Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Delaford. Dawn.

Colonel Christopher Brandon awakens to the certainty that an entire regiment of filthy-booted soldiers has been carrying out close-order drill manoeuvres—in his mouth. It also seems probable that he has been repeatedly kicked by a horse, especially about his head, which aches abominably, though the pain begins to ease as he keeps his eyes open, allowing them to adjust to the dim grey light.

What in heaven's name--?

But it seems highly unlikely that heaven had anything to do with it.

Then, he remembers—and catches his breath so sharply that another spike of pain shoots through his head, causing his eyes to water as he narrows them against the cold glimmer of oncoming dawn. But then, even as he waits, the pain subsides once more.

He remembers it, now, as he had suffered it once before: the aftermath of that drug, when The Doctor had treated him in the Tardis and given him the antidote. But Brandon has no time to think on that, now; his mind is elsewhere.

"Mary Anne!"

Appalling, the sound of his voice: a dry whisper . . . but then Brandon feels the movement beside him in the bed and sinks back against his pillows, weak with relief: she is there, beside him.

His brow creases.

If, indeed, it is Mary Anne . . .

Moving slowly, in deference to his aching head as well as his desire not to awaken whoever is beside him, Brandon eases himself out of bed, wraps himself in one of the blankets, and moves around to the other side . . .

And sighs. It is Mary Anne—even in this low light, he can see her clearly: her hair spread on the pillow, there, and one sleeve of her nightdress, ivory-white against the dark emerald counterpane. She always appears at her most fragile with her eyes closed . . . their sparkle concealed behind the lowered lids, the curve of her long lashes . . .

Everything appears so ordinary that Brandon wonders for a moment whether he has not dreamed what he thinks he remembers. Those strange feelings of the day before, a craving that had grown in him through the afternoon and would no longer be denied, once he had seen Mary Anne.

I must have behaved like a wild beast.

After this, his recollections are none too clear. Had Claudia truly . . . or had it been Mary Anne? Or either of the two? Or did I simply imagine . . . ?

Brandon shakes his head—and then winces a little when his head reminds him that it has no liking for any such abrupt movements. Grimacing, Brandon picks up the pitcher and cloth by the bed and, after a pause to warm some water at the fire, makes for his dressing room.

He emerges from it a short time later, wrapped in his amber dressing robe and feeling almost human again, thanks to the combined forces of both warm and cool water.

Mary Anne sleeps on . . . but Brandon is not looking at her.

He has stopped in the middle of the chamber, his gaze riveted to the door of Mary Anne's private room—the door that hangs from one hinge, clear sign of having been battered down by force.

Brandon swallows, and his eyes turn toward Mary Anne.

Did I . . . ?

He needs answers—is anxious for them, desperate for them. Walking softly, he crosses to the bed and sits at one corner of it; Mary Anne, feeling the movement of the bed as his weight settles on it, stirs but does not awaken.

Brandon hesitates. Rouse her, or let her sleep?

He must know what has happened, feels that he cannot contain himself until he knows.

He leans closer . . . then stops. There, where the sleeve of her nightdress has been pushed up, revealing her wrist and forearm.

Brandon suppresses a groan. Those markings, as if someone had gripped her wrist, tightly . . .

MA--"Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping, while she lies sleeping . . .", - Tuesday, November 30, 1999 at 20:11:59 (PST)

Dev's Guest Quarters

Therese shook her head from side to side angrily. She wanted to awaken, but her body betrayed her, and remained mired in the questionable area between wakefulness and sleep. As she struggled, she felt the pressure of confinement, holding her, forcing her to be still. The sudden jerk of her arms as she attempted to free herself brought a stabbing pain as the I.V. was twisted within her flesh; Therese could only think that this sensation was HIM, once again attempting to harm her or contain her in some way. HE had drugged her once before, and could feel HIS needle stabbing into her flesh even now. . .

She was being bodily lifted, and held, her arms pinned together, her body pushed into a warm, solid surface. HE had done this before, trapped her between walls, using HIS body as a means to intimidate and terrorize. Words came to her, disjointed at first, but gradually merging into clarity, the voice, HIS voice, vibrating through her very frame as she fought.

"Easy now, I've got you, shhh. . . you're safe here, there now, there. . ."

She was so tired, she wanted to believe the voice, had wanted to feel safe again with a desperation she had not known herself capable. Could it be true? She reached forward as she calmed somewhat, leaning toward. . .and with her movement she once again felt the stabbing pain in her arm. Desperately she grappled with the source of the ache, attempting to grasp it, and tear it from her body. If she could prevent HIM from injecting her, possibly she could. . .

Somewhere, a door opened, and another voice assailed her wakening consciousness, this one conferring with the first. The sounds were muddled to her, and nonsensical, but the result was far more terrifying, as now two sets of arms struggled against her, attempting to control.

Hold her as still as you can, and I'll get the I.V. out, I think that's what's setting her off."

"Aye, tha', and me, as well. . ."

McCoy could see the tortured expression in Dev's mien, and hear the hurt in his voice.

It's not you she's fighting ,you have to know that."

Dev nodded solemnly, his features somber as he held Therese's arm steady while McCoy gently removed the cause of her distress and fastened a bandage over the wound. Once she was freed from the connection, Dev sat on the bed next to her and gathered her into his arms, gently hugging her to his body until she was not capable of further struggle.

Therese was furious. How could she have thought she was free from this? Had HE planned it thus? How much more could HE expect her to take? Tears coursed from her sightless eyes, and she cursed her weakness as she wailed her frustration. "Eamon," she moaned weakly, "Eamon, where are you? Help me. . ."

"I'm right here, love, I've got you, it will be all right now, shhh. . .you're safe here with me."

Therese turned toward the spoken words, mistrusting her ability to put faith in them, but desperately wanting to believe what he said. "Could it really be you?" she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. She reached to touch his face with her hand, feeling and discerning the beloved territory of his very features, as her senses finally began to clear.

"It's me, little one, it's Eamon."

Therese turned and clung to him desperately, her face seeking the space between his neck and shoulder where she fit so well, as she drunk in his scent and his very presence. "It is you, it really is? I told HIM you would come, I knew you would, I never doubted that." She paused, reveling in the feel of him, his touch, and his sound, and his scent. "Please hold me. . ."

"Always, Therese, I'll not let you go again." He returned the embrace, holding her as if she was the most precious and valued thing he possessed. Which, in fact, she was.

Joanna McCoy slipped from the room silently and unnoticed. She was an intruder at this point, but would return later, if she was needed.

Therese
geez. . .sometimes this writin' stuff is like pullin' teeth! , - Tuesday, November 30, 1999 at 14:21:33 (PST)

We interrupt this story for a shameless bit of self-promotion:
Please do come visit Rebecca's Guide To Seattle and the December Monthly Rickmanista, with puzzle, and my letter to Santa asking that AR would star in The Fencing Master!

(that's http://emma_on_line.tripod.com/Seattle.html, and http://emma_on_line.tripod.com/dec9.html, just in case)
We now resume the FOF . . .
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
- Tuesday, November 30, 1999 at 08:20:48 (PST)

"Do you expect me to believe that you didn't know who Hiram Crabbs was? Come off it!" Elliott Marston dropped his calm demeanour and leaped to his feet. Anger propelled him across the room to the sofa where Major Rodney Ashey-Pitt sat.

"Well, I don't." The officer stared stupidly up at him. The action seemed to aggravate his injury; he reached up and began to rub the side of his neck.

"I suppose you don't know who searched my family's rooms at the Royal either?" Marston put his hands on his hips, looming over his quarry. His hold on his temper slipped another notch.

"Oh, that was us. No question." Ashley-Pitt slid down as far as he could to avoid his interrogator. "I ordered a search for any documents that would have my name on them. My men were ordered to search the rooms of the Flanagan family. They couldn't find anything and I thought there were no documents."

"Sam Flanagan gave his papers to me. They were in my room." Marston reflected for a bitter moment on the army activities that his taxes were funding, then returned to the main issue.

The major looked up with a disgruntled expression. "Well, obviously. Otherwise why would you be here?" He sighed, then continued in a calmer vein. "I didn't know that you and the young woman were that intimate or I would have had them look in your rooms too. Well, we live and learn."

Marston took a deep breath and counted to ten. "Major, I sympathize with your personal loss but a man has been killed and I need some answers. Hiram Crabbs came to me claiming to have information about Ches Watters and the next day he was found hanged. What do you know about it?"

"Ches Watters. There's a name I do know." Ashley-Pitt said nothing for a moment, absently rubbing his neck. "Elliott, I'm going to do you a favour and tell you the truth. I don't have to. Even this incident today can be hushed up. I have the power in this state to do it. But the man you shot was sent here by someone else – someone who is tying up loose ends. And I want the bastard stopped."

Marston crouched beside the sofa. "Then tell me."

"I hated Sam Flanagan for letting my brother's killer go. But I would never have done anything about it. That's the truth." He fell silent again, then roused himself. "I was promoted to major after only two years as a captain. I couldn't afford – literally – to do anything to Flanagan and have it traced back to me. And then one day about a year ago, I got a visit from someone who made me an incredible offer. He knew about my brother's death – no real secret – and guessed how I felt about it. He said that he could arrange it so that it would never be traced back to me."

Marston stood up again slowly. Across the room, Melvin Collins leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on the major.

"All I had to do was commission Ches Watters – he wasn't specified but I suggested him and my visitor had no objections – to hire Sam Flanagan to undertake a particular job. The beauty of it was that I would be protected because I wouldn't know what the job was. One of his men would deliver a sealed envelope to Watters after he'd agreed." Ashley-Pitt glanced up warily, trying to gauge his reaction.

Marston was poker-faced. "Go on."

"Well, of course I asked a lot of questions. It was a damned peculiar arrangement. Some he answered, some he didn't." Ashley-Pitt looked around for his glass; he tipped the remaining contents down his throat. "But he promised me that Flanagan would not survive the job. It was too good an opportunity, from my point of view."

"And what happened?"

"After a week of thinking it over, I told him I agreed. I never saw him privately again. At the end of that month, I made contact with Watters and he was willing. I got word back to my – colleague, shall we say? – and his man brought me a sealed envelope to pass on to Watters. The same man, incidentally, whose visit to me today you so fortuitously interrupted." The major reached up and stroked his neck again, rubbing the rawness with the tips of his fingers. "When I handed that envelope over, I felt the greatest sense of peace come over me. Long distance revenge. It was wonderful."

Across the room, Collins looked away to hide his disgust. His client was incredulous. "That's it? That was your entire involvement?"

"Until Watters died, yes. Oh, I won't deny that I was impatient occasionally. I didn't hear anything about Flanagan being killed and I did sort of wonder. But the whole machinery was in motion and there was nothing I could do but wait. Then I went out to your ranch one day and met that cutie -" He broke off at the look in Marston's eyes. "Uh, I mean that attractive young lady with the interesting name. I give you my word I didn't know he had a daughter."

"Never mind that." Marston reached down and took a fistful of scarlet uniform in his right hand. He pulled the major to his feet with one swift tug. "Now tell me the name of this colleague of yours. I want to ask him some questions."

"Go right ahead. I owe him nothing. He tried to have me killed today." Ashley-Pitt gazed at him with steady eyes. It was as if the release of his memories combined with the assault on his person to render him almost insensate to normal emotion. "But be careful. Cal Torken is a powerful man."

Magda
- Monday, November 29, 1999 at 16:03:47 (PST)

Mary Anne is left alone with Brandon.

After all of the activity, the new quiet settles about her like a tangible substance, a warm, soft blanket in which she could wrap herself . . .

Warm? The room is chilly. The fire has all but gone out.

Mary Anne rises from the edge of the bed and is stunned when her knees almost give way; she has to clutch at the bedpost to keep from falling. The events of the evening . . . her short, broken sleep in the pantry was not nearly enough, especially after her previous encounter with Brandon.

Mary Anne waits, and the giddiness passes off. Slowly this time, she stands up and walks to the fireplace, then carefully rakes over the embers and begins to add small cuttings, one at a time, watching them kindle until the fire is once more burning respectably. Picking up the hearth brush, she dusts away the slight litter of ashes and wood shavings from the stone surround, arranges the firescreen . . . and sinks down to sit on the floor in front of the fire, holding out her hands to the comfortable blaze, and thinking.

And feeling. Against her will, the frost that seemed to have fallen over her emotions is melting away; the protective numbness will not last.

Claudia. In league with HIM.

How COULD she?! She's our friend. She's one of us! Through everything--back in the days of the Safehouses, and all through the stay at Egdon, and . . .

I don't understand it. She was the one who always wanted to stop The Interrogator; she always had a plan for going after HIM. And now . . . what will become of her, now?

The silence is not so complete as she had first thought. Sounds, here and there, discernible only to her sensitive hearing. Comings and goings in the house, a bustle of activity.

Mary Anne smiles, a sad smile. It had sounded the same the evening before her wedding--doors opening and closing, footsteps, murmurs of conversation . . . only a few short days ago. Less than a week.

She glances at the bed. Christopher, my darling. Claudia is--was--your friend, too. Why would she try to hurt you? What's it all FOR?! What did she want--?

There could be only one reason for Claudia to give him that drug, and Mary Anne cuts off the thought, ruthlessly. Until Brandon is awake, she will not know the full story--and until then, she cannot bear the idea . . .

She's betrayed us all, for HIM.

And then the memory returns to her like a dagger-thrust--being in HIS offices with Brandon, believing Renie dead . . . and Hans had helped HIM to escape, believing as he did so that it was what Renie would have wished. Because of Hans, HE had walked away unharmed.

That, too, had seemed a betrayal. Had felt like one. It was all explained, later, but at the time . . .

And at that memory, the pain sears through Mary Anne and she makes no attempt to struggle against it, but presses her hands to her face and lets the tears trickle through her fingers, releasing the accumulated shocks and fears of the night. Oddly, she feels little anger at Claudia for the moment; there will be time enough for that later. But just as she could not endure the thought of fearing her own husband, earlier, so she can hardly take in the prospect of seeing one of her friends as a traitor to the Realm.

What will happen to her? If she did this for HIM--but HE has been taken, now. Whatever her reason, it was all for nothing. Why? Ed loves her--and what will happen to the boys?

Why do people DO such things?

One of those questions for which there is no answer.

After a time, Mary Anne rises and goes into Brandon's dressing room, finding there a pitcher of water and a washcloth. After bathing her own face, she carries the water and a fresh cloth back into the bedchamber.

Moistening the cloth and holding it briefly before the fire to warm it a little, she goes to Brandon and wipes his face, smoothing the cloth across his forehead until his expression relaxes and the tense creases between his eyebrows disappear.

Setting aside cloth and pitcher, Mary Anne removes her robe and slippers, then slips into the bed with Brandon. The discomforts of the evening and her natural fatigue are making themselves felt, and it is with many a wince over sore muscles and general aches and pains that Mary Anne tosses about until she can settle down.

Lying there next to Brandon, she allows herself to relax. Don't think about it all. Just let yourself go . . .

And she smiles a little as a strong arm settles across her, gathering her closer. Even in his sedated sleep, Brandon is aware of her presence and reaches out for her, instinctively.

Wanting and needing her.

Mary Anne reaches out from under the covers and strokes that arm that lies across her body, taking Brandon's hand in her own and lifting it softly to her lips, before gathering the bedclothes about her and falling into a heavy sleep.

MA
That look on Dev's face--yeah, Claudia, you should be shivering. Aiiieeee! , - Monday, November 29, 1999 at 08:04:16 (PST)

Claudia stood and looked down. The guards didn't seem foolish enough to be following her out on the ledge, but they may find another way up here to the roof. There was a flat area, like the ramparts on a castle, before the roof began to slope gently upwards. She moved along the building cautiously. It was still dark and she hadn't been able to carry any light source out with her.

She knew what they must have all been thinking of her, and she couldn't bear it. She couldn't be caught now, when there would be no way she could justify all she had done.

Phup…phup phup phup phup

Out of nowhere a helicopter rose, directly in front of her, the spotlight found her immediately and pinned her to the spot like a rabbit caught in headlights. The think cotton of the nightdress was thrown into a whipping mass around her body. She half expected men clad in black with boot polish on their faces, and machine guns in their arms to descend on web thin ropes from the belly of the thing and push her roughly to the ground, guns aimed at her back as she was trussed up, with so many ropes and chains that there would be no way she could escape.

But then the helicopter disappeared below the edge of the roof. She moved forward and watched as it landed on the large expanse of lawn, and people spilled out from inside, and unloaded a stretcher which was carried by two hunched over individuals who jogged with it towards the house. She didn't miss the imposing figure of Dev as he got out of the helicopter. The light caught and reflected in his glasses as he looked up towards her on the roof. She couldn't make out his expression, but she knew what it was likely to be. And she shivered, with more than the cold.
Claudia
- Sunday, November 28, 1999 at 15:46:08 (PST)

Delaford, the Brandons' chambers. In what passes for real time—not the strange chronological loop reserved for surrealistic farewells—and in flashback to before Therese's arrival . . .

Mary Anne hears the shouting of the heavy-set guard, and knows that "she" must be Claudia, out on the ledge.

The shout brings her to her feet, staring toward the door of her own room, the door that hangs crookedly on its hinges. And standing there, looking toward that door, she feels . . . nothing.

Brandon, with The Interrogator's drugs in his veins . . . the drug given to him by Claudia.

Why don't I feel anything?

She must have spoken aloud without realizing it, for McCoy replies, "Shock, most likely. You aren't in very good shape yourself, with all that's happened . . ."

"It's true. Claudia's gone over to HIM."

She should be frightened by the emptiness in her own voice, but the strange lack of emotion persists. Mary Anne feels McCoy take her arm and does not resist as the doctor leads her to the bed and seats her on the edge of it.

Shock, indeed. Mary Anne watches as McCoy tends Brandon and finally gives a nod of satisfaction when she checks the Colonel's pulse, saying, "There, that's better. Leveling off. He'll sleep normally, now, I'd think—for a few hours. He's not going to feel well when he wakes up, though."

"I know."

"Yes, well—"

McCoy is interrupted by the buzz of her cell phone.

"McCoy." A long pause. Then, "Good. I'll be waiting."

Replacing her phone, McCoy begins to gather up her medical equipment. "They're bringing in Therese."

That gets Mary Anne's attention. "How is she?"

Cruel though it might seem, McCoy is glad, from a professional viewpoint, to hear the note of anxiety in Mary Anne's voice. Had me worried, sitting there all blank-eyed like that. It's going to hit like a ton of bricks later, but for now . . . "From what they told me—she'll recover, but she's in pretty bad shape right now. No broken bones, but bruises, lacerations, dehydration . . ."

Mary Anne nods in complete understanding. "Not to mention that she's been absolutely terrified . . . "

"Yes—that, too."

Mary Anne hears the sound of a window being shut, and a moment later the guards emerge from her room. "She's on the roof!" exclaims the tall guard. "Excuse me, Mrs. Brandon, but is there a way up onto the roof from inside?"

Mary Anne thinks. "I don't know—I haven't been up to the garret, but there may be a trapdoor . . . you'd have to go and see."

"Right." The guard nods to his companions. "Let's go. And page the rest of the team; have them surround the house from the outside. If she tries to get off the roof, inside or out, we need to be waiting. Let's go."

"Right, Tiny," replies one of his colleagues, to which he replies, "I told you not to call me that!" But he is smiling as they storm out of the room—obviously a joke of long standing.

As the guards leave, there is a noise of throat-clearing from the door, and Mary Anne looks around to see James Winterbourne—who, embarrassed by the spectacle in the bedroom, had promptly stepped back out into the hall and has been waiting patiently until things appear less awkward.

"I'm sorry, Mister Winterbourne; I'd forgotten you were there."

"No surprise there, mum." A nod toward the bed. "Your husband'll be all ri' then?"

"I believe so, yes."

"If there's anythin' I can be doing for you—"

Mary Anne struggles to focus her attention, which is fastened on one man and one man only . . . but good manners prevail. "You've had a hard journey and you must be tired. Why don't you go back down to the kitchens and have a bite? Miss MacLeod or one of the maids should be able to show you to a room, then; you need to get some sleep."

"If it's no' a bother to you—"

"No," cuts in McCoy, "because soon we'll need every pair of hands we can get, and you'll be very useful—but only if you've had some sleep. Be best if you took her suggestion."

"Then, so I shall. Good ni' then," and Winterbourne bows himself out.

McCoy glances at the windows. "Closer to morning, I'd think." Then, giving Mary Anne a sharp look: "I won't be far away. Send for me if you need me."

"I will," replies Mary Anne. But her eyes are on Brandon.

"Well, then—" McCoy looks at the two of them a moment more: the woman, sitting so composedly at the edge of the bed, and the man . . . lying beneath the covers, breathing steadily . . . but with a marked line between his brows, as if something troubled him in his sleep.

"You're not afraid, Mary Anne? To stay with him, I mean."

"No. I'm not afraid."

"You get some rest, too, then."

And McCoy is gone to prepare for the arrival of Therese, leaving Mary Anne alone with Colonel Brandon.

MA--as we used to say to drive my French professor crazy,
"Orey vorey." Au revoir, R dearest. , - Saturday, November 27, 1999 at 15:00:04 (PST)

Paragraph snipped.
Dev has a pilot's license?
D.o.C.

Um, DoC? It seems me cuttin' and pastin' got th' better o' me. I don't suppose ye could snip away th' entire second paragraph of me last post?

(Ye wouldna send a lass with a Scots accent to gaol now, would ye?)

HEY! Where are ye brutes takin' me??????

Therese the daft
Dev wants to know if he can borrow the keys to the helicopter this weekend--I tried to explain to him that this would be imperial theft aero. . ., - Saturday, November 27, 1999 at 08:01:42 (PST)

Deleford

With Scout's help, Therese was settled in Dev's room. He had long since ceased caring about appearences, and wanted her placed where he would not have to leave her side for even a moment. Eamon had barely covered her with the down comforter when Dr. McCoy strode through the doorway and to her patient's side. "Sedated, I assume?" she asked. Reaching for the prone woman's wrist she felt for her pulse and nodded approvingly. "Steady and strong, I like the sound of that." Her hands touched upon Therese gently as she lightly palpated the more discoloured areas of her patient's body, pressing deeply in some areas, using mere feathery touches in others.

She then pulled a small scanner from the bag she carried, and passed it over Therese from head to toe, her concentration intent upon the readings. "Okay, I'm satisfied for the moment, gentlemen," she finally announced, stepping back slightly. "Nothing is broken, though she has some pretty good bruises and lascertaions that will take time to heal. I want her to drink plenty of water to continue the rehydration process. Had she simply gone without food for the time she was gone I'd not be concerned, but water deprivtion is another matter altogether. I'll be back in about an hour when the I.V. bag she's hooked up to now will have emptied," she paused to lay a gentle hand on Dev's shoulder, "and then we'll talk about what will need to be done when she wakes up. Eat something yourself, I'll have a tray sent up." She looked at him intently; she was a trained healer, and knew that he suffered for the woman in the bed. "Try not to worry, she'll get through this." With a firm grip upon Sifuentes' shoulder, they'd left the room.

Dev let out a derisive scoff at the memory.

His worry was serious indeed. In fact, it was far beyond a simple concern, and could more accurately be assessed as fear, verging on terror. What had HE done to her? What had she endured at HIS hands?

Taking his glasses from his nose, he set them carefully upon the dresser, and pulling a chair close to the bed, he sat. He ran his fingers absently through his hair, and exhaled deeply. She looked very young and terribly frail. He would have given anything in his power to undo what had been done.

There was a soft tap on the door, and he crossed the room to open it.

"I've brought th' lass somethin' for when she wakes up." Miss M stood in the doorway, holding forth a large tray, and meeting his questioning gaze unflinchingly. Eamon knew well that the head housekeeper of an estate the size of Delaford had far more important duties than to deliver meals, but he was touched that she felt the need to see to this herself. Her warning glare dared him to make even the most vague comment toward her behaviour.

Dev stepped back from the door, and offered to take the tray, but Miss M swept by him and into the room. He cleared a place on the dressing table, and she set the platter down carefully. "I brought her a bit o' this, and a bit 'o tha', not knowin' what she'd be wantin'. And of course some of me scones." Miss M. straightened from her task and turned to face Dev once again. "And there's a bit in there for ye as well."

"Thank you, Miss MacCleod, I'm sure it is not a pleasant thing for you, havin' to feed the likes o' me."

Moira MacCleod moved from her position in front of Dev to stand by the side of the bed, and looked down upon Therese's still form. "She's really just a wee tiny thing, isn't she?" she commented, ignoring Dev's previous statement. "Ye quickly forget tha' when she's awake and aboot." She paused for a long moment, her gaze still directed at Therese. "I owe ye an apology."

Dev looked toward the proud, regal form of the woman who had spent her life serving this estate, as most likely had her family and their family before them. This was no easy task to which she had set herself. "It was a simple misunderstanding, nothing more."

When she turned to look at him again, he saw, briefly, a haunted, searching look upon her face, before she was once again the stoic, reserved housekeeper. "When tha' tall security lad came down to th' kitchens for a bite, I told 'im to go an' bring ye as well. Do ye know wha' 'e told me? 'E said I might just as well 'ave 'im send in an oak tree from the North lawn, tha' it'd be far more likin' t' leave its spot in th' ground than you'd be to leavin' yer lady's side."

"Lt. Sifuentes seems to have a gift for the dramatic, Miss MacCleod, but what he says is true. My place shall be right here for quite some time, I believe."

She nodded to him, and indicated the tray. "The tea is for you, if she wakes, the lass is no' to have anything but water til the lady doctor is t' see 'er again. And I've left you a sandwhich or two as well, yer t' call if it's no' enough, and I'll send more."

Dev looked at the platter laden with food, enough to adequately feed a party of four, and managed a small grin. "I believe this should hold us for a time, Therese will most likely sleep for a bit yet, and I've not much of an appetite at the moment."

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. "Ye'd better eat some of tha', whether ye wan' i' or no. All of this runnin' aboot, and carryin' on, and now with no food or sleep ye wish to play nursemaid? Ye'll be no good to her a'tall if'n ye've passed out from hunger--whether ye've appetite or no."

Dev's grin was far more genuine this time. He was reminded of the many times as a boy when his grandmother had scolded him for whatever childish shenanigans he'd pulled at the dinner table, but it had been awhile since his eating habits had been questioned. "Would it help, Miss MacCleod, if I promised to be a good lad, and clean my plate?"

Her derisive 'Och!' was softened by a smile as she swept from the room. Taking a brief moment to pause at the doorway, she looked back toward the solemn, severe figure standing in the middle of the floor. "Yer a far better man than I gave ye credit for th' last time we met, Mr. de Valera. If there's anathin' I can do, ye let me know."

Dev moved back to Therese's side, and brushed a stray hair from her forehead. "Thank you, Miss MacCleod. I'll know more when she wakes."

With a nod, the housekeeper left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Dev poured himself a cup of tea, and sat down next to Therese. Stretching his long legs out before him, he leaned back in the chair, and was soon dozing lightly.

Therese
Luuuuu--cy! Yous gots some 'cplainin' to do!, - Friday, November 26, 1999 at 17:59:58 (PST)

I would like to add my thanks to Claire for the stunning Brandon pictures on her page!
Georgia
- Friday, November 26, 1999 at 15:59:04 (PST)

Thank you, Claire, for that lovely selection of Brandon pictures! 8-)

*siiiiigh*

MA--why yes, Christopher, I'd love some champagne . . . for breakfast?!
Oh, well, add a little orange juice . . ., - Friday, November 26, 1999 at 05:42:22 (PST)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Giving thanks for my FOF friends,

MA
Sorry about the confusion, Magda, but it's a loooooong story . . ., - Thursday, November 25, 1999 at 07:28:34 (PST)

"He was my youngest brother, almost fifteen years younger than me. He had his wild streak but he wasn't vicious or bad. Just growing pains." Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt took a sip of water and licked his lips before continuing. "About a year before he – died – he fell in with a bad crowd. Did some dumb things."

Elliott Marston and Melvin Collins watched their shadows lengthen along the floor as the late afternoon sunlight crept through the window. The major's voice got stronger as he talked although he continued to rub at his neck. "One night he and his friends went to a tavern down on the docks. You know the sort of place I mean – thieves and smugglers all doing business there."

The two listeners nodded but Ashley-Pitt wasn't looking. "They thought it might be fun to steal a portion of some smuggler's cargo and sell it themselves. Stupid, I know. Of course they ran into trouble. Some young criminal caught them and a fight broke out. My brother was shot and lingered for over a week until he finally died."

The silence throbbed with remembered pain and no one spoke. Finally Marston leaned forward and gave a gentle prod. "And Sam Flanagan? Where did he come in?"

Ashley-Pitt roused himself with an effort. "Flanagan was working for some of the ship owners whose cargoes had been tampered with. The ruckus involving my brother's shooting attracted attention and he was able to find the killer." His mouth twisted bitterly. "And he let the young bastard go."

Marston sipped his drink. "Did he have a reason?"

"Said he was a young kid, his first time in trouble with the law. New to smuggling too. Flanagan got some fool to hire him instead. Some punishment for murder!" The major clenched his fists until the knuckles gleamed white.

"What did you do about it?" Marston was painfully conscious of the passing of time. The police could arrive at any moment and the opportunity for finding the whole truth would be gone.

"I was just a captain then. And I didn't know the whole story. It wasn't until a few months later that I heard what Flanagan did. Then I was furious. I did what I could to prevent him from getting work for the army. I wasn't always successful." He drained his glass of water and rubbed at his throat again. "But all that is water under the bridge now. Flanagan is dead, God rot him, and my interest in him died as well. What happened today was not because of Flanagan."

Marston frowned. "Does it have anything to do with Hiram Crabbs?"

Ashley-Pitt looked up, puzzled. "Who's Hiram Crabbs?"

"You know that Elliott will be back any time now." Sam Marston backed away from Cal Torken, carefully keeping her brother behind her. "I'm sure that he will punish Niall for going through your papers."

"Nice try, missy." With a sudden movement that completely belied his ungainly bulk, Torken slapped her hard across the face.

Sam's head snapped back and she stumbled into the wall. Niall Flanagan gasped and froze in his tracks.

"Now we're going to go upstairs and wait for Elliott." The large man pulled out his gun and gestured to the stairs. "Move."

Sam and Niall moved. Pushing the boy in front of her, she hurried upstairs and along the hall to Molly's room. The older woman looked up with nervous fright that changed into near panic at the sight of her husband in the doorway carrying a weapon.

"No Cal! I didn't say anything! I swear!" She lifted her hands in a cringing manner that Sam could not force herself to watch. "Don't hurt me. Please don't."

"Sit down Molly. No one's going to hurt you." Torken walked to the window and checked the dusty street. "We're just going to wait for Elliott." He cocked the gun. "Then I'll finish things up. You and the boy sit down and don't move."

"Did you kill Hiram Crabbs?" Sam had to know the answer.

"Not personally. That's what I got men to handle." Torken looked across the room. "I said, sit down!"

Sam took Niall by the shoulders and pulled him to the sofa against the wall. They sat down, hand in hand. She examined the room as carefully as she could while keeping her attention focused on the man by the window. The door was slightly ajar and the same distance away as their captor but they could never make it without at least one of them being shot. Sam did not know how good Torken was with a gun but she thought it best to assume a high level of competence.

"Do you want some tea, Cal?" Molly seemed to have taken refuge in a trance-like state that protected her from what was happening. "It's still hot."

"Not now. Just be quiet and let me think." Torken had resumed staring out the window.

Sam kept her arm around her brother's shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. "What are you going to do when Elliott gets here?" She forced her voice to remain steady for Niall's sake.

"Kill him." He glanced over his shoulder. "And you, too."

"But why?" Niall couldn't be restrained. Sam held him back or he would have leaped to his feet.

"Boy, you have surely got a mouth on you. Didn't nobody ever tell you to shut up when your elders are talking?" Torken finally stepped back into the room. "Because I'm tying up loose ends. My wife," He cast a withering glance at Molly. "Has probably explained a little history to you. I got to finish what I started."

"If it's the money, Cal, I'm sure Elliott won't do anything about it. And if he doesn't know about his parents then it would be cruel to tell him." Sam tried to smile. "There doesn't have to be any more killing."

"Girl, I am not surprised that Elliott married you. Just as dumb as he is." Torken seated himself in a chair. The wood creaked ominously under his weight. "Now listen up. What happened years ago had to happen. We needed that money more than the Marstons did and we spent it better. Do you know what they were going to do in the outback? Do you?" For the first time his voice began to rise.

"Be ranchers?" Sam offered, hesitating to rouse his temper.

"No! They were missionaries! They were going to build a hospital and a school for the aborigines. Just like they were people!" Torken scowled and the calm façade of his features shattered. "My family had nothing! And they were going to spend money on those black savages. It wasn't right. I knew it wasn't. And I fixed it. And today I'm going to finish it."

Magda
Feeling of great confusion over recent postings, - Wednesday, November 24, 1999 at 18:32:10 (PST)

Au revoir Renie .... until the next time.
Claire
Don't leave it too long!, - Wednesday, November 24, 1999 at 04:02:22 (PST)

There is no set destination. None is needed. They walk from the well, side by side, as though they have spent their whole lives together. Then, after a little distance, on impulse, they turn and regard each other.

It is like a mirror, each sees herself in the other: two halves, one whole.

An embrace.

A pair of smiles.

They hold hands.

They take off, at a run. As we watch them, the figures of the women seem to blur with the speed of their flight of fancy; then, as the motion slows, we see that the laughing figures have become a pair of little girls, holding hands, racing down a path, full tilt, under the endless sky.

Giving many, many thanks,
and a flourish--R, - Wednesday, November 24, 1999 at 01:13:11 (PST)

They walk on, carefully passing more cascades of reddened leaves, these less like fire, and more like woven Indian tapestries from the American Northwest. Past more gray stones laced with soft sea-green trim. Into sunlight, then through a more remote area of pathway, where the dark green ivy and vines return. Where the gardens feel thicker, not dense--no, not at this time of year. But less-traveled. Protected.

And as they speak, in softer tones now, walking slowly, something strange happens in their wake. Faces of those in the Realm appear in the winding ivy, then disappear again.

The pathways twist--almost like the tunnels of Egdon--until, in front of them, spreads little glen. In it, lies a beautiful well. Well-kept, like everything at Delaford. But its excellent condition owes more to its little use, as it is a ways off from the house. Only those who walk this distance, through the vines, through the maze, even know the well exists.

And Mary Anne has never seen it before. No one has thought to tell her of the well, though she would have discovered it soon enough, if her life had been less, well, eventful. Nor has Renie, for all her time spent here, in seclusion from the outside world which chased her, ever laid eyes upon it before. She cannot fathom how she has missed it.

Their feet move, walking in harmony, over the flat stones which form a walkway towards it.

Mary Anne's voice, full of surprise. "Did you know this was here?"

Renie shakes her head of chestnut hair. "Not until this moment."

They both run a little ahead, and bend over to look inside of it.

"Helloooooo . . . "

The well answers back, almost immediately. Not too deep, then.

Loosing the bucket down to the waterline, they hear the splash. Cranking it back up takes a bit longer. The thick rope twines about the dowel, until the bucket reappears. On a smaller hook, in the shade of the split-angled roof over the well, hangs a small wooden cup. Mary Anne offers Renie the first drink. "I'm the hostess, " she explains. "And a woman in your condition . . . "

Renie drinks. The taste: sweet, fresh, cold, clean. Mary Anne drinks from the same wooden cup. The water tastes strong, refreshing, full of life.

An idea. Mary Anne reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a coin. "Shall we make a wish?"

Renie nods, eagerly. "You first."

Renie watches as Mary Anne closes her eyes. Then *plunk*--Mary Anne tosses the coin into the water below. There. "Now it's your turn."

Renie feels for her pockets--and finds she has none, in this white dress. Mary Anne seeks for another coin; her pockets are empty.

Carefully, Renie slides the cameo pinkie ring from her finger. Mary Anne watches her. Renie closes her eyes, holds her hand in a fist over the water, and opens it. The ring falls into the well with a quieter *plink*.

Bet I know what you wished for.
R, - Wednesday, November 24, 1999 at 01:10:02 (PST)

Mary Anne, asking gently, "How soon . . . "

"Well, I thought this time you deserved a fine and proper good-bye." Mary Anne does not comment, but looks up from her "romantic little throwaway" to see Renie's face. "How long do you figure we have?"

At Renie's words, Mary Anne looks up at the bright sky, summoning--or trying to--a stern face. "Well, let's see. We're making up for New York . . . " She folds her arms, ready to read Renie the riot act, when her eye catches sight of her friend--who at this very moment is twisting a very imaginary knife deeply into her breast, like a vaudevillian drama queen.

Mary Anne rolls her eyes. "You're not dying--again?!!"

Perhaps it is this juxtaposition of humour and nobility that makes Mary Anne so special, the opposites and inconsistencies in her which seem perfectly reconciled, at least to Renie.

Renie begins to feign slow withdrawal of the blade, which, if time and effort are trusted, has grown to roughly the size of a Spanish sword.

"Here," Mary Anne grabs for the imaginary sword, "let me help you . . . "

At that moment, a black crow swoops by, causing a great shadow to be cast over them.

Together, and in perfect unison, they swing the blade, now heavy indeed, against their imaginary foe.

*Swwwwwwwiiiishhhh*

"O no you don't!" Renie jerks the unseen blade to the left, as Mary Anne, in sync, steadies it, their four hands acting as one, grasping the empty air firmly.

"Think you to take us by surprise?" picks up Mary Anne, swinging deftly to the right, the movement choreographed, as if by Balanchine. The crow, frightened by the swishing about below, flies up, and off in the direction of the West Wood.

"Poor devil." Renie eyes the retreating crow. "He thinks we're crazy." Her chestnut hair, mussed, from all the spinning about. Her hand reaches up to brush it from her face. "What in the world are we doing, dearest?"

Mary Anne does not miss a beat. "Slaying dragons, " she smiles. Warming the coldest hours, and melting the hardest heart.

Nice work, dearest.
Renie, - Wednesday, November 24, 1999 at 00:55:56 (PST)

Correction made.
In that case, I'll handle it.
D.o.C.

D.o.C.--That's "having found such repose, how does he pass it?" Not "who." Thank you.

MA
No, Doctor, I wasn't calling you. , - Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 20:03:21 (PST)

Turning over in the mind the prospects before her--the wild and the tame--Mary Anne reflects that it must have always been so in the heart's core of humanity. In hardship, man dreams of comfort and repose; having found that repose, how does he pass it? By telling stories of daring exploits, marvels, otherworldly terrors against which heroes and heroines triumphed . . . or, if they did not triumph, they died with honour.

If man desired perfect safety, he would not have whiled away his hours and stocked his libraries with tales of

. . . most disastrous chances
Of moving accidents by flood and field
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach . . .

Nor would he have filled the blank borders of his maps with glittering-scaled and many-tentacled monsters, with renderings of the Kraken, Behemoth, and Leviathan.

The leaves rustle about them, the two women, quietly walking . . .

We tell stories, decides Mary Anne, as a dress rehearsal for life.

At least, that is one of the reasons.

But what of those hard trials that have little of the epic or heroic flavour about them? The challenge of serious illness in a family isn't recognized as a place where loyalty and self-sacrifice are in full glory, as well. (homage) Or the devotion of long relationships, our friends and our loves, in which we have time to learn all that is wrong with another person. It is often, in these circumstances, an act of sublime courage to see all that is right.

For some men and women, long years of toil and loneliness and misunderstanding, patiently endured. One might almost prefer the dragons.

Absorbed in their reflections--what Renie's might be, Mary Anne cannot tell--the two women move from under the hanging vines above the pathways into the open sunlight near one of the moss-veined walls. Just ahead, flung over the gray stones like a battle flag, is a fall of vines shading from rust brown to flame-red--one might reach out to it, as to a hearth-fire.

These two know better: some of that brilliant crimson is sumac, which irritates the skin upon contact. Mildly poisonous, but for such a red as this . . .

The silence has grown a little too long. To break it, Mary Anne reaches into her pocket. "For once, I'm prepared."

"What do you mean, Mary Anne?"

With an appropriate flourish, Mary Anne whisks out a large handkerchief--no trifle of linen and lace, but a large cotton square. "You know how I cry, dearest. I can soak one of those romantic little throwaways in ten seconds . . ."

"Is it big enough for two?"

After a laugh at this, they stand together for a few more minutes near the wall, well away from the red vines, enjoying the sunlight.

Until finally Mary Anne asks, gently: "How soon?"

MA
Over to you, R, - Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 19:59:57 (PST)

Goody. *grin*
;-)
- Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 19:39:26 (PST)

"I thought you might," agrees Mary Anne. A smile. "You always got away with it before."

"So you're beginning to see the wisdom of it, are you?" teases Renie.

"Maybe I am, at that."

In Mary Anne's voice, a note of . . . something. Something that causes Renie to touch her arm. "You know that if you want me to stay--"

Mary Anne turns on her a warm gaze filled with exasperated affection and returns her a light swat on the arm for the soft touch. "Oh, right, make me the heavy!"

Laughing, Renie eyes Mary Anne's willowy frame. "The heavy? No, that you could never be--"

"Dearest, do you know that you can be absolutely infuriating?" In a voice that tells the world, anyone listening who knows how to listen, the exact opposite. "I know, Renie. I've always known. But I made you a promise and I'll keep it. I don't know if that makes things easier, but there it is. So . . ."

"Zo," corrects Renie, in the style of Hans, and the two of them are laughing again.

No conversation for a time, as they walk the winding paths.

Things wild into things tamed . . .

But not all things.

Order, yes, in the gardens and grounds. Some flowers grown in conservatories to bloom year around, but others left in the open to brave the cold, die, and return in spring. Directed pathways of glazed brick, contrasted with piles of rough-hewn stone through which water trickles in natural fountains rather than draining into smooth marble basins.

Here the peace, plenty, and safety of Delaford. Civilization. And not far off, the primal West Wood, a legend of terror reminiscent of those days when the world changed at nightfall and a man could be certain of no safety beyond his own doors.

And not always within them . . .

MA
R--going somewhere with this, I promise. , - Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 19:23:40 (PST)

A door opens . . .

. . . and Mary Anne and Renie leave the main house by a side door which leads out into the gardens. The sun has heated the stony walls which encircle several of them. Autumnal moss has sprung up between the gray rocks, like green veins in a body of stone. Much of it will wither, some will remain throughout the approaching winter of the county. Yet, whether strong or mild, this hardest season must always yield to gentle spring, for such is the nature of all things.

We cannot tell if these two have been talking, sitting by some fire, sipping tea until only dry leaves and wood shavings are left. Renie wears a dress which is reminiscent of a white one she had worn, long ago. Mary Anne, in hues of blue, a long skirt.

Past, present and future, this garden endures. Their feet cross over a stretch of ground which Chance, the head gardener, and James Winterbourne, young carpenter of Egdon, will transform into a small Japanese garden, with an arched bridge of masterful woodworking. A small example of the plans of the visionary Mrs. Christopher Brandon, who will bring new--very new--ideas into harmony with the old, opening sleepy eyes to the beauteous bounty lying outside the structured borders of the English countryside.

Things wild into things tamed.

As they turn a corner, we see their backs. Mary Anne, tall and willowy, her blue skirt dusting invisible leaves into imaginary corners. Renie, her long chestnut hair trailing in the light breeze, as if to linger a moment more in the place from which she has already gone. The pair of women occasionally bend to one side, avoiding the English ivy and heliotrope which twines into the foliage, hanging here and there. Traveling down the tended paths which lead everywhere, and which--if the past shows any inclination to the future--they will travel again.

Their pace slows, though it has never been hurried. Finally, Renie speaks, her voice full of teasing affection.

"I suppose you thought I might once more gracefully elude having to say good-bye to you?"

Now you . . .
R, - Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 17:26:23 (PST)

Flash forward:

Scene: Sun. Daylight. Clear, with no sign in the sky of what has transpired in the nearby woods, on the ground of the Delaford estate, or inside any of its many rooms . . .

The rooftop of the house comes into view, then, the upper floors. The roof is empty . . . So different, released from its night-time spectral veil, beneath the inconstant moon, Delaford now stands, in sharp focus: fixed and true.

Through the windows of its uppermost level, Miss M. has seen to the tidying of rooms. In those which are unoccupied, the beds are neatly made. Valmont's window curtain, drawn against the day. Through another window, Emilie opens a door to a waiting Giles, and behind him, his brother James. Emilie smiles, and shakes James' hand.

Through another window, appears not a bedroom, but an office. Hans, talking intently into a hand-held recorder, his hands passing over papers which bear the Hansbank seal. Hans flips his wrist and checks his Baume & Mercier. Then, seemingly without cause, he looks up, and from behind a door opposite Colin waves his bandaged hand at Hans, the other leaning hand leans against the English oak office door.

The last window on this side is a sitting room, full of velvet cushions and an ever-inviting fireplace. It resembles all sitting rooms, perhaps, but it arranges itself in our memory as something fine and forever, even if we have never set foot inside it. If it has been recently inhabited, it bears no tell-tale effects: wood enough for hours of talk stacked almost knee-high; pillows on the sofa, sit plump and fluffed; no ash lies under the dark iron grating.

A place of welcome, whether alone, or with a loved one.

Always ready.

Renie
- Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 17:19:31 (PST)

A hand.

Palm. Five fingers. Open and closed.

A page of paper flaps on the call board.

Imaginary breeze.

. . .
- Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 17:18:21 (PST)

The music for this series of posts is "Woman at the Well" by Tim Story, from Windham Hill: The First Ten Years. Track 17.

Renie
- Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 17:17:09 (PST)

"There, see her? Out on the ledge--!"

Claudia turned her head sharply and saw a guard leaning out of Mary Anne's window. Discovered so soon? No! Not after everything I've done. It can't end here, it will all have been for nothing.

Down wasn't a viable option just at the moment, so up it had to be. The roof was closer than the ground. She put the all-important film into her mouth and held it tightly between her teeth. Digging her fingers into the intricate stonework above her, she pulled herself upwards. Her feet left the safety of the ledge, and she dangled precariously for a few seconds before beginning to swing her legs like a circus performer, and pull herself up towards the roof.
Claudia
- Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 15:43:53 (PST)

Somewhere in the West Woods

Dev held Therese in his arms, and looked down upon her tenderly. Now that the sedative had taken effect, she slept peacefully, her countenance serene. Scout followed closely behind Dev, holding the I.V. bag aloft, the two medics leaving behind this patient in order to tend to others.

"How are we to get back?" Dev asked, looking around. All of the emergency vehicles were in use; it was as if they had been forgotten in the rush as the wounded were brought to the field.

"Let it not be said that The Empress doesn't take care of her own," Scout replied, as he retrieved his radio from the clip on his belt, and spoke into it. It did not take long before a whirring sound could be heard, and Scout grasped Dev by the arm, leading him to a nearby clearing.

"She sent her personal transport?" Dev asked incredulously as a uniformed guard hopped out of the helicopter and the pilot nodded from behind the controls. The guard turned to retrieve a stretcher, and hurried over to where they stood.

"How is she?" the guard asked, indicating the sleeping Therese. "She looks pretty good, considering. . ."

Scout shot the other man a warning glance as he saw Dev stiffen in anger at the guard's callous disregard. With a shrug the other man held out the backboard. "Lay her on this so that she can be safely secured for the flight," he ordered.

Dev did as instructed, and Scout carefully secured the I.V. bag to one side. Hopping into the passenger area of the craft, he guided the front end of the stretcher into the hold, as Dev climbed in after it.

"It's a very short flight," the pilot spoke from the control area, "but we wanted to get you back to Delaford as quickly as possible, so buckle yourselves in."

In another situation, Dev would have been enthralled by their means of transport. He loved to fly, and was completely and utterly fascinated by the science and technology involved. Therese hated it. Had she not been sedated, he couldn't have sworn that he, Scout, the guard, AND the pilot could have gotten her into the contraption. . .or at least not before this. He gave a long sigh. He couldn't know how she would react now. Not to the concept of flight, her fears. . .or even to him.

He tried not to think of how she had fought him when she woke up in his arms after they had left HIS lair. But it was not an easy thing to put aside. Scout had realized it, and had taken off the eyeglasses that apparently reminded her of HIM and what she had suffered. He told himself not to take it personally, that she was light headed from lack of food and her dehydrated state. . .but he felt empty and hollow inside just the same.

What had HE done to Therese to confuse her thus? Had HE turned her against him, could HE manage to do such a thing? Or was it simply the confusion brought upon by weariness and hunger, and two dark eyed, bespectacled men?

Eamon de Valera was a devout man, so he did what he had always done when the odds seemed overwhelming and insurmountable, and he didn't know what to do, or say, or even feel. . .

He lowered his head, and prayed.

Therese
- Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 13:45:00 (PST)

You must permit me to attend you
Oh yessiree indeed!
Fausta
- Tuesday, November 23, 1999 at 07:08:15 (PST)

Claudia leant back against the cold stone of the wall, and closed her eyes. Now her task was complete she felt exhausted. The adrenaline high was leaving her body suddenly and she was more than ready to collapse into sleep. But she was on the upper level of the large house, on a very narrow ledge. One wrong move and she would be a pretty decoration embedded in the lawn below.

What to do now? She had to go back to HIM and rescue Therese. But there had been an awful lot of activity in the house that night, and once Mary Anne got free, there would be a full-scale search for her. She had to get away.

But her options were limited. Up or down. From where she stood there didn't seem to be any easy way down. Perhaps she should move along the ledge and see if anything looked more promising.

In a minute. I just need to rest, just for a minute.

Her mind turned to HIM again, and she was in HIS bed, lying exhausted, as HE lay on HIS side next to her, head propped up on HIS hand, his fingers playing lightly over her belly as HE watched her. HE had a triumphant smile on HIS face and a lazy glaze to his eyes.

"You're mine now," HE said. "No matter what happens, or where you are, you'll always be mine."

HE was good at his job. HE got to know HIS subject intimately: strengths and weaknesses, so HE could play them to HIS advantage. HE had played with her senses, her feelings, her fear and her pleasure. Brought her from one extreme to another so easily, and expertly. HE knew she would become addicted and need HIM. Whenever she was with HIM all she would remember was this night, and want it again. It would be her new weakness, it would stop her from ever being able to act against HIM.

He wasn't being conceited, HE simply knew HIS own strengths.

"I'm yours for tonight only," she breathed.

"You know that isn't true," HE said. HIS lips coming down on hers.

It was true that she now found it very hard to reconcile this man, this wonderful tender lover with all she knew to be true about the Interrogator. Could HE so easily switch off HIS work self and become an ordinary man again? But she knew HE was never off duty.

Claudia shivered and opened her eyes on the crisp night sky over Delaford. She had to go back to HIM, face HIM, and maybe kill HIM. Could she possibly do it?
Claudia
- Monday, November 22, 1999 at 22:02:52 (PST)

Delaford.

Mary Anne has the door open . . .

And pauses for an instant, frozen by the scene before her. Brandon, in the dim lamplight.

Mary Anne moves, then, reaching for him, but McCoy is there before her, medical pouch open. Seeing and pitying Mary Anne's distress, the doctor adjusts the bedclothes about Brandon before addressing herself to the problems at hand, the first of which is the red marks on Brandon's back, fresh and glaring against the thin white scars from The Interrogator's lash.

"Whatever in the world . . ." mutters McCoy as she snaps on gloves and inspects her patient, and Mary Anne is grateful for the distraction as the guards expertly quarter the chamber and adjoining rooms, checking for intruders and evidence. Without even looking away from Brandon, McCoy extracts extra surgical gloves from her kit and leaves them on the bed within easy reach, so the guards can gather clues without disturbing fingerprints.

A voice from Brandon's dressing room. "No one here."

Mary Anne now has her voice under control, if not her face. "And there, Joanna . . ."

"Yes, I see." McCoy turns Brandon's head slightly, examining the mark on his neck and cleaning away the tiny trickle of blood. "Well, I think we can rule out vampires . . ."

"Can we?" retorts Mary Anne, feeling a stir of anger. If it is true, what she fears . . . but McCoy's dry humour helps to steady her. Brandon, first. Everything else can wait.

McCoy, meanwhile, is scanning the floor, squinting in the dim light. "Ah," she finally exclaims, reaching down one gloved hand to pick up a white handkerchief lying beside the bed.

Mary Anne moves to touch it, but McCoy warns her off, unwrapping the handkerchief to reveal a small, needle-pointed dart.

"One of ours," she says, before turning back to inspect Brandon's wound again. "Well . . . now that I look at it, it's more of a scratch than a puncture. And whoever did this—"

She glances at Mary Anne, who gazes back at her. Joanna, I'm pretty sure I know who did it.

"—missed the carotid. If it had gone in the artery, he'd probably be unconscious for nearly a day. As it is, he'll sleep for a few hours."

"And what about . . . the other drug?"

McCoy already has out her stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. Listening to Brandon's heart, she lets out a low exclamation of surprise. "Even with a trank dart in him . . . better than ninety beats a minute. Closer to one hundred, in fact." She unrolls the cuff and wraps it about Brandon's arm, pumping the bulb, checking the readout.

Hssssssss of released air.

"I do not," murmurs McCoy as she rolls and stashes the cuff, "like that dyastolic number. Not one bit. But with the sedative already in him—"

Mary Anne's face is like stone, now, in her attempt at self-control. "Cut the antidote back to a cc, then. It will still be enough and it works quickly. "

Taking medical advice from someone who is not a doctor goes against McCoy's grain, but she must admit that in this case, there are extenuating circumstances. Something about Mary Anne as she sits there in the low light . . . the wavering of shadows about her . . . that strange, almost inward look on her face.

But McCoy is not a superstitious woman, though something about Mary Anne's stillness and concentration gives her an internal shudder. "Right," she finally says, readying a spray injector. She will take no chances with a hypodermic needle, not with a patient who may not be so deeply asleep as he appears.

"There," she says, after pressing the injector against Brandon's upper arm. "Now, we wait."

Mary Anne had been so intent on Brandon, she had hardly noticed the ongoing activities of the guards as they moved through the rooms, setting aside whatever might be evidence, including the plate of crumbs beside the bed. She had not even looked up when the tall, heavy guard had found the door to her chamber locked . . .

The door to the private room is no stout construction like the main door, nor the pantry door that Mary Anne had cursed when she found herself locked in. No English oak here. In preparing a dainty retreat for Mary Anne, Brandon had chosen a door to match the room: a delicate lemonwood, varnished and re-varnished to a pale golden gloss and equipped with a handle, lock, and fittings of etched copper . . .

. . . all of which yields to the first shoulder-blow from the strong guard and his compatriots, who rush into the room beyond.

As if from a great distance, Mary Anne can hear their voices.

"Look--" Pause. "Is the film still in it?"

"No."

"Get it off the floor so we don't step on it."

Mary Anne remains where she is, seated on the bed, watching with McCoy to see the effect of the antidote on Brandon.

But then, from the next room, there is a scraping noise. A rush of chill air that can be felt even in the main bedchamber.

And a cry that brings Mary Anne to her feet.

"There, see her? Out on the ledge--!"

MA
Now what, Clods? ;-), - Monday, November 22, 1999 at 20:36:40 (PST)

"Don't let him know I told you! Cal will be so very upset." Molly Torken cowered back in her chair. Despite the heat of the late afternoon, she was shivering uncontrollably. "I don't want him to be upset with me!"

Sam Marston forced a reassuring smile. "Of course I won't tell him. We're just having a nice cup of tea and a chat. That's all. Everything will be fine."

The older woman sniffed and swiped at her eyes with the edge of her napkin. Sam maintained her pleasant expression but she was thinking furiously. Cal Torken was out for the afternoon and wouldn't be back until dinner. While Elliott had to be told about the awful event in his past, it might be better to wait until they were no longer sharing a house with the Torkens. But then how could she help Molly?

"Pssst!" Sam jumped. The noise seemed to come from the hallway. Niall Flanagan poked his head around the door and hissed again. He dangled a piece of paper in the air then hastily pulled it back. She glanced at Molly, who seemed oblivious to anything outside her fear at the moment, and joined her brother in the hall.

"What is it?" She wasn't sure why she whispered; it just seemed appropriate somehow.

"Guess what I got?" Niall was beaming proudly, grinning from ear to ear.

"Dear, I really don't have time for this." She stopped as he thrust the paper at her. It was a letter in handwriting that seemed strangely familiar. "Where did you get this?"

"I found it in that room." He pointed to the small parlor beside the front door. Sam remembered uneasily that Torken used it as his office.

"What were you doing in there?" She unfolded the letter slowly. It was a plain sheet of poor quality and the ink was smudged at the bottom. There was neither salutation nor signature. Then two names leaped off the page at her. "deer Sir, Ches Watters was my frend. He told me a bunch of stuf cowse we wood drink as frends. If you want me to be close muthd abowt what he was sposed to do then you pay me in gold. Else Eleyot Marston wil heer it furst."

It seemed to Sam that the floor heaved under her feet. She read the letter through a second time and refolded it with shaking fingers. "You had no business going in that room, Niall. Elliott will be very displeased." Her voice was credibly even, she thought.

"No, he won't. He went into that man's house in the middle of the night, didn't he?" Niall was unimpressed. "That's the same kind of letter he got from that man who got himself hung, isn't it? Hiram Crabbs. I think he'd want to know why Mr. Torken got it."

"How do you know about that letter?" She stared at him.

He rolled his eyes with the fond disgust of a brother. "Because I heard the clerk telling him about it, silly. And later on," He gave her a sideways look, then dropped his gaze to the carpet. "I found it on the table in your room. I went in to see if he needed any help packing." There was a touch of defiance in the last sentence.

Sam took a deep, calming breath. She hated to admit it but Niall was correct. Cal Torken had a great deal of explaining to do. A sudden conviction that they had to leave this house took possession of her. She wished that Elliott were back so that he could get them out of there. Her brother tugging on her sleeve reminded her of the immediate issue.

"Regardless of all that, young man, you should not go poking into things that don't concern you." Sam put her hands on her hips and assumed a parental attitude. "It's not a good thing to do."

Niall opened his mouth but before he could respond, another voice came out of the gloom at the back of the hallway. "Your sister's right, boy. It ain't a good thing at all." They looked up to see the large burly figure of Cal Torken appear in the kitchen doorway. "In fact, it can be downright unhealthy."

Magda
- Monday, November 22, 1999 at 17:26:41 (PST)

Somewhere in the West Woods

Therese settled down slightly as the female medic looked her over with brisk, clinical efficiency. The other woman's hands were gentle as she took Therese's pulse, inspected her wounds, and determined which problems required attention first. The other medic, a male, pulled Scout aside to see if he could glean any further information. Dev craddled Therese protectively in his arms while the medic examined her, his hazel eyes hooded. Inside he was frantic with concern for Therese and the horrors she had endured, superficially he radiated only protective strength.

"Therese, I'm going to run an intravenous unit of water, glucose, and some other things to help rehydrate you, okay?" The female medic spoke to her patient, who was leaning back against the man who held her.

Therese opened her eyes slowly, and consulted the medic, who held the I.V. needle in one hand. "NO." Her voice was firm, and flat, and brooked no refusal.

The medic turned to Dev for help. "I really think that Lt. Sifuentes was correct, I believe a sedative would help to calm her while she is being treated. Her condition requires immediate care."

"NO!" Therese repeated, her voice rising in distress. She was not herself, had barely come to terms with the fact that she was no longer within HIS constraint, and had no desire to be out of control again so soon. She could not begin to forget that the last person who had come near her with a needle had borne her malicious, insidious intent. . .

"Therese, you have to let her help you," Dev soothed her, his voice soft in her ear. "I'll be right here, I promise you I'll not leave your side."

Scout and the male medic approached the area where Therese lay. Sifuentes knelt down next to Dev, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "You don't know me, Therese, but the Alliance has assigned me to remain with you and Eamon. Let these people help you, okay? You have many friends who are anxious to see you recovered."

Therese turned to regard the tall, handsome man who regarded her so intently. "I rated a lieutenant?" she asked softly, a tiny spark of her old self appearing for a brief moment. She looked toward Eamon, saw through the stoicism, and read the fear and concern for her written there.

"Only the I.V.," she finally conceded to the group surrounding her as she offered her arm to the female medic. She was not aware of the other medic as he took the bag of fluid, and injected the sedative into the drip area. The women nodded to him in confirmation, and slid the needle quickly into Therese's right arm before securing it in place.

The drug entered Therese's system, her parched body absorbing the fluid rapidly. She felt the first wave of artificial relaxation assail her almost immidiately, and turned an accusatory glare to the medics. "Eamon!" she cried, turning an accusatory glare toward him as she attempted to rise. Between the drug and Dev's grasp, she hadn't a chance, and soon she was unconscious, her breathing deep and regular for the first time since her rescue.

Without any patient resistance, both medics quickly went to work on the more obvious physical injuries Therese had sustained while in The Interrogator's clutches. They first saw to cleaning and medicating the deep wounds and abrasions left from the ankle and wrist restraints HE had used. "Far better for her to be asleep when these are cleaned, she's been through enough already," the male medic attempted to assuage Dev's obvious discomfort at Therese's deception.

"Dishonesty or pain, it's not much of a selection, don't you think?"

The medic returned to his work in silence.

Dev surveyed Therese's physical injuries as the two worked. Dark bruises circled her neck and collarbone, and her eye still showed discolouration from the incident in the West Woods. Her ankles and wrists were now wrapped in gauze bandages, but the abrasions underneath would take some time to heal. Her legs were scraped and bruised, almost as if she had been drug across a harsh surface. She had lost weight even in the short amount of time she had been away, and while normally slender she now looked almost skeletal--but in spite of the physical reminders of her time in HIS clutches, what Dev truly feared was the emotional damage.

Scout placed a hand on Dev's shoulder in silent empathy. When the medics had finally finished their task, he carefully lifted Therese while Dev rose, then handed her gently back into his waiting arms. "She won't wake until we're at Deleford, and she'll receive the best care available. There will be counseling, as well as medical help. I can already tell what a fighter she is--she'll be fine, Dev."

Dev returned Scout's look, his expression grim. "She has to be, Scout. . .she has to be."

Therese
- Monday, November 22, 1999 at 09:17:50 (PST)

Panicking now, Claudia fumbled to lock the connecting door between the marital love nest, and Mary Anne's private room. They would find her, and it would all have been for nothing. The pain in her leg returned, crippling herself for her self-doubt. NO! Not now, not now!

She did a quick mental exercise to calm herself and block the pain. Calm. Plenty of time. Don't rush. Think. Act quickly, but don't rush.

She opened the back of the camera, and pulled out the film, tossing the camera aside as if it hadn't taken her months to save for.

She pulled back the curtains of the window behind the dressing table. Twisted the lock on the old sash windows and pushed the window upwards and open. An icy cold breeze entered the room, and she cursed the fact she was clad only in a thin white cotton night-dress. No protection from the elements, and glaringly white and obvious if anyone looked up at the building as she climbed out side. But no time to change. She stepped onto the dressing table, and ducking down, slipped out into the night air. Her feet were immediately numbed by the cold stone of the ledge, she took a deep involuntary breath, then pushed the window closed from the outside. She stood stock still, and wondered what she would do next.
Claudia
OK, you can look now MA - see he's sleeping like a baby. Nothing happened, it was all in your imagination ;^D, - Sunday, November 21, 1999 at 12:58:11 (PST)

Flash wrrrrr Flash wrrrr Flash wrrrr…..

Suddenly the Brandon's bedchamber was lit with an eerie strobe effect as the camera came to life. Brandon pulled away from Claudia, blinking his eyes, trying to focus his dilated pupils. Confused he stared down at the face on the pillow below him, her blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo, her face flushed, her eyes wide in panic. An attractive face, but definitely not the one he had been expecting.

"You!" He pulled away further. His body still betrayed him, but he knew now that the wrongness he had been feeling all along was due to something he had experienced before. He had been drugged! The seen played out like some old horror movie, the light flickering and white. He watched as his hand moved by itself to the buttons at the high neckline of her nightdress.

Claudia took advantage of his shift in weight, and freed her arms. She pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve. "Colonel Brandon, believe me when I say I had no intention of letting things get any further. You won't understand now what I'm trying to do, but the greater plan is for the good of all of you."

"For the good of whom? I nearly… you…"

Claudia brought the handkerchief up to the Colonel's neck, and without unwrapping the tranquilliser dart from within, she stabbed it at his neck. The thin point slipped through the cotton of the handkerchief and bit into his neck.

He brought up a hand suddenly, slapping at his neck as if he had been stung. He caught her hand there, and squeezed it tightly, so she winced with the pain. One drug making his blood boil was fighting against the other which would make him sleep.

"If I ever find you near Mary Anne again," he said, his voice low and menacing, "I will personally kill you."

He slipped slowly back to the pillow and his eyes began to flutter as his body finally gave in. the camera stopped flashing, and wrrred some more as the film rewound.

"I know you don't believe me now, my dearest Colonel Brandon. But I am and have always been on your side."

The room was back to almost darkness, just the dim light of the lamp by the Colonel's bed giving shape to the objects in the room. At last the Colonel snored peacefully.

A rattle, made Claudia jump. Someone was turning the handle of the locked bedroom door. Quickly she jumped out of bed, grabbed the camera from the wardrobe top and retreated into Mary Anne's room.
Claudia
hopefully you'll find nothing when you get in the room... except a peacefully sleeping hubbie!, - Sunday, November 21, 1999 at 11:36:03 (PST)

Thanks for the reassurance, Clods--it would be good to know just what Mary Anne, McCoy, Winterbourne and the guards are seeing when they get that door open . . . ;-D

MA--tapping foot, hands on hips (in a pose remarkably reminiscent of Claudia, actually)
Christopher! CONTROL YOURSELF!, - Saturday, November 20, 1999 at 21:32:18 (PST)

Coming to slowly, she felt softness beneath her, and hardness above her. Hands moved up and down her body, and her unyielding lips were being smothered by others. Brandon must have been so delirious from the drug, he had carried her over to the bed, and not even realised she was unconscious.

"Kiss me Mary Anne!" His voice was breathless and confused. Why wasn't she responding to his touch?

She tried to move but her hands, to push him away, but in a sudden attack of anguished claustrophobia she realised her arms were pinned under the full weight of his body. She was strong, but in this position she was helpless.

Desperately she tried to struggle away from him, but to his heightened senses, her struggles were taken for encouragement to continue. His lips found hers again, and his hand wandered lower and lower down her body, until it caught the hem of her night-gown, and twisted it into his fist.
Claudia
MA - I'll tell you when you can open your eyes and look - only a couple more posts to go! ;^D, - Saturday, November 20, 1999 at 20:44:20 (PST)

With a deep breath, Claudia turned the handle and opened the door. She slipped into the bedroom, and reaching up, propped her camera on the top of the wardrobe, tilting it downwards, hoping that it would get the best possible view of the bed.

Suddenly there was a rush of movement and she felt something solid slam into her, and pin her against the wall. Caught! she managed the think frantically, before the force of the blow sent her head back against the solid panelling, and she slipped into unconsciousness.
Claudia
- Saturday, November 20, 1999 at 18:41:12 (PST)

"I thought we had an appointment, Mr. Buttershaw." The plump man squeaked. "Is this man one of your clients?"

"No, Mr. Higgins, he is not." Robert Buttershaw rose to his feet. His leonine aspect was stern as he faced the intruders. "He is known to me, however. Well, Marston, what is it?"

Elliott Marston opened his mouth but no words came out. He felt the reassuring presence of his lawyer behind him and tried again. "I'm looking for Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt. I thought he was here."

"I have no idea who this major is or why he would be here. Now get out of my office." The corporate lawyer resumed his chair and ostentatiously turned away in dismissal. Higgins sniffed moistly and mimicked the gesture with considerably less grandiloquence.

Melvin Collins grabbed his client's elbow. "Come on, let's get out of here." Marston allowed himself to be tugged to the door and into in the reception area. The clerk at the front desk glared at them with all the outrage his employer had been too dignified to reveal. Collins didn't release his grip until they were back on the sidewalk.

"I can't understand it." Marston glared up at the building, as if suspecting it of sheltering his quarry. "Where else could he be?"

Collins carefully steered him down the street. "Obviously at another lawyer's. So let us do what we should have done in the first place and wait for him at his office."

"Humph." Marston snorted but didn't argue.

Afternoon shoppers filled the sidewalks in front of the shops and the two men were forced to the road on more than one occasion. Every minuscule delay fretted Marston. He accelerated his pace, ignoring the irate glares of the shoppers who were forced to jump out of his way. Collins sighed and did his best to keep up.

"When we get there, I'll go in with you." Marston dodged around a large woman with two children attached to her. "The major will definitely see me."

"You know, Elliott, I have a hard time believing that anyone in the army is behind all this." Collins was not as fortunate in his encounter with the woman. She stared after him with outraged dignity. "I went to the army to get you released from jail in the first place. The officers I talked to were very co-operative. Why would they do that if they wanted you out of the way?"

"I don't know." Marston swept his hand through the air in irritation. "If Ashley-Pitt has a personal issue with me, he might not want the others to know about it. Believe me, Melvin, he's our man."

"Maybe." Collins sounded dubious but he dropped the subject.

Magda
Five more to go, - Saturday, November 20, 1999 at 17:53:42 (PST)

Scene: Ground zero.

The Director's office. Behind his desk, he reads. The chair in front of the desk, vacant. Consciously turned at an off angle so that no one has to face him directly. Anxiously eyeing the chair through the window of the office door, Renie knocks quietly.

"I'm here, " he answers. His VOICE, softer than one might expect, matching the low volume of the knock.

Scooting into the office, Renie realizes this won't be easy, on anyone's account.

He does not let her speak, preempting her instead. "I don't like it." He drops the few pages from his hands. "It's inadvisible. We're at a critical point in the storylines. If I've taught you anything--"

"--it's that story comes before everything. Personal needs included. I know that." Renie noiselessly pulls a chair around the beautiful desk to sit near him.

His side of the desk.

The thick hand-loomed rug absorbs their voices. "I've always tried to give my best here," she meets his dark eyes. His gaze, suddenly so openly wistful, threatens to undo her entirely.

"I won't be there," he resolves to her, in a near whisper. Was that an answer?

"Does this mean I can't do the scenes?" Her question, very real. She would abide by whatever he said. Loyalty for freedom.

"As if I'd say no to you." He hands her back the pages, and his fingers touch hers. Neither one withdraws from the touch.

Second unit would shoot it, then. He was probably right. Far too emotional for him to witness, as professional as he was.

She wanted to speak. To tell him everything in a mad rush. Or she wanted him to speak. But she only looked at his fingers. He already knows, Renie. He already knows.

Once--and once only--he strokes the back of her hand with the tips of his fingers. Lets them come to rest there. Involuntarily, she raises her eyes to his again. "I'm getting as bad as Mary Anne," she breathes, not lifting her fingers to wipe at her eyes.

Not wishing to.

His left hand rises up as if to still the waters of a raging sea, but then, slowly--with a surgeon's care and sure hand--the Director runs his index finger just underneath the lower lid of her eyes.

First one. Then the other. Her heart trembles. Yet, for all her inner trembling, she does not pull back or flinch, as a body naturally might, so far does she trust this man's voyage across the borders of her blue and green-flecked canvas.

His low voice, like a kiss implanted on a shoulder. "It's all right." She feels it is. His eyes seem to will her to smile, and she does, before he speaks again. "My door is always open."

She will remember.

Renie
It's never black and white, though, is it, MA? , - Friday, November 19, 1999 at 21:45:01 (PST)

"And then he looked up at Dad and said, 'But you said it was all right before!'" Sam Marston threw up her hands in a comic gesture of despair. "So what else could Dad do but surrender?"

Molly Torken clutched her hand to her collar and laughed; small, genteel chuckles that ripened into hearty whoops until her eyes were wet with tears. Sam looked at her with pleasure until she regained control.

"Oh my dear, I haven't enjoyed myself like this in ever so long." She wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. "Your poor parents!"

Sam grinned. The afternoon was proving to be a revelation: the quiet, timid Molly had bloomed into a charming hostess with a wonderful sense of humour and an unlimited appetite for stories about younger brothers. It seemed like weeks since she'd been so carefree herself and she was grateful to the older woman. For several minutes there was no sound in the room but laughter.

Finally Molly picked up the teapot and carefully poured out the steaming beverage. "Now would you like want milk or lemon, dear?"

"Milk, please." Sam picked up the small silver spoon and stirred the contents of her cup. "I feel so guilty for descending on you like this, especially with Niall. It's so good of you to take us in."

"Oh my dear, I won't hear such talk! It's been so lonely –" She bit her lip and looked down at the table. "I mean, with Cal out and about doing business things, there's been no one to…to talk with…and…and…" She set the delicate china down hastily and burst into tears.

"Molly!" Sam sat paralyzed for a moment, then came around the table and fell to her knees. She put her arms around the older woman's shoulders and squeezed them. "What is it?"

"Nothing! It's nothing…Just a foolish old woman being silly, is all." Molly turned away and took several deep breaths. Finally she looked back at Sam with a watery smile. "There now, all better! I'll just have my tea and everything will be all right again." She groped on the table for her cup with a shaking hand.

Sam returned to her chair. The sunny atmosphere of only a short time ago was gone as if wiped away by an invisible hand. She sat down slowly, considering how best to find out what was wrong. Taking refuge in sipping her tea, she examined and discarded several options before deciding on a forthright approach. "Molly, does this have anything to do with what you're in town to see the doctor about?"

Molly gasped, her face blanching. Tea splashed down her frock as she clutched her cup convulsively. "Yes! Oh Sam, I'm so scared! There's nothing wrong with me but I know that Cal will make the doctor give me pills…medicines…that make me see things that aren't really there and hear terrible voices…" She looked old suddenly, and vulnerable.

"Why would Mr. Torken do that?" Caution was needed. If Molly really was ill, she might not even know it.

The older woman blinked several times, then carefully put down her cup. "Last year Cal's mother died. She'd been living with us for some time because she was poorly and I took care of her. Something was bothering her – in her mind, like – and she sometimes couldn't sleep. I'd hear her crying when she was supposed to be napping in the afternoon. I asked her and asked her what the matter was but she wouldn't tell me. Until the very end."

Molly looked over her shoulder at the door. Finally she leaned forward and lowered her voice to a bare whisper. "Cal wasn't in the house. She called me into her room and told me that she knew she didn't have much time. I thought she meant that she was going to die soon but that wasn't it. She meant that it wouldn't be long before Cal was back and she had to tell me something."

Sam leaned forward as well, her eyes large and questioning. "Something Mr. Torken wasn't supposed to know?"

Molly shook her head quickly. "No, he knew about it. Oh, Sam!" The tears started to her eyes again. "It's the most horrid thing in the world!"

Sam took a tight hold on her patience. "What was it? You can trust me."

"Murder!" Molly reached across the table and grasped Sam's hand with a strength born of desperation. "Elliott's parents…all those years ago…when the Marstons and the Torkens came out here in that wagon train…it wasn't the aborigines…" She took a long shuddering breath, pressing Sam's fingers tightly. "It wasn't the aborigines who killed Elliott's parents. It was Cal!"

Magda
- Friday, November 19, 1999 at 19:23:27 (PST)

Scene: The Tardis.

The trip to Delaford seems longer than it should--though no one aboard the time travel machine gives it a second thought.

The Doctor leaves Ed and Renie together, mysteriously complaining of other "lost souls" to attend to. Stunned by the news of Colin's death, she had not cried, but instead related to Ed how Colin had tried to help her find Claudia, to stop her from coming to any harm. All jealous anger at Colin had melted from Ed. Colin had been a better sort than he had thought. Any man who would risk his neck deserved a little respect. No matter that Colin had eyes for Claudia. A shame that he had . . .

In the screeching silence of her own head, Renie replays the scene at the West Wood. HIS face, surprised--then wound into snarling murder. The monitor--she had seen it--with the awful message. The last words Colin had written. The way HE had pounced . . . the computer screen suddenly a frozen gray . . .

"He loved us, I think, in his own way," Ed muses elegaically, as the door opens.

"Well, I'm keener on her, actually, but I've always liked your beard," comes the riposte.

They can hardly believe their eyes.

"I don't much care for the past tense," he continues, "do you? There's no time like the present."

Ed recovers first. "Then what are you waiting for?" Ed stands to make room next to Renie.

"I promised myself I'd do this, if you don't--." Crying, Renie grabs Colin herself, and kisses him before he can finish.

Softly, a guitar. And a woman's voice, in song. The words we've heard before . . .

If you cannot see me here,
Cannot hear my call
Cannot feel my silent tears
I don't exist at all . . .

No need to feel my arms around you--
Secure, I know my hands will guide you.

"You look pretty good for a corpse."

"You kiss pretty well for a patient." It was Colin. Pure Colin.

"I'll be the judge of that," declares the inimitable Hans Anton Nietzche Dellbrook Gruber, as the room seems to shake at his footstep.

"Hans!" With an untapped strength she forces her tired legs to stand, and standing, she falls immediately into his arms. Hans. This was what she had needed. What she had dreamed of, every second she had been away from him. And what he had craved, each moment when life had kept them apart.

No distance, no obstacle.

No place on earth where they would not find each other.

The music swells, finding a vocal expression of the love between them. No longer the music of farewell, it is the music of hope, of the future.

Just one backwards glance
Only turn and look behind you
Look around you . . .
Take another chance--
There's another just behind you
Look around you--
and you will feel my arms around you.
Secure, you know my hands will guide you.

R
- Friday, November 19, 1999 at 10:52:32 (PST)

(Flashing back to show Andrea's reaction to HIS capture . . .)

Andrea's guestroom at Delaford . . .

Dot watches over Andrea as she sleeps fitfully. The soldier listens to a mission update on her cell phone. The Interrogator is found. Dot wonders if Andrea can sense what is happening to HIM. Is Dev's attack the cause of her distress?

There are other possible reasons for Andrea's tossing and turning: George's release from AR custody today; Hamlet's subsequent farewell. Either event on its own would be enough to disturb her sleep.

Dot is grateful that Doctor Mesmer has joined her vigil. As much experience as she has in protecting subjects from the seen (substantial attackers; tangible weapons), Dot is out of her element in keeping Andrea safe from imagined -- or real -- psychological assaults.

As Andrea's distress mounts, Mesmer steps closer to wake her. He hopes that the terrors she fights while asleep will vanish in the light of conscious reality.

Before Mesmer can touch her, Andrea exhales suddenly and forcefully. Her eyes open wide. Clutching her stomach, she moans and focuses on the only person she can see. "Doctor Mesmer!" A gasp for air. "Why did you punch me?!"

Andrea
Haven't had much time to visit FOF lately. Glad you're still here., - Thursday, November 18, 1999 at 15:01:36 (PST)

Somewhere in the West Woods

Dev and Scout began the long trek back toward the entrance to the Lair. Therese had not eaten or slept for over two days, and could no longer prevent herself from succumbing to exhaustion. Safe within Dev's arms, she slept.

She woke when she felt herself being lowered to the ground outside the Lair, her eyes darting open fearfully as she looked around in confusion. She blinked in the unaccustomed natural light, her mind fuzzy as she struggled to connect the occurrences which had brought her to her current position. She found that she was not able to make any obvious connections, and she struggled feebly. A deep, rich voice soothed her gently, the honeyed tones sounding pleasant in her ear. . .until she turned toward the voice and saw intense hazel eyes behind wire rimmed glasses. . .

"Therese?" Dev's voice was hurt and confused as she struggled against him, and cried out in fear.

Two field medics came rushing over to help, one carrying several blankets, the other a medic kit. "This must be the woman who was kidnapped?" one asked, draping the heavy fabric over Therese's midsection. "We can take care of her from here."

"I don't believe so," Dev replied, his tone brusque.

The two medics looked to Scout in his AR uniform, then to Therese, her arms and legs bruised and battered from struggling against her restraints, her eyes, lined with dark circles, and terror filled as she struggled against the man who now held her. Dev wore no uniform to indicate who he was, or why he was carrying Therese, and the medic saw only the horror with which Therese regarded him.

"Release that woman," the medic growled, her voice firm and unyielding.

Scout stepped between the two potential combatants. "Medic, he is to remain," Scout stated, indicating Dev, "now please see to the patient. I believe a sedative is in order."

"Not until I'm able to evaluate whether or not it will harm her given her physical condition." The woman bent to consult the kit she'd left resting on the ground as Dev tried to sooth Therese. Scout observed the couple for a brief moment; a discomfiting thought occurred to him. Stepping toward Dev, he reached out to the other man, and lightly plucked the spectacles from his nose. "What'n the devil!?" he began, but ceased as Therese looked up toward him again, and quieted.

"It was only a dream, then?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper as tears slipped down her face. Dev laid her gently upon the ground, the medic spreading blankets underneath her and over her as Dev knelt beside her, keeping a hand clasped firmly in his own. "You'll be safe now, it's all right, just rest." The medic worked quickly, taking Therese's vital statistics, and checking for any injuries. "I don't think anything is broken, but she is severely dehydrated. I think we should start an I.V. in the field while we clean those lacerations," she remarked to Dev and Scout. "I'm going to give you a shot to help you sleep," she said to Therese, "you won't—" The woman was interrupted in mid-sentence as Therese threw herself away and to the side, and kicked toward her with her feet. "No!" she cried, her voice cracking, "don't touch me!" Dev scooped Therese up easily, holding her hands together in front of her body, and supporting her against his chest. "Shh. . .little one, it's all right, I'm right here," he crooned to her, his tone soft. Scout took the medic by the shoulder, and stepped her away from Therese for a moment while Dev calmed her. Dev looked haunted. He'd seen similar reactions in his men—generally after intense torture and interrogation at the hands of the English. Scout threw him a sympathetic glance; he knew what that type of reaction meant.

Therese had suffered at HIS hands, and her ordeal was not over.

Therese
sunny and 70 here in Iowa today--weird for mid November in Iowa, but ya gotta love it, - Thursday, November 18, 1999 at 12:00:30 (PST)

A house by night, with everyone asleep, has a certain feel—and that feel is absent from Delaford as Mary Anne, McCoy, and Winterbourne, together with a team of Alliance guards, hurry up the stairs.

Activity. Mary Anne can sense it, though they meet no one. Perhaps it comes to her in muted, subliminal sounds that only her exceptionally keen hearing can detect; perhaps there is some alteration in the quality of light.

Perhaps her nerves are taut with strain. The passage of time itself is unreal . . .

Until suddenly they are there. Right outside the bedchamber, and Mary Anne tries the door . . .

Locked.

She and McCoy exchange glances. "I didn't lock it when I went downstairs . . ." whispers Mary Anne.

"Right." The doctor nods to the guards.

Seeing that their intention is to fling themselves against the door in an attempt to break it down, Mary Anne holds up both hands to stop them. "No! That's a heavy door; you'd break every bone in your bodies!"

One of the guards, an exceptionally-muscled six-footer, turns to her. "What, then?" he asks.

Well, what? Think! What can you . . .

The burly guard reaches for his sidearm. "Shoot the lock?"

"NO!" protests McCoy. "That thing would make a mess of the lock and then the bullet would keep going—you might hurt someone in there! I'll have too many patients soon enough, no sense adding another one—"

Mary Anne interrupts. "Joanna, give me your medical kit."

"What in the world—" But the doctor obliges. There is a rrrrip of velcro as she pulls it from her belt and hands it over.

Mary Anne opens it. "Do you have a probe in here?"

"Right here." McCoy reaches beneath a flap in the kit and produces a long, slender probe. "But that's for bullet wounds—"

"Or for preventing them," and Mary Anne is stooping before the lock, nudging the probe into the keyhole . . .

There is a muted thump.

Sweeping the probe back and forth beneath the door, Mary Anne slowly rakes the key closer and closer—once or twice losing the feel of it and ready to scream with frustration and anxiety, but finally her fingertips close around it and she draws it from beneath the door and stands . . .

"Get ready," McCoy warns the guards. "We don't know what's happening . . ."

The grating sound of the key. The handle turns, and Mary Anne has the door open . . .

MA--ready or not, Clods, here we come! ;-)
And what has become of Leigh, Andrea, and Kari? You ladies okay out there?, - Thursday, November 18, 1999 at 05:35:11 (PST)

It was one of those burning winter days that are found only in Australia. No cloud marred the empty perfection of the sky and no breeze disturbed the acrid heat. Carts and wagons rattled along, sending up a haze of vision-obscuring dust. Elliott Marston cursed under his breath as he peered across the street at army headquarters, trying to see who was coming and going.

The door opened and two soldiers stepped out, their red coats almost pulsing in the heat. Immediately behind them was Melvin Collins. The lawyer looked carefully around, then crossed the road to join his client waiting around the corner of the feed store. They retreated some steps down the alley so as not to be seen by the passing traffic.

"He's not there. According to the sergeant, he's visiting some big shot lawyer on 'personal business'. He didn't know the name." Collins pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his bedewed brow. "I'm all in favour of finding somewhere cool to wait."

"It's got to be Buttershaw." Marston nodded grimly. "Should we join them?"

"What? Go to Buttershaw's office?" Collins looked around, alarmed.

"Of course. I'm in the mood for battle." He edged cautiously to the front of the alley again, checked the street for familiar faces, then nodded. "All clear. Let's go."

Collins groaned but followed.

Most people had the good sense to be off the street so they had the sidewalk pretty much to themselves. Collins had to move smartly to keep up with his friend whose strides were eating up the distance to the lawyer's office. Marston didn't notice. His thoughts were fixed on the confrontation ahead and he smiled with merciless pleasure.

The offices of Wilson, Tait and Buttershaw occupied one of Fremantle's finest buildings. Six stories high and faced with carved granite blocks, it exuded an air of prosperity and stolidity that was meant to reassure clients and intimidate opponents. It had absolutely no effect on Elliott Marston as he pushed through the great wooden doors and up the grand staircase.

"Good afternoon! May I help you?" The clerk at the front desk looked up at his entrance, his premature jowls wobbling slightly. He rose from his chair and progressed to the waist-high railing that separated the public area from the lawyers' offices.

"No, thank you." Marston paused briefly to scan the names on the doors along the wall. Behind him Collins almost fell through the door, panting heavily. "I can help myself." He found the office he wanted and kicked open the small gate with one foot.

"Sir!" The clerk congealed to the spot at the temerity of this action. Not until Marston was outside Buttershaw's office did he regain control of his limbs. He sprang forward. "You can't go in there! Mr. Buttershaw is with a client."

"Don't bother to announce me. We'll let it be a surprise." He turned the knob with one quick motion and thrust the door open. The clerk screeched in agony as Collins barrelled past him, treading on his foot in the process.

The office was large and elegant, an appropriate setting for one of the state's most powerful lawyers. Leather-covered books filled shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling. Plush armchairs stood in front of a magnificent mahogany desk. From his leather chair, Robert Buttershaw looked up at the noise. "What the hell?" He exclaimed as he came to his feet in surprise. "Marston! What do you want?"

"A few precious moments of your client's time, Mr. Buttershaw. And an end to this farce." Marston did not slacken speed as he marched across the thick red carpet. One of the armchairs was occupied, although its high back precluded visibility. He made it to the desk and turned to look down at the client. "And now, Major –"

He stopped dead. A small, plump man in a plain black frock blinked up at him. Of the bright red coat of the British army officer class, there was not a sign.

Magda
- Wednesday, November 17, 1999 at 12:13:59 (PST)

Scene: The Interrogator's Lair.

A woman in her state--and faced with the news of Colin's death--well, readers, you can understand why Renie could no longer keep her feet. Her dress, now dark reddish, now bluish purple can barely defy gravity any longer.

Her sole earring droops.

Collapsing under fatigue and guilt, she melts into the arms of the troops--just before Ed, in search of Claudia, bursts through the door. The Doctor files in just behind him.

The wild look of Ed's hair, and his eyes, show him to be yet another man bent on finding The Interrogator for reasons of getting even. Dev might make short work of HIM, but Ed would carve HIM up. Artistically.

"She's here I tell you!" he swears, as the Interrogator's face comes into his visual range. "YOU! YOU--" Ed might have lunged, as Dev, but the Doctor's reach and skill in his approximation of a brand of Spockism leaves poor Ed in the same state as Renie. The Doctor catches him, and drags him over to Renie. The Doctor addresses no one in particular.

"I'll take these two now." The Doctor makes no move to actually carry either Ed or Renie, so the troops assist. "I told him, " the Doctor indicates Ed, "that Claudia wasn't here. The Tardis doesn't make mistakes." Then he addresses the person who obviously is in charge--hovering over the man known as The Interrogator. The Doctor, pleased for once. "I see our coordinates matched completely. A good thing this man's been found. There is other pressing business in the universe to attend to, you know."

Muttering under his breath, The Doctor, with a few helpful soldiers who assist with Ed and Renie, makes his way back outside to the waiting Tardis.

The blinking blue light disappears with the distinctive animalistic sounds we've come to expect.

Heading for Delaford after all its stops, the "bus" of the Realm is full indeed.

I'm going to have a cup of sweetened tea before this night's over!
;-), - Tuesday, November 16, 1999 at 14:02:53 (PST)

I HAVEN'T SEEN DOGMA YET SUZANNE - because one can live in the right place for AR some of the time but not all of the time!
Claire
Learning patience., - Tuesday, November 16, 1999 at 12:11:10 (PST)

Back to top