at her husband's sleeve. Krone got to his feet and, after a low bow to the king, left the room. Everyone began to mill around the head table, blocking my view of the royal company, including Joya.

I looked around but Adam had disappeared. Two guards suddenly appeared at my side, their royal liveries bunching up where they covered their coats of mail. With a gesture, one of them indicated that I was to precede them out of the hall. I acquiesced with all the grace I could muster.

As we walked along the corridor, I considered the events of the past hour. Although it was not at all what I had anticipated, I wasn't displeased to be meeting Krone in battle. The way I felt about him it would be a relief to take out my frustrations on his person with a lethal weapon, although I would like very much to practice on Peter first.

We turned at the bottom of the tower and climbed the staircase. Nor was I concerned about the weapons we would use. Broadswords are more unwieldy than battle swords since you have to use both hands and can't hang onto anything else. But when I wore Krone's tunic at Estrilda's house I'd noticed that although he was thicker in the chest than me, I was taller and my arms were longer so that I had the greater reach. Also, if Peter had been telling the truth, Krone's fighting ability might be greatly exaggerated. No, all things considered, there were many advantages on my side.

And, of course, I fully intended to cheat.

"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
- Thursday, November 30, 2000 at 17:42:59 (PST)

AR should have planned his scheduling a bit different....if he had done Snape first, then Antony and Cleo, he could have had a talk with Cedric the snake and told Cedric to behave himself. Come to think of it, maybe it was best that he couldn't as there might have been a few critics that would have found a snake in their bed {The Godfather-Part 1} That would have made Rickers feel better, and then maybe he would have felt differently about getting on a stage again..... if only....sigh....
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, November 29, 2000 at 13:02:13 (PST)

NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!!!

"Let Patrick see the little piggies . . ." LOL!
- Wednesday, November 29, 2000 at 05:17:01 (PST)

FOF Set – A dressing room:

“I didn’t think you were going to hurt me,” she replied. Cindie was visibly agitated.

“Then why…”

“I was afraid of something worse.” She paused and collected herself, her feet still tucked out of sight. “I was afraid you were going to tickle me.”

He laughed. Ordinarily she would have found it a rich and wonderful sound.

“Don’t laugh – I’m serious. My feet, well, most of me actually, is very ticklish.” She looked serious.

“But you make it sound as if I was about to begin the Inquisition!”

“I really, truly, deeply and sincerely HATE being tickled.”

“Obviously.” A note of exasperation in his voice.

“You, Patrick Mistral, have just learned something about me that gives you a certain amount of power over my person. What now remains to be seen is how you chose to exercise that power.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then reached out a hand. “Here, then, let me have them.” He wiggled his fingers a smile spreading across his lips, “let Patrick see the little piggies.”

This was too much. Cindie had to laugh now. She began to unfurl her legs, but paused holding up her index finger, “now wait, you have to promise…”

“No, my dear. No promises on this score. You will simply have to trust me.”

She looked him in the eye for several moments but at last returned her feet to their former perch on Patrick’s lap. He very carefully lifted one foot and began to massage it gently but firmly. His fingers kneaded the muscles and he was very careful not to brush them lightly. He gave thorough and equal attention to both feet. “Patrick, if I was a cat I’d be purring. I could fall asleep right now.”

The eyebrow shot up. “You’d best not. It might not be good for your **reputation.**

“What about your reputation?” Teasing, in part.

“What about my reputation?”

“You remember, that morning you had tea waiting for me, and Mary Anne stopped by, she warned me to watch myself around you, or “that character” as she put it. Now what did she mean by that?”

“You would have to ask Miss Mary Anne what she meant.”

“I think I will….. If you don’t have any objections.”

“None.” He looked over at the garment bag still hanging in the closet. “Are your regular shoes in there?” Cindie nodded. He walked over and unzipped the bag and brought her shoes over. He knelt down and slipped them on her feet. “Feel better now?”

“Yes, much.”

“Let’s go then, you can bring this costume back tomorrow. You don’t need to change now, unless you don’t want to drive home in it.”

“Bring it back…” she answered, “I thought perhaps I should hang on to it for a bit.” Smile, a bit wicked perhaps. “As for driving home in it, pity the policeman that pulled me over.”

“Indeed.” Mistral turned off the lamp and they headed out towards the parking lot.

Cindie
That was quite a party ladies., - Tuesday, November 28, 2000 at 18:31:01 (PST)

What are you going to do exactly, hit me with that one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish?
Metatron
- Tuesday, November 28, 2000 at 18:16:58 (PST)

Paragraph created.
That could be a premonition.
D.o.C.

D.o.C.--could you please create a space between " . . . is stopped by his voice" and "Please, wait!" That line is Valmont's, not MA's, and so there should be a paragraph break. Thank you kindly.

MA
Hoping I don't have to "create a space" in the same cell with The Interrogator . . . =8-O, - Tuesday, November 28, 2000 at 17:01:44 (PST)

The costume ball:

Mary Anne keeps her eyes on Valmont and refrains from looking anxiously about her for help. No Brandon—he has gone to have the car brought around. No Dev--perhaps he’s gone looking for his whip. I could sure use it, right about now. But there are some partygoers still milling about, lingering, unwilling to have their evening come to an end, and Mary Anne forces herself to remain civil. "Well, Valmont? I’m listening."

She notes that he had stepped back to a respectable distance the moment she had turned to face him: a good sign. And another good sign, the look on his face as he hesitantly offers: "I believe I was somewhat . . . offensive, earlier."

"Somewhat," she replies coldly.

A slight bow. "My apologies."

"Accepted." She turns to walk away and is stopped by his voice.

"Please, wait!"

"Well?"

It occurs to Mary Anne that she has hardly ever seen the elegant Valmont so discomposed by anything, and she takes a closer look: yes, the dashing Musketeer is most definitely the worse for wear, and she wonders briefly what could have happened to him. Valmont, seeing her appraising look, flushes slightly. "I—Mary Anne, I must explain. I believe I had had a little . . . too much to drink when I approached you, and I was . . . Please. Ne te fache pas. Don’t be too angry; after all, we do have to work together—"

You mean, you’re afraid I might tell The Director.

"—and it would be good if it could be . . . pleasant." He smiles, and in spite of herself, Mary Anne begins to smile back; Valmont’s look is an endearing change from his usual supercilious expression. "And I must beg your forgiveness on other grounds, as well. It is simply that you look so beautiful this evening—"

Ah, there’s the Valmont we all know . . .

"—and, well, I am a Frenchman, after all—"

Here Mary Anne interrupts—but mildly. "Excuse me, but being a Frenchman is no excuse for running about behaving like first cousin to Pepe’ Le Pew!"

That startles Valmont into a laugh, followed by an exaggerated accent and an impression of Warner Brothers’ amorous cartoon skunk. "Ahhh, une belle femme skunk fatale!" He leers at her, and this time it is Mary Anne who cannot help laughing, as he begins to sing: "Aupres de ma blonde, qu’il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon; aupres de ma blonde--"

"Qu’il fait bon mourir," finishes Mary Anne acidly. "Your nationality is no excuse, so don’t try that with me. Nor was my costume."

"It seems I was mistaken about a great many things." Valmont is still quite plainly amused, but seems to have taken her words to heart. "But you will forgive me?"

"It seems I’ll have to—as you said yourself, we have to work together. But only if you behave. Or—" A ferocious frown. "—I’ll speak to Claudia about you!"

"Bon Dieu, not that!" exclaims Valmont, and they laugh together, though it seems to Mary Anne that Valmont is a trifle uneasy. Then: "If I might offer a word of advice?"

"And what would that be?"

Mary Anne somehow manages to refrain from flinching as Valmont steps forward and takes her wrist in his hand—but only long enough to point out the heavy boar-tusk bracelet wrapped around her arm. "I take the liberty," he says softly, "only because in matters of dress, your taste is otherwise perfect, at all times."

Mary Anne is genuinely flattered; from a Frenchman, and this Frenchman in particular, it is a handsome compliment.

"But this . . ." He releases her wrist. "An interesting accessory, but for one of your appearance, your style of beauty—too heavy. Too . . ." A shrug. "It simply isn’t you."

"That is precisely the point, Valmont—the one you missed, earlier. None of this is me." Her sweeping gesture takes in the whole costume, from the beadwork headdress to the fringe at the hem of her gown. "Guenevere is only a costume."

His eyes narrow, but his tone is genial and teasing. "And so is Arthur, then? Brandon bears no resemblance to that famous king?"

"Perhaps he does, in some ways. In other ways, not. What is important is that I like him just fine as Christopher Brandon." And there, to her relief, is Brandon himself . . . who, seeing Valmont, quickens his pace toward them.

Valmont is not slow to take a hint. "That is indeed the most important point. I leave you, then, to your king. Good night, Mary Anne." And with a formal and perfectly correct bow, Valmont strides away . . .

MA--oh, I DO like it, Sam I AM!! ;-)
Re: the French--translations provided on request, as always., - Tuesday, November 28, 2000 at 05:38:10 (PST)

LOL! As long as it's not Thing 1 and Thing 2!
;-)
Excssssseusss me., - Monday, November 27, 2000 at 21:41:07 (PST)

Cindie--what is it that I'm holding for the performance? Hmmmm, that sounds a bit naughty, doesn't it?

MA
This must mean I have things well in hand . . . ;-), - Monday, November 27, 2000 at 20:59:45 (PST)

MA--Mmmm, those cloaks are nice aren't they?

So what is it that you're holding for the performance?
Cindie
- Sunday, November 26, 2000 at 16:48:11 (PST)

After the fireworks:

The party was winding down. Cindie continued to lean on Patrick as they walked back into the Great Hall. He, of course, had heard her remark to Claudia and knew that her leaning on him was not completely due to a desire to be close to him. “Let’s get you to wardrobe so you can get out of those boots.” He whispered in her ear. She nodded in reply. They began to say their goodnights.

Cindie felt a hand on her arm. She looked over to see Herr Anton Gruber who took her then proffered hand. “My dear, it is such a pity that we did not have an opportunity to dance tonight.” The barest hint of a smile. “I hope we will have that chance at a future gathering.”

“Yes, I hope so too.” She studied the senior Gruber’s face, …so interesting to imagine Hans in 20 years or so…. He didn’t mind her gaze, he was doing some studying of his own. They murmured their pleasantries and said goodnight.

A round robin of hugs. Such a wonderful group of people.

Patrick Mistral and Cindie headed to the wardrobe department. She plucked the garment bag which held her clothes off of a rack lined with an assortment of gowns and finery. She took the bag and headed to one of the dressing rooms. She hung the bag from the pole which ran the length of the doorless closet. The make up table and mirror ran the rest of the length of the room. There were stools in front of the mirror and counter. A sofa of deep red leather was positioned along the opposite wall, a very welcome sight. Cindie sank into its contours gratefully. She turned on the lamp next to sofa and looked up to see Patrick standing in the doorway. He was stock still, his gaze unwavering. He was like an ice sculpture. A smoldering ice sculpture. Merlin the Enchanter with all of the elements at his command.

“You don’t think you’re going to watch do you?” Cindie asked.

The sculpted features moved. “Oh no,” he intoned, “I’m not going to watch. I’m going to help.”

He slowly traversed the width of the room and sat down on the on the other end of the sofa. “Now, * give * me * your * foot.” Cindie complied. She gave him both feet. She now sat with her back at one of the couch arms. He passed her a small pillow which she tucked behind her. Her legs extended across the couch. He moved over slightly so that her feet rested in his lap. First he took up the foot closest to him. He cradled the heel in one hand as his fingers deftly located the zipper concealed on the outside of the boot just under her knee. He slowly unzipped it. He then carefully worked the boot free of her foot, took it off and placed it on the floor. Heaven. She sighed. He looked over at her, a smile in his eyes. He took the foot in his hand and flexed it in a small circle. He returned that foot to his lap. He then glided his hand over her shin and cradled the heel of the other foot. He took longer finding the zipper this time. He carefully unzipped the second boot, giving it his complete attention. He slipped this boot off and placed it next to the first. He then rotated this foot in the same manner as the first and placed it back in his lap. Now both of her feet rested upon his legs. The fabric of the costume came all the way down to her ankles. It was actually tucked up under itself to hide the extra length. Her feet were covered by black nylon foot socks. Beginning at the back he removed one and then the other, never actually touching her foot. He set the foot socks on the boots. He slipped his hand under the fabric at her ankle and stretched it out, noting how elastic it was. Cindie found her voice, “Amazing stuff isn’t it? Looks like leather…”

“Yeessss, amazing stuff.” He said as he released the fabric and now began to massage her calf. He worked deftly relaxing the muscles. His touch was firm and sure. He ran his hand down the front of her leg slowly, starting at the knee and not stopping until he reached the top of her foot. His hand continued to move slowly until it reached her toes. The shade of polish matched the couch. His eyebrow arched. He looked at her again but said nothing. He then proceeded to give her other leg equal attention. His hand this time remained at the top of her toes. He regarded those toes for some time. A smile flickered across his face, he began reach for the big toe, a playful glint in his eye, “This little piggy went to market…” he began. He never had a chance to finish.

Cindie let out a yelp and tucked her feet up under her.

“I wasn’t going to *hurt* you.” Mistral’s eyes were no longer smiling.

Cindie
- Sunday, November 26, 2000 at 16:46:44 (PST)

The fireworks:

Sandy is speaking with Mary Anne.

"—but what I want to know is, what did you say to him?"

Mary Anne looks confused, and Sandy continues. "You know, when Alex brought his ticket over to have his dance with you! You said something to him, and he frowned at first, but then he smiled."

Dane, who is standing beside Sandy, looks a trifle embarrassed at this exchange, and Mary Anne’s right eyelid flutters at him in the merest suggestion of a wink before she replies, "Why, I just told him I was surprised at his choice of costume. I was expecting something different. That was when he frowned at me, and asked what I expected." A pause. "And I told him—Richard the Third." Sandy chuckles at this, and Mary Anne, her expression the picture of innocence, concludes: "He must have thought I was going to say something else!"

There is general amusement at this, and Dane joins in, while mouthing a silent Thank you to Mary Anne.

Mary Anne smiles back at him, before turning back to watch the fireworks once again with Brandon, and it is not long before she copies Cindie’s example, leaning back against Brandon and allowing him to enfold her in his cloak. The mischievous thought occurs to her that, in the concealment of that cloak, Brandon could be doing just about anything . . . yet she knows she is perfectly safe, and so does everyone else: Brandon is a gentleman.

Mary Anne, however, is constrained by no such considerations, and cannot resist turning toward Brandon and briefly "snuzzling" his neck.

"Mary Anne." A slight edge to his voice. Amusement and . . . something else.

"Mmmmmm . . . yes, Christopher?"

He turns his head toward her, pitching his voice for her ears alone. "Are you trying to create more fireworks?"

She grins up at him. "Just a little rehearsal for our next scene."

"Oh, one of those scenes, is it? Well, hold a little something back for the performance, please, or I won’t answer for what will happen."

Mary Anne grins and turns back toward the fireworks display, resting comfortably against Brandon’s shoulder, relishing the music, the bursts of light raining down upon them, the exclamations and applause of their friends.

It is some moments before she becomes aware that Alexander Dane is still standing quite near, with Sandy, and Mary Anne turns her concentration, focusing on his voice. No idle conversation, this: Sandy has gone rapt and still, listening, and so have several others standing about them, their eyes on Dane’s face as he contemplates stars and pinwheels and flowers of sparks in the sky, the luminous comet-trails and lightning-flashes . . .

Dane clears his throat, and speaks.

"Our revels," he quietly pronounces, "now are ended."

In her peripheral vision, Mary Anne catches glimpses of whiteness: Egyptian royal robes; The Director’s formalwear. And darkness, those costumes that are shadows among shadows: Claudia in the Morticia gown; Cindie’s shimmering black silhouette; Dev in his swoon-inducing vest. Sparks of metal and jewels: Mistral, the circlet binding his forehead, the mysterious stone pendant resting on his chest, his cloak glowing with the stars and planets; Renie, bedecked with the Egyptian royal treasury; the flash of tooth and claw from Therese. The beadwork of her own headdress. Brandon’s crown.

"These our actors," continues Dane . . .

"As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep . . ."

It is The Director who begins the applause, in which the rest quickly join. "Bravo," he proclaims, stepping forward to shake hands with Dane. "Beautifully done—though a bit melancholy, don’t think? For this occasion?"

"Perhaps," replies Dane with a slight smile. "I wouldn’t say that what we’re doing here is baseless, exactly."

Mary Anne smiles, remember how when she first met Dane, she had urged him not to judge the series too hastily. It appears that the FOF camaraderie is taking hold, and Dane seems more approachable than at any time since he had joined them.

"But one part of it," adds The Director, "was very appropriate." He pauses mysteriously.

"Okay, I’ll bite—" Therese begins, seeing that no one else will ask. There is some laughter at her statement, to which she responds by opening her mouth wide to show her fangs. "No, I didn’t mean it that way!"

"I meant," replies The Director, "the part about our life being rounded with a sleep. It’s getting late—and we do have work to do tomorrow!"

There are some predictable "the party’s over" groans at this, but The Director quells the outburst by holding up his hands. "Work call tomorrow at 10:00 AM instead of 8:00, so don’t say I’m not generous." Some sarcastic applause. "And I’m glad everyone enjoyed themselves. Now let’s all get a good night’s sleep and be ready to go tomorrow."

The crowd begins to disperse. Brandon releases Mary Anne from the folds of his cloak. "Wait here—I’ll go and see about having the car brought around." Mary Anne is about to protest, but remembers The Director’s warning to her about spending the night on the set, and so she acquiesces; she will go home.

And as she is exchanging good nights with her friends, Mary Anne feels, once again, a hand on her shoulder . . . and turns to see Valmont standing behind her.

"If I might have a word with you, Mary Anne?"

MA--so, Dane has played Prospero as well?
(Stretching up to whisper in Brandon's ear: "Happy anniversary, Christopher.") *grin*, - Sunday, November 26, 2000 at 09:28:16 (PST)

FOF, the Ball:

Mistral continued to lead Cindie about the dance floor. He had no intentions of letting her go, just now. He wanted to be sure she ended the night with him. The band leader announced that it was time for the fireworks. “Do you want to go watch them?” he asked.

“Yes, I’d like to,” she replied. “I’d forgotten all about them, and I’m the one who hired the company. They should be awfully good.”

He took her arm in his and they headed towards the French doors. “You don’t have any other engagements tonight do you?

“Hmm, no, the caterers will take everything down and security will handle locking up. I just need to grab my clothes from wardrobe.” He held open the door and indicated for her to go first. They proceeded out to the terrace. The party had seemed to be thinning out but almost everyone was there for the display. The Gruber party, Mary Anne and Brandon, Therese and Dev, his whip conspicuously absent, Claire, tigger from head to toe (hope she can see through that thing) and Sinclair, Claudia and Ed, Jamie, Sandy and Alexander Dane, Chris and Sonia, Hamlet and his wife, Valmont (looking a bit, disheveled!?), Suzanne and Rupert… George and Joya, however, were not in sight. The presidential candidate, his mother and their entourage had departed much earlier.

They stood near Claudia and Ed and Cindie noticed that Claudia held her shoes in the crook of her index finger by their straps. “I wish I could take mine off,” Cindie whispered to Claudia, “my feet are killing me!”

“Well take them off then,” she whispered back.

“Can’t, the way I adjusted this outfit I need the boots on. Mary Anne is a lot taller than me!” Claudia nodded a response just as the fireworks began.

The display was impressive. Every color, sometimes all at once. The kind that whistled, the ones that made stars, different patterns. Music played, but it wasn’t from the band. A sound system was set up to coordinate with the fireworks. Mistral stood behind Cindie. She leaned back on him and he encircled her in his arms, wrapping his cloak around her. She nestled back into the warm cocoon of that embrace. They all watched the fireworks display, the ooohs and aaaahs a soft counterpoint to the explosions in the sky.

Cindie
Do you think the Director will lead us in singing "God Save the Queen? , - Friday, November 24, 2000 at 16:03:56 (PST)

"Day the Hundred and first, in the month of February – In which I make my accusation against Walter of Krone."

Silence covered the spectators like a blanket. For long seconds the only sound was Walter of Krone's spasmodic breathing as he tried to take in air without slicing himself on the blade I held to his throat. Everyone was frozen in place. Krone made a grab for my arms but was hampered by not being able to see what he grabbed at. Behind us a low buzz of whispering broke out. Krone began to struggle. His hands scrabbled desperately to get a grip on my sleeve but I leaned back and jerked his chin higher until his chin pointed at the ceiling. Rivulets of sweat streaked his skin and darkened the expensive cloth of his tunic. I could smell his fear.

The whispering gathered strength and became a low hum. I knew my time had almost run out. Already I could hear the unmistakable hiss of fine steel leaving leather scabbards in the hands of trained soldiers. The progress of their advance could be deduced from the swelling susurration around me. But even as I braced myself for imminent assault, the sound of a chair scraping against the rushes on the floor silenced everyone again.

"You have an interesting way of attracting attention, fellow." The deep voice was more amused than angry. "Now, release Sir Walter and step forward that we may know who you are. You have our pledge that our men will not harm you."

A muffled grunt indicated Sir Walter's approval of this suggestion. I released him and, setting my hand between his shoulder blades, gave him a hearty shove. He stumbled over the nearest bench and broke his fall on three peasants. I returned my dagger to its sheath and bowed low to the tall man standing behind the head table - King Richard, the Lionheart himself.

"You may rise." He nodded regally. "Now come closer so we may know who you are."

I stepped forward into the light from the hanging torches at the front of the room. There was a sharp collective intake of breath. Robin of Locksley leapt to his feet and scrambled for the sword that should have been at his side but was in his room out of deference to the joyous occasion. He seemed to be upset about something. Beside him, Marion clutched at his arm and urgently whispered to him. Will Scarlet just sat with his jaw hanging open, not an attractive demeanour by any means and most inappropriate to a happy groom. Joya glared at me ferociously and Berengaria stared in mild surprise.

Only the king seemed uncertain. "You look familiar, we must say, and yet we don't quite remember where -"

"It's Nottingham, sire!" Locksley spat it out, his gaze scorching my clothes. "That foul traitor who murdered my father and stole my lands! He ran roughshod over the good people of this shire so he could divert their honest taxes into his own treasury! He tried to rape Marion and force her to marry him so he could seize the throne in your absence!"

It was a damning enough indictment and the crowd looked at me to see how I would handle it. But I knew better. Few men enjoy the sound of their own voices more than Robin of Locksley. He was just getting warmed up.

"He corrupted the holy bishop whose dioceses this was! He colluded with other barons to plunder and despoil the kingdom! He made a mockery of everything that was good and pure and -"

"Yes, fine, thank you, Robin, you paint a vivid picture." The king waved him down. Locksley fell back into his chair, panting with exertion but still glaring. "Yes, we remember him now. Well, Nottingham, what answer do you make to these accusations? Are they true?"

I looked up from examining my fingernails. "They are, sire."

"Indeed?" The king resumed his seat, the royal brows lifted in amazement. "And what reasons could you possibly have had for such lawless actions?"

"Well, sire, to speak naught but the truth, I did it to keep the shire safe from invasion during your absence." I glanced at the floor modestly, then up at the king again.

"You what?" The Lionheart stared. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth, sire." I'd managed to knock him out of the royal plural, no small achievement. Things were going well. "I reckoned it this way. Your many years away from the kingdom on Crusade left us with an indifferent government at Winchester. Oh, they did their best but for the many unfriendly rulers around England, they were no substitute for a king. Many barons were nervous at the thought of how vulnerable we were. So I seized control of this shire as Lord Locksley has recounted. I pushed the bounds of my authority to the very limits. And what was the result, sire?"

"I can't begin to guess but I'm sure you'll tell me." He sounded amused again.

"The result was what I'd anticipated. Other barons came to me to take cover under my strength. I extended my reach to counties and shires on either side of Nottinghamshire. Peasants and freedmen alike cowered under my rule. I seized their goods and chattels and left them only enough to live on. I punished those who withstood me and rewarded those who submitted. In short, sire, I made it clear that the old ways were no more and that a new order had arrived. And it is my great privilege and honour to announce that while my plans were in action, no invading army led by a foreign king landed on English shores." I took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, as if I was overwhelmed by my own patriotism.

"I am surprised that you were able to pull it off. For one man to sustain such a great effort must have taxed your strength to the utmost." The king was looking dazed.

I shrugged manfully. "It was exhausting work, sire, especially the women, but I would bear any burden for my beloved England."

"Fascinating." The king shook his head in wonder. "Truly incredible. And you expect me to believe that you laid waste to my kingdom in order to save it for me? An original idea, to be sure!"

"Why no, sire, not original at all." I drew my brows down into a perplexed frown. "I modelled my actions on the establishment of the kingdom of Jerusalem that you and your fellow Crusaders left behind in the Holy Land. I was inspired by your actions."

Well, of course, that tore it. Locksley was on his feet again, waving his arms in the air and favouring the multitude with a detailed (and totally incorrect) description of my ancestry. Marion was trying to restrain him while leaning past him to talk to the king. Young Scarlet pounded a fist against the table and glared at me. I shifted position and waited for the king to respond. A figure loomed up beside me. It was Krone, still rubbing his jaw but recovered enough to do battle. I alternated between him and the head table, trying to keep everyone in view.

Finally the king coughed. "Well that is an interesting theory, Nottingham. If it's true, you're a free man. But interrupting a wedding feast to plead your case is not -"

"If you please, sire." I stepped forward. "That was not my reason for coming here tonight. I came to accuse this man," I pointed at Krone. "Of ordering the murder of scores of innocent people in direct contravention of the laws of God and your express instructions."

"How's that?" The king looked in surprise at Krone, who practically foamed at the mouth as he glowered at me, clenching his fists.

"In the village of Geyetha, while under your command, Walter of Krone ordered his men to massacre innocent youths and women. He then lied to you by claiming they were Saracen warriors who had attacked his men." I set my hand on the hilt of my dagger. Better to be prepared.

"This is a serious accusation." The king looked from Krone to me and back again. "Where is your proof?"

I pulled myself up to my full height. It had worked. Now all Peter had to do was come forward and tell his story to the king. Krone's ambitions would die a quick death. I glanced over my right shoulder in the direction of the table where I'd sat across from Peter just moments before -

- and saw nothing but an empty wooden bench where Peter had been sitting.

"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
- Thursday, November 23, 2000 at 17:51:20 (PST)

“I envy them,” sighed Claudia, licking the chocolate cheesecake off her spoon. She was snuggled next to Ed, at a quiet table, watching Cindie and Mistral dancing. “They’re in a world of their own.”

“And what, you don’t love me like that?” said Ed, not seriously considering this to be true, and stealing a strawberry from her plate while she wasn’t looking.

“No, what I mean is, they aren’t falling in love because someone wrote it. Cindie hasn’t acted next to Mistral, so she has no preconceived ideas about him, she isn’t going to fall for the Interrogator, she’s getting the unique opportunity to know the man behind the role.”

“And we fell in love because you wrote it?”

“Mmmm,” said Claudia, taking another large mouthful of the ‘better than sex’ dessert. “Our off screen relationship has mirrored the onscreen one. I gave you messages about how I felt about you in what I wrote.”

“Huh! And you’re just telling me this now? You’re lucky that there is so much freedom to be creative here. Any other Director would have spotted that a mile off, and you’d have been straight in his office for a good talking to.”

Claudia giggled. “Who says I wasn’t? But he is a sentimental old soul. And besides, I told him I didn’t want an offscreen romance affecting my work, so he bought the ‘just be friends’ thing I was selling Ed for ages, in the show. ”

“You ratbag!” He started to tickle her, so she squirmed and nearly dropped the precious plate.

“Stop it!” she squealed. “But wasn’t the wait worth it, Eddy? Darling? Huh? Didn’t I drive you nuts by pushing you away?”

“I can see I’m going to have to keep my eye on the script in future, and work out what you’re trying to say to me. Why do you women have to be so devious? Why can’t you just say what you mean!?”

“What, and spoil all the fun?”
Claudia
- Thursday, November 23, 2000 at 17:42:41 (PST)

At one side of the dance floor:

"Can I get you something to drink, Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne nods at Brandon, for she is thirsty from all her dancing. "No, not champagne," as Brandon reaches for a flute on a nearby tray. "I’d gulp it down and it would go straight to my head."

Brandon selects instead a tumbler of sparkling mineral water and presents it to her, with a smile and a raised eyebrow. "Straight to your head? Indeed, Mary Anne, you present me with a serious temptation."

Mary Anne laughs a little—after drinking down nearly half the tumbler. "Why, Christopher, would you take advantage of me like that? Besides . . ." More softly, as she eyes him over the rim of the glass. " . . . you don’t need champagne."

As she finishes the glass, Brandon deftly relieves her of it and raises her hand to his lips. "Enjoying yourself, are you?"

"Always." His arm curves about her and she settles in by his side, content to stand and watch the comings and goings, the movements of her friends in the dance—glad to be where she is, with him and everyone.

"Look." Brandon nods toward the dance floor. "They’re still at it."

Mary Anne doesn’t have to ask what he means. "So, you’ve been watching them, too?"

"I think everyone has. They’re the topic of the evening."

Mary Anne remains silent, watching, knowing she is far enough away that Cindie and Mistral cannot observe her interest.

"What is it, Mary Anne?" For she is laughing softly.

"That song . . ."

The orchestra. Lush strings. A sensuous contralto, warning and inviting.

You only live twice
Or so it seems
One life for yourself
And one for your dreams

You drift through the years
And life seems tame
Till one dream appears
And love is its name

Out across the floor, Cindie lifts her head and gazes up at Mistral, whose arms tighten perceptibly about her.

Mary Anne watches, transfixed. Then her gaze turns wordlessly to Brandon, who—without bothering to move toward the dance floor—takes her into his arms right where they stand, as others are doing all about them, melting into the slow, slow dance, the bare minimum of movement . . . it seems that her feet scarcely touch the floor . . .

And love is a stranger
Who’ll beckon you on
Don’t think of the danger
Or the stranger is gone

No one appears to be thinking of the danger, so far as Mary Anne can see. Or if they are, they find it too inviting to resist.

This dream is for you
So pay the price
Make one dream come true
You only live twice

Mary Anne sighs. The warm arms about her, the company of her friends, the spell of the strings . . .

Enjoying herself. All ways. Always.

MA
Giving thanks for my FOF "family . . ." 8-), - Thursday, November 23, 2000 at 07:41:33 (PST)

It's almost time for the fireworks. Any final requests?
the band
- Thursday, November 23, 2000 at 05:51:26 (PST)

Magda, neither can I!
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, November 22, 2000 at 22:04:06 (PST)

Just a line to let everyone know that I will resume posting tomorrow night. I want this story finished by Christmas and I can't wait much longer.
Magda
No rest for the wicked...., - Wednesday, November 22, 2000 at 19:25:42 (PST)

I love the turkey tango--thats the way that I dance, BTW-when I say "I'm no good at it" I mean it--Happy Thanksgiving to the ones that it applies to, and cheers to the ones that it doesn't!!!!!!!!!!!
a Rickman admirer
- Wednesday, November 22, 2000 at 14:47:39 (PST)

On the terrace:

Alexander gazed at Sandy, who was now pacing back and forth restlessly like a lioness on the prowl. He cursed under his breath as she paced. "If I didn't want you doing that, I certainly would have stopped you," she told him, clearly agitated by what he said.

"I have no doubt of that," he replied, sighing heavily as he leaned against the half-wall. He removed his turban and starting playing with it idly in his hands, not knowing what else to say.

Sandy stopped her pacing and walked over to the wall to stand next to him. She placed her hands over the wall's edge, gazing out at the moon-lit rose garden. "Is it the age thing, the fact that we work together or both?" she asked softly.

You don't pull punches, do you? Alex thought to himself wryly. "Yes. No. A little bit of both," he confessed, feeling frustrated that he couldn't express himself better. "I don't know what to think."

"It is a little scary, isn't it? What just happened changes the whole dynamic of our relationship on both professional and personal levels," she noted, turning her head to gaze up at him. She frowned when she saw the distant expression he wore on his face. "That's not what's really bothering you, is it?"

Damn. The right side of his face quirked up in an ironic little smile. "I used to know a woman who was like you in some ways a long time ago," he revealed. "I cared about her very much, but...." He trailed off, realizing that he was crushing his turban into a small ball of cloth in his hands. "Well, to make a long story short, things just didn't work out." Understatement of the century, you idiot, he groaned inwardly, closing his eyes as if to ward away the image of her face from flashing before his eyes.

That explains a lot about his reaction, Sandy thought, her eyebrows drawing together. I'm surprised that he's actually admitting something that's so clearly painful to him about his past to me, quite frankly. It's none of my business. She digested all he told her while he stared ahead, his moon-lit profile shadowed against the terrace floor tiles. "If things between you and her weren't meant to be...well.... Oh, I'm getting myself into trouble here," she mumbled, covering her mouth with her hand and shaking her head in frustration.

Again, his lips curved up in a smile - a genuine one this time. "You're right. If it was meant to be, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation right now, would we?" Sandy shook her head. His eyebrow arched upwards as he gazed down at her. "So, where do we go from here?"

"I don't know, Alex. I certainly wasn't expecting this to happen - not one bit," Sandy admitted. Her eyes widened when she saw what he had done to the turban. "Good grief. I hope you can fix that."

He looked down at his handiwork and rolled his eyes. "I think so. Wait a minute," he muttered, pulling it back and forth until it regained its' former shape before putting it back on his head. "Okay?" he asked. "It's fine," she told him.

"We probably should go back inside. We've been out here for quite a while," Alexander said after a few moments passed. Sandy slipped her hand into his and squeezed it gently. He squeezed back in a silent reply. "One step at a time," he whispered, his voice a gentle caress. "Works for me," she told him as they joined the others on the dance floor and began dancing.

Sandy ~ I really like that new sound file and the turkeys are hilarious!
- Wednesday, November 22, 2000 at 13:25:48 (PST)

The costume ball:

The refreshment break has ended, more or less, and the dancing resumes, and the "change" dances with their ticket system had achieved their aim: to cause the partygoers to mix and mingle. Now, everyone is free to resume dancing with partners of their own choice, but there is an unusual amount of "cutting in," which makes for much laughter and conversation out on the floor.

It is some time, however, before Mary Anne notices that no one seems to be cutting in on Cindie and Mistral, and she only notices then because her waltz partner—none other than Anton Gruber—calls it to her attention.

"So . . ."

Of course, it comes out as zo, and Mary Anne cannot help smiling. Few women on the set are immune to the charm of the Senior Gruber, with his courtliness, his gallantry, and his polished manners . . . yet Anton, like Hans, also possesses that edge to his personality, that controlled power that saves him from the danger of ever being thought of as an "old dear" by women, or something even less flattering. With his upright, dignified bearing, his lightly silvered hair, and his deep-set eyes, he is breathtaking in his Egyptian royal robes as he leads Mary Anne through the waltz, more than a match for its most intricate figures.

There may be snow on the roof, but there’s fire in the furnace, Mary Anne is thinking even as Anton sweeps her about, and murmurs, "So . . ."

"So?" she questions, following the direction of his gaze.

That voice, deep and soft as a shadow. "The iceman thaweth."

Mary Anne frowns, wondering what he could possibly mean, until she notices that several couples have drawn away from Mistral and Cindie, leaving them within a small space that no one approaches, as if they had established their own zone of privacy.

She takes a quick glance around the dance floor . . . there is Christopher with Claire, and there’s Renie with Sei . . . and even as she watches, couples are breaking apart, "cutting in" with low-voiced laughter and teasing, but no one approaches Merlin the Enchanter and his seductive partner. Is it that they don’t dare? Or . . . She can see, now, as Anton manoeuvres her, that some other dancers are looking in that same direction, but the mood seems to be one of good-natured curiosity, mild amusement, and even affection.

"The iceman thaweth? What do you mean?" A touch of mischief. Mary Anne understands very well what he means, and Anton Gruber knows it.

He smiles down at her. "I mean," he intones, "that if this were a more malicious gathering, everyone would be placing bets as to how soon Mister Mistral shall whisk—"

Visk. With difficulty, Mary Anne restrains her grin.

"—shall whisk away his beautiful lady to, shall I say, a more private setting." A gleam in those dark-golden eyes, of approval and . . . something else. "As I should have done already, if I were he."

Mary Anne widens her eyes in mock alarm. "Does that mean you’re going to whisk me away somewhere? More private?"

"Ach, nein--tempting as the thought may be, dear lady. Your Christopher would find us, no matter how well-hidden we might be . . . nor would I blame him in the least."

They waltz in silence for a short time, and Mary Anne carefully keeps her eyes trained away from Mistral and Cindie, lest she be caught staring at them; she can imagine how disconcerting it would be for one of them—especially Mistral—to look over at her without warning and catch a glimpse of her frank fascination with what is unfolding before her eyes. And yet, quite a few other people are observing the couple, both secretly and openly, but without any sign of malice or (pardon the term, dear readers) cattiness.

"Everyone seems to wish them well," she finally observes, at a loss for how to explain what she sees in Mistral and Cindie, what she feels building between them as the ocean gathers itself for the tsunami.

"It is often so," replies Anton. "We know that our ‘Mister I’—"

They both smile over the affectionate nickname.

"—is an extremely private man, and Miss Cindie seems a private woman as well. No one wishes to intrude or embarrass, and yet, what could be more fascinating? They are finding love, when perhaps they thought would not. Ever. And so we look."

"Learned all that just from looking, did you?" teases Mary Anne.

Not in the least abashed, Anton smiles back. "And from talking to people around the set."

"Ha! Not immune to gossip! I knew it!"

"Few people are, no matter what they say."

"True. I can hardly take my eyes off of them, and yet—well, to be looking like this! Like the whole room is filled with clones of Mrs. Jennings!"

"Lieber Gott, what a prospect."

"But in a way—now, this is going to sound awfully grim, but bear with me. In some ways, it reminds me of Greek tragedy, too, like those twists where the person tries to avoid prophecy, and by trying to avoid it, they fulfill it. I do like Mister I, but he always seemed . . . well, unattainable. For more than a short time, that is. Aloof. Very mysterious, which I’m sure made the women even more wild about him." With those shrewd, observant Gruber eyes upon her, Mary Anne keeps her own eyes modestly cast down and a demure expression on her face, leaving Anton to draw his own conclusions about whether she had ever been ‘wild’ in the fashion she describes. "And now, all in one breath—" She raises her palm and sighs upon it, as if blowing a kiss. "—it’s gone, all that mystery and standoffishness. Or is it?" She sighs. "I just hope no one gets hurt."

"That is always to be hoped," murmurs Anton, as he turns her deftly about for the final figures of the waltz, and Mistral and Cindie are swept from her view—but they are still within sight of the Senior Gruber, who is as unashamedly interested in the matter as Mary Anne.

A pity, thinks Anton Gruber, that this was not a masquerade, as well as a costume ball. Perhaps Mistral would appreciate a mask, if he could see the look upon his own face—but no, such a look should not be concealed . . . He smiles, and whisks Mary Anne away . . .

. . . to Brandon’s waiting arms, of course.

MA
Don't be nervous, Cindie, just because everyone's staring at you two . . . *grin*, - Tuesday, November 21, 2000 at 20:37:12 (PST)

Now, now, Mistral, don't be too hard on Cindie. You know, some women find it hard to think clearly around you . . .

MA
(Present company included), - Tuesday, November 21, 2000 at 17:53:20 (PST)

Corrections made.
Well, she has *you* appealing to D.o.C. I'm impressed.
D.o.C.

And please take out that "p>" in the paragraph beginning "He looked". It looks silly there. My thanks.
M
What was the woman thinking?, - Tuesday, November 21, 2000 at 13:48:58 (PST)

Please place a paragraph break between uncertainty. and Cindie. She's busy right now and can't do it herself.
Mistral
- Tuesday, November 21, 2000 at 13:43:07 (PST)

“THAT DOES IT!” Cindie wadded up the silk and threw it on the table. It wafted down and settled next to a partially consumed pear tart. Hardly a satisfying result. Mesmer gave her an inquiring look. “I swear that man has been avoiding me since the beginning of this evening, and its * going * to * stop * now.”

She got up and peered in the direction of the retreating midnight blue cloak. She spotted it, “Please excuse me Mesmer,” she nodded to him. “I have some unfinished business to tend to.” She threaded her way towards the group of people where Patrick Mistral was standing. A second dance is long overdue. Either that or we’d better have that talk. If he’s angry and can’t forgive my costume choice I need to know now. She arrived just as the group broke up. Patrick turned around and almost walked into her.

“Hello.” He said levelly.

Level was not the reaction she had hoped for. After their first dance, when he’d given her that precious gift of his name, he had been preoccupied. But he had appeared at her shoulder during the dramatic but unnerving entrance of the Director, and she’d hoped that they could end the evening as it had begun. Well, as that first dance had ended anyway. “Hello Patrick,” she said, “I thought we could….”

“You thought we could what? he said, his voice sounded clenched, as if he were making a verbal fist. She searched his eyes for some clue to his thoughts. His eyes, …the perfect storm. Where a moment before they had been flat and expressionless, they now roiled with an internal tempest of thoughts and feelings.

“Dance, talk.” she replied.

“Yes, let’s dance.” He led her out on the dance floor. He took her in his arms, his grip was firm and he held her close. Very close.

“I’m not going anywhere. We can have that talk now if you’d like.”

“Talk. Yes, we’ll talk.

“Patrick,” she wriggled a bit so she could look at him, “You’ve forgiven me haven’t you?”

“Forgiven you?” He brushed back a strand of her hair from her eyes and resumed his hold. “What have I got to forgive you for?” his tone was tinged with sarcasm.

“Tonight, the costume, I upset you,” she said. “You thought I did it on purpose.”

“Ahhhh, that,” he replied, looking her up and down, as if for the first time, “I’d forgotten. I was angry with you, wasn’t I?”

“I thought so. I was afraid I’d made a terrible mistake. Then that kiss…I thought you’d literally take my breath away.”

“Yes, I thought to take it away. And more besides.” He pressed her head against his chest. He relaxed his hold, a bit.

“Oh, that’s better, I can breathe now,” she murmured into the front of his tunic. He lifted her chin, assessing her face.

The storm was abating but there were still white caps. “Did I hurt you?” His tone was softer now, the sarcasm gone, blown away by the gales.

He looked troubled in a completely different way now. “No, no really.” She answered him, responding to his doubtful look. “You just held me so tight, I don’t mind…”

She could see that he was angry with himself now. Turn about was fair play – she clutched his hand tightly and pressed herself against his body. The fingers of her left hand dug themselves into the muscles of his upper arm. “There, how do you like it?” she challenged.

He laughed. His amusement genuine. “Alright, enough, enough… I surrender.”

“You didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“Oh… was it a *fight* you wanted? You should have told me…”

The mood was lightened somewhat, for the moment. But there was still too much unfinished business between the two of them for it to be considered free of care. The band concluded its song. There was a scattering off applause from the party goers. Patrick held on to her. “Don’t go anywhere. This next dance is mine.” Cindie nodded. He was being possessive but it was tinged with an edge of something that seemed like apprehension. She didn’t quite understand what was at work but, as she'd said, she wasn’t going anywhere either.

The band began another song and the male singer stepped forward. The strains of “Love Me or Leave Me” wafted through the hall. The singer crooned into the microphone:

The suspense…., is killing me.
I can’t stand…., uncertainty.

Cindie couldn’t help smiling to herself. You said it brother, she thought. What she couldn’t know was that Mistral’s thoughts were almost identical.

Tell me now…., I’ve got to know,
whether you want me…., to stay or go.
Love me or leave me and let me be lonely,
You won’t believe me but I want you only….

Cindie
Homage to Ms. DuMaurier and Rebecca, we are at Manderley afterall, and Renie's garage. This song by Gus Kahn and Walter Donaldson., - Tuesday, November 21, 2000 at 13:40:47 (PST)

Nope, dearest, didn't hit the cart too hard (BONK!). One slice of cheesecake is just about my limit . . . *patting stomach contentedly* It's just that I've been a bit squeezed for time lately, but I should be able to get into some mischief tonight. Hmmm, now let me see; the next dance . . . hey, I haven't had a turn with that scrumptious Herr Gruber, Senior yet! Oh, Anton . . . *crooking finger*

MA
Another Gruber-grabbing, confirmed! ;-), - Tuesday, November 21, 2000 at 05:40:11 (PST)

Corrections made.
I think you're confusing me with a Genie.
D.o.C.

DOC--There wishes to be space after the first verse of 'Come Down in Time', before the word "Couples". Also, a dessert cart is much more inviting than a desert cart, except to an Egyptian. *wry grin*

"Jealous type"--LOL, Therese! Very rarely, but a certain type of woman could transform me from a Queen into the legendary Apis Bull. Then you pick which cell! You've made a fine choice in your specimen, uhhh, partner. ;-)

Dearest, where have you gotten to? Told you not to hit the cart too hard.
Home is where the bar is .. .
Steel bars. Manacles. Cuffs . . . any rags any bones any bottles today? R, - Monday, November 20, 2000 at 21:33:15 (PST)

Stutter removed.
I'm running out of cells, actually. Would you rather share one with Renie's Ex?
D.o.C.
It's from The Magic of my Youth, Therese (and I thought you'd like it!).

DoC,

I think that everyone gets the idea of Therese's willingness to follow Hans. . .anywhere. I don't really think that I needed to say it twice. Could you take one of those out, if you please?

You ARE going to put me and Renie in separate cells, right? (Just in case she's the jealous type. . .)

Therese
See the mess I get into when thinking about Hans for too long?, - Monday, November 20, 2000 at 20:05:53 (PST)

FOF--The Costume Ball

Therese sat restlessly, crossing her legs at the knee, uncrossing them, and then returning her limbs to their former position. She was not a person at ease. Her last sight of Eamon had been to witness him topping the stairs to the portrait gallery, Joya and Valmont several paces beyond. There was trouble, no doubt, Therese thought to herself, her concern growing as she watched George ascend the same flight of stairs several moments later.

Odd for Eamon to become involved in the affairs of others in this manner, Therese mused. Not typical behaviour for him at all. She'd always admired that for such a public figure, he was a private man. And right now she wanted him back with her. After all, one Valmont, one Joya, one George, and several shots of alcohol. . .well that was a recipe for disaster in anyone's book.

"You seem troubled, may I help?"

Therese turned slowly toward the deep, lazy voice above her, and blinked once, then twice before answering. "You may," she acknowledged the speaker, extending her hand toward him. "After all, in your culture, King Akhenaten, is not the cat almost held in idolitry?"

The speaker lowered his head in proud acknowledgement. "No. Not almost," he corrected, clasping the silver clawed paw extended toward him carefully, he bowed low over her fingertips. "Bastet, I am your servant."

"If you wish to serve, your godess wishes to dance."

His grip upon her arm was light as he drew her from her seat behind the table, then toward the dance floor. She followed him willingly, his arm still upon hers, marveling at his effortless stride. The man was grace, personified.

And then, when she could not imagine him to be in any way a more perfect speciman of mankind. . .he took her into his arms.

Therese--confirmed Gruber grabber
Suzanne--AACCKK!! Where in the world did you find that saying?? It's PURR-fect!!, - Monday, November 20, 2000 at 19:58:10 (PST)

Italics fixed.
I can't say I'd object to being Gruber-grabbed.
D.o.C.

Houston, we have an italics problem.

Meanwhile, I wonder where Hans is? Anyone up for some Gruber-grabbing?
- Monday, November 20, 2000 at 06:15:41 (PST)

The close of the ballad is met with deafening applause which they do not hear. Sting, by request (and special persuasion) has agreed to sing one more song before he leaves. The pop beat begins, and his voice makes the song his own . . .

We were together I was blown away
just like paper from a fan . . .

One couple has not moved.

"Come with me," he asks. Her eyes look green.

She goes.

Back towards the small tables, at the far end of the hall, as the music, the band, and the singing rises, louder and louder.

. . . he wrote my name on silver sands . . .

Home is where the heart is.
Does this song inspire anyone? R, - Sunday, November 19, 2000 at 23:45:12 (PST)

She does not have to wait long.

"Hello, everyone. A dear friend asked if I might drop by--and I'm only too happy to see my lovelies from the Downtime Bar," Stings adds, as he winks to every woman in the room simultaneously. "This song is a favorite. I've played it in clubs, on the guitar. But tonight, I'm going to play the piano. It's called, 'Come Down in Time'." He loosens up with a few riffs.

The Director and his partner reach a place on the now crowded floor. The five-note ascending introduction hits the air, then descends in as many steps; Sting's voice rings out across the hall, plaintive and haunting.

In the quiet silent seconds I turned off the light switch
And I came down to meet you in the half light the moon left
While a cluster of night jars sang some songs out of tune
A mantle of bright light shone down from a room

Couples hold each other, in varying degrees of embrace, for the song is slow, deliberate, and wistful.

Come down in time I still hear her say
So clear in my ear like it was today
Come down in time was the message she gave
Come down in time and I'll meet you halfway

The Egyptian Queen and the winsome Director in white have fallen against each other. Whispering to each other, their voices little more than subcutaneous suggestion.

Well I don't know if I should have heard her as yet
But a true love like hers is a hard love to get
And I've walked most all the way and I ain't heard her call
And I'm getting to thinking if she's coming at all.

For the measures of this song Renie forgets herself . . . and the Director lets her forget, giving himself over to the memories of Topanga Canyon. Barely moving, more emotion than motion.

His cheek, Her head. Their bodies flow like Rhine wine, light--weightless. No space between them. Candlelight plays with shadow on the high white ceiling. Below, she the shadow, he the light.

Together, they dance, two lit matchsticks. Each a small flame only--alone--a brief blaze, quickly at an end. Together . . . their flames wrap around one another, make it last like the last hot bloom of summer which clings to the idea that fall will never take it from the branch. Blow winds.

Come down in time I still hear her say
So clear in my ear like it was today
Come down in time was the message she gave to me
Come down in time and I'll meet you halfway

Falling notes punctuate the embrace. His pulse is hers. They spin without moving.

There are women and women and some hold you tight
While some leave you counting the stars in the night.

Arms that come around. Dissolved. Insoluable.

Recorded by Sting on "Two Rooms". Lyrics from Elton John/Bernie Taupin. (This alone is worth it.)
Some "Topanga Canyon" for you, Cindie.;-) Ladies--Don't each so much you can't dance!--R, - Sunday, November 19, 2000 at 23:39:23 (PST)

"Then, shall we dance?"

In Voice-over:

You may think you know the Director; and of course, you do. He calls the scenes, sets the tone, and takes responsibility for every wrong note, while all the while making you feel as if you've been the star of every scene. At once hidden and omnipresent, he is the performance behind the performance. For all his formidable competence and tireless efforts, he is always, but never, on camera.

A hidden man.

Between the professional rewards and the personal pleasures lies a virtual Egdon Heath of acreage which is often lonely to traverse. Never one to complain, the Director navigates this landscape with more than ease--with a happy confidence and the satisfaction of a man at home with himself.

And yet.

And yet . . .

There are times when the most private of men reveal themselves. Not least of all to themselves. It happens in a moment.

"Then, shall we dance?"

She smiles, and he knows her answer.

The vocalist has polished off "Witchcraft", and relinquishes the microphone, and a murmur runs through the waiting crowd. The food, music, and entertainment have been fantastic, and the night is rumoured to have at least one or two more surprises.

Walking to a clear spot on the dance floor takes a few moments. Even with dessert carts to distract them, dancers have been eager, and the women have been more than a match for the men, who must all have done a stint in Forever Tango. Even guests who have not danced have watched the proceedings appreciatively.

As the Director leads her, Renie turns her head to see what's going on--and--no, no, it couldn't be--but when a cry which sounds like it might be Claudia goes up from behind the piano, Renie thinks she must be right . . .

Thanks to Georgiana for rocket fuel. Yes, dearest. :-)
*wicked grin*--R, - Sunday, November 19, 2000 at 23:34:21 (PST)

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Cindie responded to Mesmer’s proposal as if it were indecent.

“Not at all. You’ll be able to better discern the individual ingredients due to your heightened senses.

“But why do I have to be blindfolded to heighten my senses?”

“Because that’s how it works. Are you in or not?” Mesmer sat, leaning forward, a covered tray next to him on the table.

“What do we use? I could put my helmet on but with the visor down it could be a bit awkward.”

“I have that covered.” Mesmer pulled a cream colored silk scarf from his pocket and gave it a flourish.

“Why am I not surprised? Only you Mesmer.”

“You never know when a long bit of silk will come in useful,” he protested with a leer, sending Cindie into simultaneous groans and giggles.

“Alright then, proceed. The things I do for dessert.”

“For science, madam.” Mesmer proceeded to wrap the silk twice around Cindie’s head, covering her eyes most effectively, and tied it behind her head in a bow. “Can you see anything?”

“No,” her tone was a little apprehensive. “You behave yourself now.” A hand on her shoulder, “Of course Cindie. Dessert only, I promise.” There was the sound of silverware being unfurled from a napkin, the tray's cover being lifted and then a fork worrying something from one of the plates.

“Hmmm, lets start with something simple… open wide.” Mesmer’s voice sounded even more intense as she found herself straining her ears to catch every nuance.

“O.K.” Cindie opened her mouth. A fork very carefully slipped in, her lips closed and the fork withdrew. She chewed, savoring the flavors. “Mmmm, apple crisp…”

“Yes, now isolate the sensations and tell me what you perceive.”

Cindie worked the morsel in her mouth and swallowed, “the obvious ones, apple, cinnamon, nutmeg, oatmeal.”

“What else.”

“I need another bite.” Mesmer complied.

“Walnuts, sugar, ..no, brown sugar and, a little bit of vanilla, ice cream maybe, but I didn’t taste that last bite…”

The experiment went on for some time with varied results. But the upshot was Cindie got to try at least half a dozen desserts. Then, someone behind her chair and a hand on her shoulder. “Mesmer?” she inquired.

“No, I’m still over here.”

“Then who?

A soft voice in her ear, “Guess.”

“Oh no…,” she reached for the hand – felt the fingertips, cold. “Jamie!” she cried triumphantly.

“Lucky guess,” Jamie declared.

“Cold hands,” Cindie replied matter of factly.

“Warm heart,” he asserted.

“Undoubtedly true.”

Silence.

Another hand, firm and steady. “Guess now.”

A quick intake of breath, “Mistral?!” her response immediate.

Silence.

She tore at the silk and turned around. The retreating sight of a shooting star on a background of midnight blue.
Cindie
No way this girl was going to pass up dessert., - Sunday, November 19, 2000 at 19:08:33 (PST)

The costume ball (short flashback):

The Director stops by Mary Anne and Brandon’s table, to greet them and Mistral and ask whether they are having a pleasant evening.

"Wonderful," smiles Mary Anne, choosing to put aside her irritation about Valmont. "This is one of the best FOF parties we’ve had yet. Although—" Never above teasing The Director, Mary Anne points an accusing finger at him. "—you scared me green with that Red Death costume!"

"Red and green, Mary Anne? This isn’t a Christmas party."

"Well, you did! To look up and see that when you aren’t expecting it . . ." She rubs her arms, brrrrrrrring in exaggerated horror. "I must say I prefer this," as she feasts her eyes on the vision of The Director impeccably attired in white tie, his gleaming shirt a danger to the retinas of everyone present whenever he steps into a high-wattage light.

"Startled you, did I?" The Director chuckles, unapologetic. "Well, after the way you’ve made my hair go the wrong way with some of your behaviour, I’d say it was your just deserts."

"No," interjects Mistral, emerging from his reverie. "I would say that those--" Pointing. "—are her just desserts. Right, Mary Anne?"

"Too right," smiles Mary Anne, who had already seen the dessert cart being wheeled from table from table. "But how will I ever choose?" she wails in mock-dismay as the cart pauses for their selections.

"Why not try one of each?" suggests Brandon, who then breaks into laughter and raises his arms to shield himself when Mary Anne picks up her fork and flourishes it at him like a sword.

"That’s cruel, Christopher! It’s going to be hard enough to settle for two or three."

The Director gives her an alarmed glance, then relaxes as he see the mischievous twinkle. "Try settling for just one," he suggests. "Can’t have you holding up work with a stomach ache."

"And besides," adds Mistral, "you’ve got to keep that girlish figure."

Mary Anne flicks a look in his direction, then turns her glance down the willowy length of her body. "Not to worry," she deadpans, remembering the Full Monty party, and how she had dropped Brandon’s collar stud down the front of her gown, daring him to come and get it.

And how it had dropped straight on through her gown.

She wonders if Brandon and The Director are remembering that, as well, and decides not to look at their faces and find out.

Instead, she devotes herself to a slice of chocolate cheesecake (and one tiny bite of Brandon’s pear tart, for comparison purposes) and ponders Mistral’s peculiar demeanour; though he has joined in conversation readily enough, he is distracted and preoccupied, even agitated, though she cannot understand exactly why. He does not appear to be angry—though with his exceptional command of his own features, he could be seething and she might not know.

Seething, maybe. But not necessarily with anger. Just unsettled, somehow. It’s really caught him off guard, this business with Cindie. Poor man.

But then, Mary Anne stops herself. Poor man? No, Mistral is not poor; he is strong and intelligent and talented, and could be treading the very borders of the country of love. She smiles to herself. Perhaps that’s why he’s uneasy—I wonder if he’s trying to smuggle something through customs?

Mistral looks up, then, just in time to see her smiling, and it is a smile so full of good will and good wishes that he cannot help responding in kind, though he has no idea of her thoughts.

"Enjoying yourselves, are you?"

Mary Anne nods happily, pushing away her plate of cheesecake crumbs and leaning against Brandon’s shoulder, until he adjusts himself in his chair and settles his arm around her, deftly extending a wing of his fur-trimmed cloak so that they are both draped in it. "Are you warm enough, Mary Anne?"

"Ummmmm—hmmmm," croons Mary Anne. "Getting warmer all the time."

Mistral rolls his eyes. "Shameless, Mary Anne. Get a room!"

"Me, shameless? Christopher, am I shameless?"

"Oh, very. Extremely." Beneath the cloak, she can feel his arm settle more firmly about her, his fingertips caressing her shoulder. "Shamefully."

"Well, I give up—"

"As we would expect," quips Mistral.

"Shush, you! Now Christopher, I appear to have your complete cooperation, and yet I am the one who is called shameless. I and I alone. That is just too unjust for words. And as for you, Mistral—"

By such badinage does Mary Anne court Brandon and woo Mistral from his introspective mood, until the three of them are relaxed in each other’s company and chatting happily.

"You didn’t have any dessert, Mistral," observes Mary Anne. "Trying to keep your girlish figure, are you?" Wickedly.

Mistral returns her a lazy smile. Mary Anne’s attachment to Brandon is beyond question and everyone at this table knows it, but Mistral is in no doubt of how Mary Anne regards him as a physical specimen. "I think I’ll let you keep it," he parries.

"Well, I’m just not sure what to think of a man who can pass up a dessert cart."

"I have other, more pressing . . . temptations." A sardonic smile. " And I seem to have developed a phobia about carts, for some reason . . ."

"I know what you mean," puts in Brandon, with a sidelong grin at Mary Anne. "I seem to have a similar aversion to . . ." He lowers his voice to a whisper. "Large chairs!"

"With lots of straps, yes. I know what you mean—I have the same problem with tables."

"Laugh it up, you two," threatens Mary Anne. "You won’t be laughing when you see some of the storyline projections I have in the works . . ."

The three of them—despite the custom of leaving off shop talk at a party—are soon deep in discussion of future possibilities for FOF plotlines, until Mary Anne sees Mistral suddenly push his chair back from the table and direct his gaze over her shoulder, out toward the dance floor. And she knows, without turning, that Cindie must have entered his line of sight . . .

MA--Hugs, dearest. Home again for a bit? And with an "idea"--oh, yum!! ;-9
Cindie--Mmmmmm. Mmmmmesmer. What a treat. A veritable dessert cart, indeed., - Saturday, November 18, 2000 at 19:52:52 (PST)

Cindie turned and headed to the bar. The lemonade had been nice but something stronger would be nice too. She ordered a vodka martini with olives. The bartender proceeded to mix the drink, however, when it was time to add the olives he took one look at the wooden toothpicks and opted to drop the olives straight into the glass. I’ll have fun fishing those out later, Cindie thought to herself. As she tasted her drink she noticed Patrick sitting with Mary Anne and Brandon. She tried to catch his eye but he seemed almost unwilling to notice her. Silly thought, he wouldn’t deliberately avoid me….

The band has resumed playing and the singer was quite good. Cindie listened and sipped her martini. She had just resolved to go and see what was going on in the man’s head when Franz Anton Mesmer appeared at her side. He was dressed in vintage 1920’s clothing, a la the Great Gatsby. And he looked fine. He smiled and held out his hand. “Hello, I’m Franz Anton Mesmer, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“Hello, I’m Cindie. No we haven’t met yet. It’s a pleasure, I’ve long admired your work.”

“The pleasure is mine I assure you.” When he took her hand she had a taste of that animal magnetism that she’d heard so much about. Yowza – this gentleman had it. “Would you like to dance?” he inquired.

“Yes, I would.” She set her drink on the bar and they moved out on the dance floor. The band had been playing an instrumental which was just finishing. The male singer stepped to the microphone and the band began to play “Witchcraft.”

Those fingers through my hair
That sly come hither stare
That strips my conscious bare
Its witchcraft
And I’ve got no defense for it
The heat is too intense for it
What good would common sense for it do…

Cuz its witchcraft, witchcraft,
And although I know its strictly taboo
When you arouse the need in me
My heart says yes indeed in me
Proceed with what your leading me to…

They took to the dance floor. One of the great pleasures Cindie had discovered tonight was that it seemed as though every male cast member could dance. She supposed it was part of their training. She proceeded to enjoy Mesmer’s training to the utmost. They ended up dancing for a couple of songs. After that Mesmer got them both fresh drinks and they sat down at a table and chatted. Mesmer did most of the talking which suited Cindie fine. She was still getting to know the ropes and was more inclined to listen, besides which that voice was certainly easy on the ears. At one point Jamie stopped by and sat down for a bit. It was all very pleasant. Cindie spent minutes at a time not wondering what Patrick Mistral was doing.

Cindie
Magda, Is there going to be anything left of Valmont?
R- Oh goody!
Witchcraft by C. Colman and C. Leigh., - Saturday, November 18, 2000 at 18:10:16 (PST)

Scene: The set of the Great Hall of Manor House. The lights have been brought low, and white candles have been added to the small tables at the far end of the hall. Some partygoers are dancing, some are moving about, seeking new friends and old. At the bar, in the Gallery. And some . . .

"You've been avoiding me like the plague."

As she turns to his voice, the finely woven braided fabric swings away from her face, and her hair below shines brighter than the gold of all the Pharoahs.

"The Red Death." Nefertiti smiles. Those brown eyes.

"Too much, do you think?" His voice comes down heavily on 'think'.

"A very colorful entrance. Mary Anne told me she nearly fainted! That frightening exterior--and underneath . . . " She gestures towards his white jacket--and he slides his hand into hers, quickly. His hand is warm.

"Yours was positively historic." He closes the distance between them.

The sudden closeness makes them feel as if they are in a blazing spotlight, when in fact, they have attracted no notice at all.

"There are tables--" he begins, and starts to glide off with her, towards the far end of the hall, still holding her hand in his own.

She does not stop, not exactly, but pulls back, and he is forced to either slow his pace, or let her go. Her hand still in his, the Director pauses, his eyes crinkle down at the edges, down at her, as she searches for an excuse. "I really don't--"

"Then, shall we dance?"

As if one could say no to the Director. As if one ever would.

Nefertiti smiles, and he knows she will say yes.

I've got an idea . . .
R, - Saturday, November 18, 2000 at 17:05:32 (PST)

"You don't listen to warnings well, monsieur." Dev uncoiled the whip and with a flick of his wrist sent the lash writhing across the floor. The tip slithered up to Valmont's boots, then retreated. Dev revolved his arm in a wide circle, gathering the length of rawhide in one hand in preparation for a true blow. "Perhaps you need your hearing checked."

Valmont tensed but did not retreat. His eyes followed the movement of the leather whip until it was secure in Dev's grip again, then he lifted his gaze to the other's face. "There is nothing wrong with my hearing. For instance, I did not hear the lady call for your assistance."

Dev hesitated. It was a point. He glanced at Joya, who had retreated from the battle zone to the nearest wall. She flowed onto an overstuffed sofa and saluted the men with her half-full glass of champagne. He had to admit that she didn't look as if she were in any distress. But how could any woman welcome Valmont's attentions? He checked his thoughts. For that matter, how could Joya endure George's embraces? It was truly a mystery.

The Frenchman sensed his opponent's loss of confidence and swaggered forward. "And another thing, monsieur: I don't believe that you really could bring yourself to harm me. Go ahead! As the Americans say, 'take your best shot'."

"Bravo, Valmont. Excellent thrust. I believe you have won a point there." From her perch against the wall, Joya patted one hand against her palm in quiet applause. She nodded encouragingly at Dev. "And you sir? Where is your parry?"

Valmont looked over his shoulder and leered. "Do not worry, mademoiselle. I shall save my best moves for your lovely self." He turned away before he could see Joya roll her eyes to the ceiling.

De Valera was torn. There was more truth to the man's claim than he liked to admit. For all the ferocity of his weapon, it was quite likely that he didn't have enough skill to seriously harm an opponent - or the will either. He assumed his most ferocious mien, as he thought furiously for a plan of action.

"You're not holding it right. You'll never hit anything that way." The third male voice caught two-thirds of the group by surprise.

The men jumped and whirled in their tracks. Joya smiled and lifted her glass in another salute. "Hello George."

George pushed himself away from the wall and strolled over to Dev. "Give it here." Without waiting for a response he appropriated the whip and examined it carefully. Apparently pleased with what he saw, he grunted and began to experiment. "Did you know that bullwhips are misnamed? No? Well they are. They were never used on bulls at all. No, there's only one use for a bullwhip and always has been. To hurt people - badly."

George jerked his arm back and the lash hissed through the air until it ended with a sharp crack. The other two men flinched. George watched the leather tip slide along the floor. He smiled, then nodded at Dev. "You'd better leave. I'll leave your whip up here for you to pick up later. And by the way, Joya and I will be leaving soon." He shot a look heavy with fell promise at Joya, still reclining on the sofa. She smiled. George turned back to Dev. "Please extend our regrets to our hosts."

Just how it happened, Dev wasn’t sure but he suddenly found himself walking down the gallery as the door closed behind the other three. He shook his head. He wondered what else he would find in that room later when he went to retrieve his whip.

Magda
No problem, Claudia, - Friday, November 17, 2000 at 17:42:06 (PST)

Slight flashback prior to George and Joya's arrival at the party:

Cindie and Alexander emerged from the library and he scanned the room briefly. He spotted Jamie and Sandy engaged in what appeared to be a rather intense conversation as they finished their dinner. His lips curled up in amusement when he saw Jamie pound the table to emphasize his point, while Sandy retorted something in response.

"If you'll excuse me, Cindie," Alexander looked down at Cindie with a smile. Cindie smiled back and nodded as he strode away, heading in the direction where Sandy and Jamie were seated. I see that Jamie's managed to find someone who will actually talk politics with him - and she's not hesitant to disagree with him either, if the expressions on their faces are any indication, he thought to himself. He chuckled under his breath as their voices drifted over to him.

"...that's contributing to the instability of the Euro," Sandy said, her blue-gray eyes sparkling, tapping her nails against the half-full glass of wine in her hand. Jamie snorted indignantly as he swallowed the last of his wine. "I don't think so. The probability of that is about as likely as seeing John Majors dropping his trousers and mooning Parliament," he growled.

"Blech," Sandy frowned, trying to keep away the image of that august figure performing such an undignified act in the House of Lords from flashing before her eyes and failing miserably. Jamie chuckled wickedly at her facial expression. He pushed a lock of hair away from his eyes, his left eyebrow lifting as he gazed at her and winked. "Let's just agree to disagree on that issue, huh?" Sandy nodded, shaking her head in bemusement.

"Sorry to break into what sounds like a fascinating conversation," Alexander drawled, amusement crossing his features at the expression on Sandy's face. The two looked up and Jamie nodded, his eyes sliding over to look at the petite writer attempting not to burst into a fit of the giggles. "Dane," he murmured, shaking Alexander's hand.

Just then, there was a commotion upstairs in the portrait gallery. The three looked up and saw the confrontation between Valmont, Mary Anne, and Dev. The crack of Dev's whip echoed down the stairs into the great hall and they saw Mary Anne stalk away from Valmont with a furious expression on her face. The amorous Frenchman stared at her retreating figure, quite put out that his attentions were spurned and relieved that Dev didn't aim for him directly.

"What a complete jerk," Sandy hissed under her breath as she rose to her feet, crossing her arms. Jamie also rose to his feet, an expression of disgust crossing his face at his colleague's behavior. Alexander gazed down sharply at her. "I saw him dancing with you earlier during the change series...." He left the statement hanging in the air. Jamie's eyebrow shot up at the worried tone of the Shakespearean actor's voice.

"If you'll excuse me. I enjoyed our conversation, Sandy. There's not too many folks around here willing to discuss politics," he told her with a grin. "The same here. There's also not too many people around here willing to confront politicians either," she replied, returning the smile. Jamie laughed, placed his pith helmet on his head and walked towards the bar. The two could hear him muttering under his breath as he walked away, "Now if they could just turn up the heat..."

Sandy turned around and saw Alexander scowling at Valmont, who was still standing in the portrait gallery with a dazed expression on his face. "I'm fine, Alex. Really. He didn't get too frisky with me. I danced with him before he got into the sauce," Sandy reassured him. Alexander nodded curtly, still not convinced.

"Besides, I could have just stamped on his foot nice and hard. There is an advantage to being known as the office klutz," she reminded him. "That's true. You could have caused some minor damage with those shoes," he admitted, laughing softly as he glanced down at the stiletto-heeled sandals she wore. "You didn't have to agree so quickly. Sheesh!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes in mock exasperation. His smile grew wider in response as he gazed over at the members of the orchestra picking up their instruments to start the next set.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked her. "Not just yet. Actually, I'd like a little air. It's HOT in here, no matter what Jamie says," Sandy admitted. "Yes it is. Would you like to go outside for a few minutes instead?" Alexander asked her. "Sure." He offered the crook of his arm to her and she slipped her arm in his.

The two made their way across the great hall until they reached the doorway that led to the terrace. They stood next to each other, leaning against the half-wall overlooking the Rose Garden. "Are you cold?" Alexander asked her. "It's a little cool, but I'm fine," Sandy replied. Alexander nodded and they said nothing for a few moments, enjoying the relative peace and quiet of outside.

"Valmont..." Alexander started to say when Sandy interrupted him with a soft, "It's not a big deal. It's too bad though." She shrugged her shoulders in resignation. "It's flattering to get attention, but not when you practically have to defend yourself against being manhandled."

Alexander growled under his breath something that she didn't understand. He sighed heavily and shook his head. "You still have his hat though from the summer party," he observed.

"Yes. It makes a really great Frisbee. Oliver loves it," Sandy informed him, her eyes starting to twinkle with mischief.

Alexander's eyes widened in disbelief. "You mean you're using a $300 custom hand-made hat as a plaything for your dog?!"

"Actually, it was $500. I did a little bit of surfing on the Net and found the website of the shop where he bought it in Beverly Hills," she said, starting to laugh. "He said it was mine to keep. He didn't say a thing about what I had to do with it."

Alexander blinked, a smirk crossing his handsome features as he pictured the lively miniature black poodle running after the demolished hat in a game of fetch. "It probably doesn't go far enough for him to really enjoy the game."

"Well, um... I solved that problem. I cut out the middle and straightened the brim to make it more aerodynamic. I figured that somebody should enjoy it more than I ever would," she explained, her smile growing even wider.

Alexander shook his head and deadpanned with a completely innocent expression on his face, "He should have left his hat on."

The two stared at each other for a moment and burst out laughing, leaning against each other for support as they attempted to rein in their mirth. They looked up into each other's faces and Alexander stopped laughing, staring into Sandy's eyes with an unreadable expression on his face. Sandy stared back at him and swallowed audibly, licking her lips.

Alexander suddenly leaned down and his mouth covered hers in a gentle kiss, pulling her to him, tasting the wine she had earlier on her breath and the soft floral fragrance of her shampoo filling his nostrils. Sandy immediately wrapped her arms around his waist, closing her eyes as she returned the kiss. She could taste the bitter tang of Guinness on his breath combined with the sweetness of strawberries, the spiciness of his cologne drifting in the night air.

He pulled away from her suddenly, muttering with closed eyes, "I shouldn't have done that." He swallowed hard and opened his eyes to see Sandy standing stiffly in front of him with her arms crossed, staring back at him with an absolutely furious expression on her face, her eyes blazing. "What the bloody HELL do you mean by that?!" she rasped.

Sandy
No more politics for me tonight., - Friday, November 17, 2000 at 15:55:35 (PST)

Break's over. Any requests?
the band
- Friday, November 17, 2000 at 11:40:41 (PST)

Picking up where we left off - slightly earlier than the most recent posts:

The music slowly faded, and Ed ended the dance with another dip, bending Claudia backwards, and leaning over to plant a lingering kiss on her lips. He then pulled her up sharply so her body crashed against his, knocking her breathless.

“Mmmmm, it’s getting rather warm in here.” Her cheeks were pink, from the dance and from the kiss.

Ed grinned at her evilly, his hands moving to encircle her waist. “OK, you proved me wrong - again. It seems your mission in life. You can dance in those shoes. Now, why don’t you take them off before you brake an ankle.”

“Anything else you’d like me to take off?” batting of eyelids in a very poor imitation of Mary Anne’s patented ‘innocent look’.

“Wicked woman,” he growled, nuzzling her neck. “Later - if you’re very lucky.”

Claudia slipped off her shoes and held them hanging on two fingers, over her shoulder, then moved towards the bar, swaying her hips in the figure-hugging black dress. As she passed Ed he reached out and slapped her rear. He couldn’t resist a moving target.

At the bar, she smiled sweetly at the vampire bartender. “Two champagnes please,”

“In the shoes, madam?” he enquired seriously, raising an eyebrow in question, the point of one tooth appearing over his bottom lip.

Ed came up behind her, and hugged her from behind, digging his chin into her shoulder. “Now, there’s an idea.”

Claudia burst out laughing. “Ewwwww - cheese flavoured champagne?! I don’t think that is quite the flavour the French intended.”

There was a growl from the other end of the bar. “Don’t mention the French! Can’t a man get drunk in peace around here?”

They turned to see a rather dejected looking George, hunched over a half-empty glass. It was usual to see him sulky, but not sitting alone. George was a man of action, and this evening that part of him seemed lacking.

“It’s a party, you should be enjoying yourself!” bubbled Claudia, precisely the right tone of voice to annoy George further.

He growled again, and his eyes shot daggers across the room. They turned to follow his gaze, and saw Joya walking arm in arm with Valmont, around the room. “Oh,” said Claudia, still unsure why George was standing for, or sitting down for being treated like that. She was about to suggest reintroducing Valmont to ropes and feathers, then thought better of it, considering Joya might think this an excellent idea.

“Why don’t you ask your lady to dance?” Ed volunteered.

George was in no mood to talk about his ‘lady’ Joya. He just grunted and took another large swig of his drink.

Ed shrugged, and thought it better they leave him in peace. George was like a bear with a sore head at the best of times. Ed gathered his lady, her shoes and their drinks, and headed across the room to find some more amiable company.
Claudia
Hope you don't mind us trying to cheer up George, Magda. He looked so sorry for himself., - Thursday, November 16, 2000 at 12:12:43 (PST)

The costume ball—refreshment break:

Brandon has selected a table and is just wondering what is taking Mary Anne so long, when he sees her crossing the dance floor, her head held high and her face flaming; people step out of the way of her rapid walk and Brandon can see them exchanging glances behind her back as she passes. What could have happened? he wonders, as he advances to meet her.

"Did you get to look at the portraits, Mary Anne?"

"Yes." Shortly.

Brandon, exercising the better part of valour, leads her to the table he has set up in a quiet corner and seats her before asking, "What is the matter?"

Mary Anne picks up her fork and growls, "Men," in one eloquent monosyllable before attacking a lobster puff.

Brandon pauses for a moment, eyeing her flashing knife and fork before asking quietly, "Anyone I know?"

Mary Anne glances up. Brandon’s amused eyes, that wry grin, with just a trace of pretended hurt . . . or is the hurt real? Her pronouncement was rather sweeping.

"I’m sorry." She lays aside her cutlery and takes a sip of champagne. "Nothing serious. It’s just that Valmont was being aggravating." Brandon frowns, and she hastens to add: "But Dev took care of him for me. Don’t trouble yourself."

"Remind me to thank Dev when I see him," replies Brandon, looking as if he is now prepared to savage his own supper—if he can bring himself to eat at all.

"Oh, now, Christopher; don’t get upset—"

"Valmont upset you, and—"

"True, but I won’t have you fighting a duel with him. Not off camera!" Mary Anne puts all of her effort into an appealing smile, consciously widening her eyes and then lowering her head slightly to gaze up at him through her thick, dark lashes. Brandon is captivated, as she had meant him to be, though she can tell by his return smile that he is fully aware that he is being charmed; she is taking a willing prisoner. "Please, let’s just forget about it. I want to enjoy the rest of the party."

"I will not forget about it, but if he leaves you in peace, then I’ll leave him in peace. We are here to relax, after all. You can tell me about it later—when I will not be so tempted to . . ."

Brandon’s voice trails off, and Mary Anne follows his gaze to see Mistral crossing the dance floor.

There is no sign of agitation in his walk, though there is something in his face that causes the people milling about on the dance floor to step clear of him just as they had with Mary Anne, thought it is difficult to say just what that something might be; only those who have known him as long as Brandon and Mary Anne could detect any disturbance, and she wonders uneasily just what she must have looked like to provoke that same response.

Mary Anne is very much a creature of impulse, but she take the precaution of a whispered conference with Brandon before she gestures to catch Mistral’s attention, inviting him to come over and join them.

At first she wonders whether he has even seen her, for though his eyes turn in her direction there is a strange, blank look in them, the absent stare of a man deep in thought—but then his eyes seem to focus, and with a smile, Mistral steps forward to take his seat with Brandon and Mary Anne at the corner table, looking grateful for the invitation . . .

MA--which two? There are lots of couple here . . . oh,maybe you meant the two candidates? Maybe THEY will fight a duel to settle it!
So, Dev, what do you do when the damsel isn't in distress? Cindie--you can have Mistral back if/when you need him. *grin*, - Thursday, November 16, 2000 at 05:59:32 (PST)

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