Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

4th December 98 - 31st December 98

Therese sat up on her bed wearily and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands. Enough pity for one morning she scolded herself, rising from the bed. She wanted to do something, anything, to get her mind off of the awful day she'd had thus far, but it was still early, and she hadn't heard anyone else stirring. Every molecule in her body called out for her to take a hard, bracing ride, which had always been the way she'd combated troubles in the past, but as much as she'd like to defy Eamon, she had absolutely no wish to meet up with blondie and dark hair again. As she felt her stomach rumble, she remembered that she'd not eaten anything yet this morning, and decided to head for the kitchen. It was something to do, anyway.

No one was about in there, either, but a fairly large chunk of wedding cake remained on the table. "Cake for breakfast," Therese chuckled to herself, took a large slice, and sat down to eat. When she had finished, she took an apple from the fruit bowl on the far counter, and wandered into the main hall. Empty. She'd half expected to see Raz propped up in a corner somewhere, sleeping it off, but no one seemed to be about. Taking a large bite of the juicy piece of fruit in her hand, Therese decided that The Black would certianly like to eat whatever she didn't finish...considering the debt she owed the horse, she retraced her steps and grabbed several more apples for him before heading on her way.

The stables were still and quiet when she entered. Someone, Dr. Mesmer probably, had returned the animal to the yard, and he'd been untacked and put away. The groom was nowhere in sight, so Therese entered the stall, fed the horse her offering, and taking a brush, proceeded to talk to him softly as she groomed his shiny coat.

She'd been working with the horse for fifteen or twenty minutes when she heard footsteps approaching down the aisleway. Looking up, she blanched. Dev stalked toward her, his features stormy. Taking a wider stance, Therese kept her expression neutral as she pointedly went back to tending to the horse.

"What in the devil are you doing out here alone ?" he barked. "Did you not listen to a word I said? You were to come to me if you wished to leave the main house!" Eamon stepped into the stall and took Therese by the arm, yanking her out of the enclosure. "You deliberately disobeyed me," he accused, his voice low and ominous.

"I did not deliberately do anything," Therese returned, struggling not to yell, as she clipped each word. "You, sir, are not my father or my commanding officer, so I do NOT have to obey you. Nor will I."

At this point the groom once again emerged from his room, unaccustomed to loud, angry voices emanating from his domain. Spying Dev hovering over Therese, fists clenched at his side, and a fresh bruise upon her cheek, the younger man became concerned, and approached the couple gingerly. "Something what I could help you with, sir?" he asked.

"Help me, as you did earlier by allowing this foolish woman to ride out without an escort?" he stated coldly.

The groom blanched, losing several shades of color from his features, and backing up a few steps. "But sir, I, I..."

"Leave us!" Dev bellowed at the poor man, "I have some things to discuss with Miss Gellert, and I do not wish us to be overheard."

Bloody slim chance of 'at, the groom thought, retreating from the growling figure. He knew when he was outmatched, but he also knew that Miss. MacLeod needed to hear about this right quick. She'd know what to do. He turned and hurried from the stables.

"You will not obey me?" Eamon's voice was dangerously soft.

"No!"

Turning from her, Eamon stalked over to a nearby feed stall, and hefted a bale of hay in either hand. Returning with his cargo, he stacked one on top of the other along the stall wall. Plopping himself atop his newly fashioned seat, he grabbed Therese's arms, and yanked her across his lap.

Therese tried to pull away from him, and might have been successful had she been aware of his plans and moved more quickly, but he held her firmly in his grasp, and there was no escape.

"I told you very specifically how you would be treated if you chose to continue in this fashion," he stated, his voice once again calm.

Claudia--Pickles and vanilla ice cream! LOL! Mary Anne, I've enjoyed this wedding as much as the one at Nakatomi last year. (Well, *almost* as much. *grin*) Dearest, you're on your own with the Colonel. Behave! (Yeah, right! The staff isnt' the only thing you're going to scandalize.) And the last post before the surrender to sleep--beautiful. Not "almost."

As the calendar year (and the Brandons' wedding) draws to a close, it's a good time to celebrate friends and friendships which reach around the globe. (My only complaint about visiting Claire is that the time was too short, even though we managed to cram a lot into it. Next time, I want to get to Sussex.)

You know, I've never searched the web to see if there is another site like this one; I hope there are others. FOF has been uniquely rewarding for so many reasons, which I won't--thankfully--try to explain. I am very grateful that Suzanne is actively involved, archiving and expanding it with sounds, pictures, and links.

I won't go on about each of you, but I will mention one example, which says a lot. Kari recently sent me a wonderful tape of the Mellstock Band and Choir, performing music from the Hardy family, using authentic instruments in the style of Thomas Hardy's Wessex. The tape puts me in the "Egdon" frame of mind, perfect for writing the Hardy-esque novel I've been fooling with. (It was also great music for wrapping presents!) Thank-you, Kari.

As I told Suzanne, it has been SO much more than fun and fellowship . . . Would I be far off to say that each of our lives has been touched by the people here, so that our "every day" lives are changed, in little or in big ways? You realize that what you share with someone else is not a place on a map, but laughter, love and the willingness to connect.

Okay, I'll cut to the chase! Here's wishing you all many more classic FOF moments, creative sparks and beams of happiness.

May FOF always be the place that it is. *clink*

It's time now--to sing out
Tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends . . .

Several moments after Dr. Mesmer left, the maid reappeared, a hot cup of tea in hand. "Chamomille," she explained, placing the cup in Therese's hand, "always settles me when I'm in a dither. I took the liberty of having a warm basin of water and some salve sent up to your room, ma'am. For your face, that is," she explained, at the puzzled look she received.

Therese's hand went to her face as if by its own accord, and gingerly felt the marks that had been left there. "Thank you," she replied, touched by the other woman's thoughtfulness. "You are very kind."

The maid coloured slightly at the praise, dipped a slight curtsey, and hurried off to continue her duties.

"You're certain you've come to no other harm?" Eamon asked, reaching out to take the cup and saucer from Therese's trembling hand.

She nodded, "Really, I'm fine...I'll be fine, anyway, in just a bit. This has just been a little much, that's all."

"Are you able to walk to your room? We really should wash those scratches. I can carry you..." Eamon set the tea on an end table, and helped Therese to her feet.

"Don't be silly, Eamon, I'm fine, there's certainly no need for that." She linked an arm through his, "Though I'll certainly accept an obliging elbow."

On the dressing table in Therese's room, they found several fresh pieces of linen, a basin of warm water, a fresh bar of soap and a medicated salve waiting for them. Dev seated Therese on the chair in front of the table, and began to tend to her wounds. He was firm, yet gentle, in his ministrations, carefully cleaning the dirt and bark from her skin. "There, that just about does it," he commented, setting aside the unused ointment. "Though it wouldn't be a bad idea to get some ice for your cheek once you've changed."

Therese nodded in agreement, and went to the wardrobe for a change of clothing. She quickly shrugged out of what remained of her shirt, peeled off her breeches, and replaced them with her favorite pair of grey cotton trousers, and one of Dev's thick wool jumpers. Rolling up the sleeves til she could once again see her fingers, she sat down on the end of her bed. "Well, what is it?" she asked, looking up at him. "You've been standing there with your arms crossed, glaring at me since you've finished. The only thing you haven't been doing is tapping your foot."

"It will keep, my dear," he responded. Eamon's eyes glinted dangerously, and Therese could see that he was fighting to remain calm.

"Oh no," she replied, standing up from the bed and coming to face him. "I'm not going to have whatever this is hanging over my head. Come on, out with it."

Eamon took a single step closer to Therese. "How can you act as if you don't understand why I'm upset?"

"Because obviously your anger is directed at me, and I certainly haven't done anything to merit your wrath."

"Haven't done anything?? HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING?? You went out on a horse, in a country foriegn to you, on an unfamiliar animal, leaving the groom behind , proceeded to almost get yourself killed, and you're having a problem understanding my anger!?"

Therese took an involuntary step backwards under the onslaught of his words. They'd never had a row before, and she couldn't think of a worse time for their first. "Listen, I'm just not up to listening to this right now," she said, her voice low, "if you want to think it's my fault that I was attacked by two utter strangers, and only escaped due to my wits, FINE. But think that elsewhere." She indicated the door with her left hand. "Go."

"I am not someone to be ordered about," Eamon stated, his voice rising. "And I'm not leaving until you realize how foolish your actions were today! You don't seem to realize that you could have been killed, or raped, or both! Escaping with some minor aches and pains is nothing--and all of this could have been avoided if you'd made sure to ride out with an escort."

"Fine, this is all my fault then, now just GET OUT, you insensitive cad!" Therese yelled, fighting back the tears. There was no way she was going to cry in front of him now, she wouldn't give him the satisfation.

"Insensitive? I'm insensitive because you've scared me half to death with your immature antics, and now I'm worried sick that you might do something this foolish a second time--and not be able to skitter out of it so nicely...that makes me insensitve??" He paused, for a moment, and crossed over to the door. "You are not to go anywhere outside of this house without me, do you understand?"

"Do I understand what? That you are a boorish lout? Yes, I understand that completely. Do I understand that I am to follow your dictates like some obedient school girl? No, I believe I'm having a bit of trouble with that one."

Eamon crossed to the bed, picked up Dr. Messmer's coat, tossed it over his arm, and stalked back to the door. "You are behaving like an immature brat. If you want to call me names, and fail to see your part in this situation, I will attribute it to your nerves, and will not press the issue further." He paused, and moved to stand in front of Therese. "However, if you so much as take ONE STEP outside without my presence, I will personally put you over my knee and see to it that you don't sit down for a week. If you want to act like a child, Therese, I am more than willing to treat you as a child."

Therese could not remember the last time she'd been so angry. How wouldn't dare! He-wouldn't-- looking into his face, hazel eyes blazing, she knew instinctively that he would indeed, and at the moment he'd probably take pleasure in doing so. Stalkig past him she swung open the door, pulling it open so quickly in her anger that it swung back, hitting the wall on the opposite side with a resounding thud. "I SAID GET OUT!!"

Without a word, Dev moved by her, and crossing the hallway, entered his room. Therese rattled the doorframe shutting it behind him. Once again alone in her room, she threw herself on the bed face down, and curling her arms around one of the pillows, allowed the tears to flow.

And now, time for the happy couple to sleep. Past time, I'd think . . . ;-)

I hope everyone enjoyed the wedding . . . and all that has followed.

Brandon and Mary Anne feel the first delicious touch of sleep, yet neither of them wish for this day to end. There will be other happy days ahead--so they sincerely hope and pray and plan--but this one, the very first, is worth pure gold and to be preserved as long as possible.

Intervals of conversation.

Intervals of silence, in which the only sound is the lovers' soft breathing and the tssssst of the fire.

Intervals of thought, in which each of them steals a glance at the other, thinking: I am blessed and fortunate . . .

"Strange," says Mary Anne softly. "All we've gone through, to arrive here."

"Indeed."

"All this evening, this has seemed new--yet also, quite familiar." Mary Anne blushes a little. "The first night of love for me, but . . ." She sits up a little and gazes tenderly down at the man beside her. " . . . it was like a home that I never even knew was there for me. Until now."

Brandon strokes Mary Anne's right hand and raises it to his lips.

" A ring of amethyst . . . " she murmurs.

"What was that, my dearest?"

"Part of a poem by Elizabeth Browning. I'm trying to remember the rest--all about first kisses."

Brandon suddenly and vividly recalls that terrible hour in The Interrogator's offices. Mary Anne, convinced that Renie was dead--and blaming herself for Renie's death. Brandon, who had been certain that his heart would be crushed by the converging forces of Renie's death, Mary Anne's guilty grief, and his own silent love. And when Mary Anne had turned her stricken face to him, convinced that he must hate her for causing Renie's death . . .

If ever a man came near to devouring a woman alive with kisses . . .

Brandon shakes his head and simply replies, "I recall that Renie and Hans used one of Mrs. Browning's poems in their wedding."

"Yes. I lived with visions for my company."

"And your recitation from Chaucer was a beautiful addition."

Mary Anne grimaces. "Most of what I remember was getting up there to discourse on love--and realizing that I had forgotten my notes!"

"Perhaps that was even better. The words came from your heart."

"I would do better, now," smiles Mary Anne, as Brandon caresses her hand. "What did I know of love, then?"

Brandon clasps her hand gently in his own. "So what is this about an amethyst ring? Mrs. Browning wrote of one?"

"She did, indeed." Mary Anne allows her hand to settle on Brandon's chest and feels the beat of his heart beneath her fingertips as she reaches for the lines:

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh, list,"
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst . . .

Brandon smiles, passing his thumb across Mary Anne's ring.

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half-missed . . .

Brandon's favourite pattern for kissing her, always. The first, a soft touch of his lips against her forehead.

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."

Brandon gazes at Mary Anne for a long moment, then draws her down beside him, into his warm arms.

Kisses.

With grave deliberation, Brandon presses his lips to her hand, just about the ring of amethyst. A second against her forehead.

The third upon her lips is folded down . . .

And as Brandon withdraws from the kiss and looks into her eyes, they each exclaim in the silent language of their hearts: My love. My own.

The fire has burned very low, and the room has darkened, but Mary Anne lies in Brandon's embrace, secure and safe, and feels the day begin to overtake her at last. The blandishments of sleep, almost as irresistible as Brandon's enticements to pleasure had been.

Almost.

Comfortably settled, curled against Brandon's warmth, Mary Anne finally ceases all resistance to the end of this day and the beginning of the next. Her last memory of that night is of Brandon's arms folded about her, his breath stirring her hair, and the velveted caress of his voice at her ear as he murmurs, "Good night, my love. Sleep now . . ."

And Mary Anne does.

The Director motions Friedman towards one of the visitor’s chairs in his office. “Please have a seat.”

“You have a nice office,” states the detective upon a brief visual perusal of the room. His southern accent is more noticable now that the two men are inside. “You keep it very neat.”

The Director looks about. It certainly looked a good deal more neat than it had the night prior. Housekeeping must be behaving in an overzealous manner these days .. though, for the life of him, he could not understand why. He smiled at Friedman and took a good look at his surroundings again. They were impeccable. Very strange. “Thank you.”

Friedman returns the smile as he sits down and pulls out a small notepad. He flicks through the pages as the Director takes his own seat behind the desk.

“So ..,” the Director folds his hands and rests them on his lower torso as he leans back in his chair. “What do you want to know?” he asks.

“I’d like to wait for my partner, if you don’t mind,” answers Friedman without looking up from his notepad.

“Certainly,” answers the Director with a glance at his watch. His scratching of the Achilles/Kari scene on Set 5 was going to go to waste if this detective-person took up any more of his time. Of that he was sure.

Yet before he could finish his thought, a woman with wild, short, brown hair burst through the doorway. She is wearing a dark leather jacket, a chambray shirt, and light-colored trousers. She is holding a styrofoam cup. She closes the door behind her and enthusiastically approaches the desk, hesitating briefly to slurp her beverage.

“You must be the Director,” she says as she advances another step and offers her right hand in greeting.

The Director raises from his chair and grips her hand in a firm handshake. “How do you do?” he asks with a withering smile. He nods towards her styrofoam cup. “I see you found some coffee.”

Repeat offender . . . *sigh*

Mary Anne lies in the bed, a rather dazed--but unquestionably pleased--look upon her face. The experimentation with the ice cream had been more successful than she had thought or hoped, and matters had, for the second time, taken their inevitable course . . .

Mary Anne grins, recalling a moment when she had thought she would expire with laughter--a moment when Brandon, in the same thoughtful and solemn tone in which he would discuss philosophy, theology, or literature, had commented: "The trouble with ice cream is that it is cold."

But Mary Anne's grin softens to a loving smile as she watches Brandon, who is moving quietly about the room, extinguishing candles, putting out lamps . . . tending the low-burning fire . . .

"Don't move," entreats Mary Anne. Suddenly.

Brandon's eyes flicker toward her in a puzzled glance, but he obeys and remains absolutely still.

Mary Anne catches her breath. That trick of the shadows. The fire, so darkly red . . . and Brandon, caught at a moment when the play of light and shadow across the robe, carelessly draped about him, and against his skin, and flickering in his eyes . . . stripes of darkness and flame, and that golden gleam . . .

As if a tiger stalked about the chamber, all power and gleaming pelt and sinuous grace . . .

Mary Anne lets out a long breath. "All right."

Brandon shakes his head, not quite sure what that was about, but he knows he is being admired, and smiles, allowing his robe to drop away as he slips back into the bed and draws Mary Anne into his arms, and she curls close to him with a soft sigh.

I should be tired, she thinks. Exhausted, in fact. Up so early this morning, and the ceremony and the dancing and . . . everything.

Mary Anne shifts position slightly, and has to repress a . . . wince. Yes, she is aware, now, of some unaccustomed aches and pains. But even if she is tired, she is not ready for sleep. Not yet.

Her eyes stray to a handsome ornamental clock, wrought in brass and chocolate-veined marble, that rests on the fireplace mantel. After midnight. So, the "day" itself is officially over. Thanksgiving it would have been, back in the States, but Mary Anne feels as if she has had Thanksgiving and Christmas together, combined with every other day of joy and celebration in the calendar.

Brandon sees her looking at the clock. "So," he laughs. "Do you suppose, Mary Anne, that anyone is still enjoying the party downstairs?"

Mary Anne giggles. "There was probably a race for the guestrooms," she replies, "the moment we were fairly out of the way! Let's see. Renie and Hans--they can't keep their hands off of each other, anyway . . ."

"Pot and kettle, my dearest . . ."

Mary Anne gives Brandon a playful kiss on the chin. "I can see that I will scandalize your staff! I can hear the talk now, about the new mistress and how she can't keep her hands to herself around the master . . ."

"Or vice versa."

"I hope so." Mary Anne chuckles. "Ed and Claudia, well--need I say more? And that Therese . . . Dev's eyes were burning her clothes right off of her. I'd be willing to bet they didn't stay at the party much longer . . ."

Brandon laughs, but he is privately wondering: what of Andrea? Had she, perhaps, left with Hamlet, and if so, had it ended happily for her? For him?

Brandon, who is happy at this moment with the world-embracing happiness of a satisfied lover, lets go a silent wish that Andrea will find peace after all of her trials. Hamlet muses Brandon, is an excellent man, and he loves her; anyone can see it. But she must find her own way. And the path has been so difficult for her. Miss Andrea, I hope that life will treat you kindly, now . . .

But Brandon speaks of none of this to Mary Anne. Sharing her wakeful mood, he draws her close and settles her comfortably against him as they talk quietly, exchanging their thoughts, their reflections upon this day. Upon what they have found in each other.

Upon love . . .

Re: " .. the one-night stand between Achilles and Kari/Alexis .. "

Please change to " .. the one-night stand between Achilles and Kari (aka Alexis) .."

After finally realizing that he had been put on perma-hold by his young, mai-tai-sipping charge in Hawaii, the Director disconnects himself from the poolside mobile phone, places his own back in his parka pocket, and gathers up his clipboard. He peruses the rundown of the day’s scheduled scenes. There was much to do. Over on Set 5 (New Orleans) the one-night stand between Achilles and Kari (aka Alexis) was to be shot. The Director picks up a pencil and places a large *X* through the scene. With Kari in Hawaii and Achilles down for the count, he couldn’t possibly complete filming this week as he had initially planned. With that out of the way, he could move up Andrea .. and perhaps Therese as well. Mmm. Yes. That should do rather nicely, he thinks. This way, he would have time to perfect each scene rather than make do with the two-takes limit he was accustomed to.

Just then a hand alights on his shoulder. Startled, he turns around. He is met by a strange face. Strange yes, but, then again .. slightly familiar.

“Yes?” he asks the stranger.

The stranger deftly opens a small leather case and flashes a golden badge. The Director looks puzzled.

“Detective Dave Friedman,” answers the stranger as he places his badge back into his jacket pocket. “I’ve been sent to investigate an alleged attempted murder here on the set.”

“Attempted murder?!” asks the Director in an incredulous manner.

“Alleged attempted murder,” corrects Friedman. Innocent until proven guilty. That was always the way.

“Well .. why .. I ..,” stammers the Director. He had not been notified of any such event. Had the women been fighting over Hans again? Had Mr. I accidentally stabbed someone wth his skewers? Had George been swinging from the chandelier (how many times had he been told to get down from there?) and fallen off? Had Sinclair finally attempted to slide down the banister and, unable to stop himself, sailed out the front door? And why would any of that count as *attempted murder* anyway?

“If you have a moment,” states the detective as he motions towards the Director’s office. “My partner and I would like to have a word or two with you.”

The Director looks around. He sees no partner. “What partner?” he asks curiously.

Friedman waves in the direction of the caterer’s display. “She’s over there,” he answers nonchalantly. “She’ll be joining us as soon as she rounds up a cup of coffee.”

Andrea figures that, with her luck, she would walk smack into Hamlet if she were to use the door. She opens the window and climbs out.

She feels strong hands grab her about the waist, and she gasps. Great! Just great! I avoid Hamlet and run into ...?

After her feet are firmly planted on the ground, Andrea turns to face The Highwayman. Colonel Brandon? Although the last man she saw wearing the costume was the colonel, her intuition sends her conflicting information.

Andrea raises her right hand to her chest, and her left hand reaches out to the man before her. Simultaneously, the fingers of each hand trace along the remembered lines of pain on her body and HIS.

Again, she has surprised HIM with her knowledge of things she should not know. HE wants to question her and get to the bottom of this. But, HE hasn't the time. Other business must come first. "Where are they holding The Sheriff?"

Andrea is startled by HIS intensity and the question. "I don't know what you are talking about."

HE slaps her across the face, knocking her to the ground. HE kneels beside her and grasps her hair to pull back her head. "I know the AR have captured The Sheriff and that they brought him to this house. Where is he?"

Her mind races to seek an answer which might result in her release. "Please, I honestly don't know. No one has informed me that The Sheriff is in custody. I swear it."

HE opens HIS hand, and Andrea's head falls to the dirt. HE walks away to continue HIS search.

Mmmmm--Dev in that emerald dressing gown. Talk about the wearin' o' the green! 8-) Such handsome nightwear on the men around here . . .

Therese had never been so glad to spot someone familiar in all her life. Reining in the black, she stopped before Dr. Mesmer. "They've not followed me, have they?" her words came out in a rush, panic written on her features.

The good doctor took in her appearance in his precise, careful way, and could feel the terrror emanating from the trembling girl. Her shirt was half torn from her body, hair was wild in it's disarry, her face deeply scratched, and a large bruise was beginning to discolor the cheekbone beneath her right eye. "There is no one in pursuit," he assured her, reaching up to assist her from the horse's back.

Therese was spent. At the doctor's assuring words, her body went limp. Adrenaline had fueled her to this point, but as the reality of what had happened to her, and the ability to allow someone else to handle the rest of this situation became apparant, she found that in her fright, she was hard pressed to even move. She slid off of the horse's side, grasping futily at his neck, and surely would have fallen had not strong arms held her up, and supported her weight against his own. Removing his jacket, Mesmer draped it over her shoulders, covering the areas revealed by the rent in her clothing.

Tossing the reins over an accomodating branch, Dr. Mesmer hastily secured the black, and then lifted Therese into his arms to carry her into the hall.

One of the maids working on the cleanup detail gasped as she crossed paths with Dr. Mesmer and his burden, and he called to the woman. "Have Mr. de Valera sent for immediately, instruct him to come to the main foyer."

The maid took one look at Therese's face, and shot for the stairs, calling, "Right away sir!" over her shoulder.

Dr. Mesmer gently laid Therese on one of the setees lining the foyer, propping up some pillows beneath her head and shoulders, and tucking his jacket more closely about her. "Are you injured anywhere other than your face?"

"I think that man sprained my wrist when he bent it behind my back."

She felt him take her hand in his own, and palpate it gently, feeling for the bone, and making sure that everything was in its propper place. Whoever it was who had attacked the girl, the indentations of his fingers could be plainly seen on Therese's lower arm. "Nothing is broken, at any rate," he assured her.

They could hear the thud of hurried footsteps then, and looked up to see Eamon lunging down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time in his hurry. His emerald dressing robe fluttered out behind him, bare feet slapping the stone floor. He dashed to Therese's side instantly, leaning down besider her, and craddling her in his arms.

"Shh...now, what's happened here?" he crooned to her, voice soft in her ear. Therese clung to him tightly, burying her face in the crook of his neck. They remained like that for several moments as Therese gathered her composure, and finally, with a sigh, she leaned back once more against her seat.

"I was attacked during my ride," she began, trying to sort the jumble of facts in her mind and turn it into something intelligible. "There were two men, in the West Woods. They pulled me from my horse..." she continued her tale, carefully recreating the scene in order to leave nothing out.

Dr. Mesmer rose from his postition where he knelt before Therese. "Now that you're here to see to Miss Therese, I'll inform Hudson," he said to Dev. "When you're feeling better, Miss Therese, have Mr. de Valera accompany you to the commander's quarters, she will wish to speak with you."

"When I discovered that you had eaten hardly anything," says Brandon, as he sets down the ice buckets, "I had Miss MacLeod prepare some food and bring it up here, before I took you out of the ballroom. Just in case."

Brandon arranges the table to his liking, then steps through the connecting door to Mary Anne's private room. Watching the Colonel as he moves through that door, Mary Anne smiles again at the thought of what a considerate gift that was: to provide her with a spot for quiet and privacy, a place that will be all her own.

She has no doubt that she will need it. She is mistress of Delaford now, and though she will have much assistance in learning her new duties, she is certain that there will be many perplexing moments when she will have need of that solitary retreat.

Brandon emerges, carrying with him the long lace robe that had been left lying on the floor when he undressed her. He offers Mary Anne his hand as she gets out of bed, then drapes the robe about her and escorts her to the table.

Mary Anne begins to lift the covers from the dishes, suddenly aware of the insistent complaining of her empty stomach--which she hopes will not growl too loudly. Mmmmm. Miss M had chosen simple food that would keep well . . .

But she cannot understand why Brandon is . . . well, that's more than a smile. The Colonel wears a broad grin as he lifts the ice buckets to the table.

A champagne bottle in one, as Mary Anne had expected. But in the other, packed carefully down in the ice, a porcelain dish . . .

. . . filled with ice cream.

Mary Anne takes one startled look at the the dish of ice cream, and then bursts into peals of laughter. No hysterics in that laughter--not exhaustion or overwrought nerves, simply heartfelt joy.

Mary Anne finally settles back into her chair and wipes away her tears of laughter. "Christopher, what a wonderful surprise!"

Brandon is still laughing, as well. "You will recall what I told you at the Safehouse--that I would not mind if there should be some ice cream on our wedding night."

Mary Anne samples a spoonful. "Mmmmmm. Actually, when you said that, I, ah, thought you had something else in mind."

"Well, we are not in the food court of a shopping mall, now."

Mary Anne eyes him smokily over the rim of her silver spoon. "No. We're not, are we?"

"Now, Mary Anne, take that look off your your face, and have something to eat. I will not have you fainting away . . ." If Mary Anne's gaze was smoky, Brandon's return look is positively incendiary. " . . . at least, not from hunger."

"You're such a tease, sir."

"That, my dear, is absolutely a case of the pot calling the kettle black . . ."

So goes the bantering back and forth, as Mary Anne slices bread, and cuts leftover wedding cake . . . and Brandon fills their glasses with champagne.

The newlyweds are in the best of spirits. Pure joy--which, seeking an outlet, finds expression in their zestful, exuberant laughter at the least excuse. Jokes. Teasing. Sessions of "Do you remember?" Heartfelt gladness in each other's company.

It must be admitted that their delighted mood, fueled by the excellent champagne, veers off occasionally into a hilarity that leaves them both speechless with laugher . . . especially when Mary Anne takes it upon herself to conduct a few experiments with the half-melted ice cream . . .

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a door move. Hans Gruber appeared from the door to the walk in pantry, a bowl in his hand. Their eyes locked - Claudia's large, and her mouth full of icing. She looked down at herself - transparent red gauze covering the top half of her body, and her legs were completely bare. Ordinarily this man made her go weak at the knees, now she couldn't move, didn't know what to do, and couldn't say a thing because her mouth was full of cake.

Hans lifted the plate, and seemed sheepish, not noticing the woman in front of him. "Pickles und Vanilla ice." He said raising the bowl. Then when Claudia frowned he said, "Renie."

A wave of realisation hit Claudia - she dropped the cake and squealed, running to hug him. "Hans! Congratulations! When?"

Mary Anne is abruptly--very abruptly--recalled from her flashback when Brandon pulls her close to him and begins to nibble her ear.

Mary Anne giggles and tries to pull free, but her heart isn't in the effort. Not at all. And as Brandon nuzzles her neck, she gasps, "Christopher Brandon, you know that when you do that--"

"Well, you had not answered my question, my dearest. I thought I needed to get your attention."

Mary Anne rolls slightly so that she is lying on Brandon's chest, grinning down at him as she threatens, "My attention isn't the only thing you'll be getting--"

"Such dire threats," laughs Brandon, and Mary Anne thrills at the way she can feel his laughter against her body--ahhh, that VOICE. Long ago, in the privacy of her own mind, she had dubbed it the "Bedroom Baritone." Excruciatingly alluring anywhere, but especially here . . .

Brandon's laughter dies away, and he reaches up and wraps his arms around her, making no attempt to lift her off of him, but drawing her head down and setting it against his chest, and Mary Anne is quite content to lie there with her ear pressed against him. His heartbeat. And that baritone inquiry . . .

"You had not answered my question." Pause. "Did I hurt you? Very . . . badly?"

"Some," replies Mary Anne. "But not badly." The memory of pain, all but eclipsed by what had followed. "That part was over in a few minutes, and then--" Mary Anne feels the return of that odd shyness she has at times experienced with Brandon. She usually feels that she can speak with him about anything, but this is difficult, even after . . . well, he could certainly have been in no doubt--NO doubt--that what she was feeling, then, was not pain.

Mary Anne lazily rubs her cheek against Brandon's chest for a moment, then shifts about to smile up at him. "--and then, sir, you were wonderful to me. So patient and kind." A pause, as her smile sparkles up at him. "And good." Mischievous twinkle.

Brandon is certainly no fool. His right eyebrow wings upward. "Good?"

Mary Anne laughs. "Do you need for me to tell you how good, Colonel Vanity?" Playfully, she bites at his chest. "You thanked me, for--well, I'm not sure why, still. I should be the one thanking you."

Smiling, Brandon eases Mary Anne off of him, settling her back among the pillows. "I thanked you because--" His expression turns a little more serious, though Mary Anne can still see the amusement lurking in his eyes. "--it was beyond all that I expected. You were nervous, and so was I. That was to be expected. And yet you gave yourself over to what was happening." Brandon's gaze is completely serious now, his voice a low and vibrant caress. "You . . . trusted me to take care of you. To take care with you."

Mary Anne can hear her own heart beating.

Brandon lies back in the pillows and reaches for her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. "My sweet, you made it possible for this night to be all that I had imagined, and more, for both of us. Yes, I suppose I was thanking you for my . . . pleasure."

A bone-deep tremble passes through Mary Anne. The way Brandon pronounces "pleasure . . ." The soft exhalation of the word, the precise consonants, the liquid vowels . . . there are definite advantages to having an acute sensitivity to sound . . .

"Do not be in any doubt, Mary Anne. Ever. You . . . pleased me . . . at least as much as I did you."

"I'm so glad. Because you were marvellous."

It is difficult for a woman to go far wrong, praising the . . . acomplishments . . . of her lover, and for several moments the room is quiet--or would be quiet, if not for the low sounds of Mary Anne and Brandon exchanging their thanks by way of non-verbal communication. And Mary Anne would quite happily allow matters to take their course once more, but Brandon desists after a few moments.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"No. But . . . you are new to this, Mary Anne. There is no hurry. Allow yourself to recover from the first time."

Mary Anne is indeed aware of a few unaccustomed aches, but she cannot resist teasing the Colonel, if only verbally. "Recover? You make it sound as if I had been ill." She grins up at him from the pillows. "Is that what people mean when they talk about lovesickness?"

"Stay me with flagons," recites Brandon softly, as he reaches out and tucks a loose curl behind Mary Anne's ear and then smooths the back of his hand down her face. "Comfort me with apples, for I am sick with love . . . "

Brandon sits up and stretches, and it is all Mary Anne can do to contain herself as she watches. The play of muscle . . .

"Mmmmm," she sighs. "I could do with some of those flagons and apples about now!"

Brandon smiles at her. "Are you hungry?" And at her wicked smirk, he hastily adds, "For food, I meant!"

Mary Anne suddenly realizes that she is hungry. She had been too nervous to eat for most of the day, and the biscuits that Renie had brought her when she felt faint have certainly not lasted. She is, in fact, ravenous. "Yes. I'm famished."

"Well, that is easily remedied."

Mary Anne expects that Brandon will ring for the servants, but he slides out of bed and, after shrugging into his robe, vanishes into his dressing room. Still some modesty in front of me, thinks Mary Anne, hiding her amusement. Or perhaps it wasn't modesty. Maybe he thought I would attack him!

After some moments, and several trips to the dressing room, Brandon has produced a small table and set it with various covered dishes. And the best reason for the robe becomes apparent after the last trip, from which the Colonel returns bearing a set of ice buckets in his arms . . .

The door in front of her opened sharply, revealing the regal form behind it, and causing Therese to flinch involuntarily. She'd been prepared for a 'Come in!' to be shouted at her, no one actually answered doors on movie sets....

"Have a seat." His voice was crisp as he indicated the seat across from his desk; Therese silently did as she was bade, and perched on the edge of her chair, expecting the worst.

"I wanted to discuss this morning's scene with you," The Director began, his hands steepled in front of him, hazel eyes focused on her.

She swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes?"

"Did you watch the dailies this afternoon?"

Therese cringed. Of all the days to skip out of the viewing.... "No sir, I was down with the wranglers on the set."

He frowned. "Well we're having a problem with the realism aspect of today's scene. I'm just not certain it's believable."

"Er, which part in particular?"

He paused for a brief moment, staring down that long nose of his, as if inspecting a spot of lint. "All of it."

Therese gulped. "How could it be unbelievable? I did my own stunts." She paused, waiting for the response that did not come. "What did you have in mind for the re-take?"

The Director glowered at her. "There will BE no re-take."

"I don't understand, sir..."

"Mr. I has refused to shoot that scene a second time. "Not," he emphasized, "that I can blame him."

"I thought there was padding and protection for that sort of thing?"

"It was still the man's groin, Miss Gellert, padding notwithstanding. There is only so much one can do to protect that area, the rest is up to the actress. And her ability to fake the blow."

"I had thought that you wished the scene to be realistic," she said miserably. "I assure you, Mr. I found it to be quite realistic." He paused, allowing his words to impart their full impact. "In the future, please refrain from being quite so...overzealous."

Therese looked up at him, her dark eyes hopeful for the first time since she'd sat down. "So there is a future then?"

"You've not been part of the industry long, have you?"

Therese shook her head. "Not at all."

"Miss Gellert I am far too busy to toy with people I plan to fire. Were your services no longer needed, you would simply receive a pink slip." Therese stood, her expression easing at his words. Her relief was short lived as he ordered, "Sit down." She sat.

"Though your career thus far has been short, I am concerned with certain rumors brought to my attention.

Therese sighed. Nothing like the grapevine on a set. "Which rumors in particular, Mr. Rickman?"

"I am led to believe that you frequently become involved with your leading man--" he raised his hand for her to remain silent when she would have interrupted. "I am not here to judge your actions, Miss Gellert, merely to remind you to not allow your private life to interfere with your work."

Therese crossed her legs, uncrossed them, and crossed them again as she chose her words carefully. "Actually, Alan," she purred, leaning forward to lean her elbows on the edge of the desk across from where he sat, and gazed up at him, chin resting in her hands. "the rumor is that I freqently become involved with the director of my films..."

Therese sat back, uncrossed her legs, and rose gracefully from her chair. The Director's face was a picture, and no further comments seemed to be forthcoming.

"Until later then, dearest," she told him with a throaty laugh, and left him alone in his office.

The Interrogator peers in through several guestroom windows hoping to spy Claudia. HE happens upon Andrea's guestroom while Hamlet is still there with her. Even from outside the house, HE can feel the heat between them.

But, why does Hamlet hesitate? HE cannot hear what they say, but it is obvious that Andrea is physically needy and begging Hamlet for relief.

HE can hardly believe HIS eyes when Hamlet exits the room leaving Andrea to cry alone. What reason could Hamlet have for refusing this woman?

HE continues to watch Andrea as she comforts herself and slips out of her emerald gown. HE is disappointed to see the deterioration of her body since HE treated her. She had been badly damaged in the car accident, but HE could appreciate her impressive muscle tone while HE put her back together. Certainly, she should be completely recovered from those injuries.

Looking at her now, HE suspects that she has suffered through a serious illness--something that confined her to bed long enough for her muscles to atrophy. Such a shame. She had been a fine physical specimen.

Instead of sliding under the bedcovers, Andrea gets dressed in her black jeans and white tee shirt. She pulls on a white cardigan and ties the laces on her walking shoes. Wrapping the belt of her fanny pack around her waist, she fastens the buckle.

Andrea glances about the room to see if she has forgotten anything. As far as she knows, Hamlet still possesses her sword and dagger. She'll have to leave them behind. Now that she has made a gift of her candlesticks to the Brandons, Andrea is wearing everything she owns.

She carries a candle to the writing desk and composes a simple note to Hamlet:

Please, do not seek me. I do not wish to be found.

She places the note on the bed along with the flowers Therese gave to her from the bridal bouquet.

One decision remains: to exit through the door or the window.

She felt deeply sad. She had found a whole different person inside herself, and it just made her feel bad for being with Ed at all. He was too good for her, and she had to make sure he didn't suffer having to be near her anymore. She would tell him she was leaving him in the morning.

She made her way down the stairs and thought of the new memories of the Interrogator, and his offices. She had been so keen to please HIM, in every way. HE had wanted her help to interrogate a prisoner. It had been the Colonel. Would she have done it, just to prove herself to HIM? Or would her feelings of right and wrong stepped in? The fact that she didn't know made her more determined to distance herself from Ed, and anyone else she might harm.

The gelding's hoofbeats were muffled by the carpet of dead leaves underneath as Therese made her way quietly through the West Woods surrounding Delaford. There was a clearing up ahead, enclosed on three sides by a low, stone fence, perfect for jumping she thought to herself as she approached the area. She and the black had already cleared several downed logs in their path, and Therese was thrilled with the ability of the horse beneath her. His jumping was bold, he'd not refused anything she'd set him to, but he was easily responsive and controlable; rare and commendable qualities in any horse.

"Did Colonel Brandon train you himself?" she asked the animal, as they continued on, reaching down to stroke his silken neck. "Because my esteem for him as a fellow equstrian is certainly growing." Therese nudged the gelding forward with her calves as they approached the nearest end of the piled rocks lining the clearing, and the horse responded immediately, breaking into a ground eating trot. As they neared the fence she encouraged him further, pushing him forward with her lower leg and leaning over his neck as he moved into a canter, rated his approach to the wall, and cleared it effortlessly.

"Good boy!" Therese said happily, a grin covering her face. The heady rush of jumping never dulled for her, and she was enjoying herself immensely. However, she'd probably been out for fourty five minutes, and knew it was time to get back.

"Well, do you suppose we should--" Therese was cut off in mid-sentence as the horse shied from beneath her, leaping sideways with catlike grace.

"Easy, lad, what's that all about?" she asked him in a soothing voice as she brought the animal back under control with the use of her hands and legs. Odd that such a quiet, well trained animal should suddenly act jumpy "There's nothing--"

It happened so quickly that Therese was off the horse before she had time to react. She'd not seen the figure until he'd leapt out at her from behing the tree, and grabbed her by the left leg, pulling her from her mount. She'd landed, winded, startled, but otherwise unhurt, in a heap on the ground. The horse skittered sideways several feet before stopping with a snort, his eyes rolling nervously.

The man immediately hauled Therese to her feet, and shoved her against a nearby tree. "What in the hell do you think you're doing!?" she demanded, as the panic welled within her.

"Quiet!" the raven haired man snarled at her fiercely, madness glinting in his golden eyes. Flipping her around, and pushing her face into the tree, he twisted her arm back hehind her body. Therese squawked involuntarily at the pain, her heart hammering wildly.

"What do you want?" she demanded, cursing the tremor she could hear in her voice.

"I said be quiet!" the man growled, grabbing Therese's pony tail, and pressing his face close to her own. "Do not make me hurt you..."

"There's no need to terrify the girl."

Therese could hear the second voice come from quite close within the clearing, but she couldn't turn her head to see who spoke, pinned as she was by her attacker.

"Turn her about so I can see which one we've managed to snare."

As Therese felt herself being pulled around, she focused on her captors. The second man was dressed in black from head to toe, as was the one who held her. Both were tall, one a dirty blonde and clean shaven, the other wore his dark hair long and sported a beard. The blonde one stepped before her, and took her chin in his hands, holding her firmly, yet causing no pain.

"I don't recognize her." The dark haired one released her arm and went to stand beside the other.

"She will still be of some use, don't worry."

Therese certainly didn't like the way the two men were talking about her, and was definitely more than a little concerned about her personal safety. Almost without forethought, she jumped forward, kicking at the blonde one with all of her might. Her aim was true, and the man collapsed in front of her, gasping and holding his groin.

As he fell, she pushed him forcefully, using his body weight as ballast, and knocked him into the dark haired one, who staggered sideways, but managed to grab the end of her sleeve as she shot by.

Therese didn't pause for a fraction of a second, and heard the fabric of her shirt give as most of the sleeve came away in the hand of the dark haired man. Reaching the side of the horse at a full run, she grabbed a handful of mane and gave a piercing whistle throught her teeth. The horse threw his head forward and jumped into a canter, alarmed at the rough treatment and the quickness of Therese's movements, which was exactly as she'd hoped. Running beside him, Therese skipped along the ground several times before she was able to find a stirrup and vault onto the bolting animal. Once mounted, she drummed her feet into his sides, screaming for him to go.

They vaulted the wall they'd jumped into the clearing, leaping far higher and wider than needed with the momementum of their pace, and Therese struggled to stay with the animal. Turning to look back over her shoulder, she could see the dark haired one chasing after her on foot. The blonde one, was staggering to his feet, she could hear his "Catch her, she's getting away!" ring through the woods.

Therese leaned low over the horse's neck, and pummeled his sides with her feet, encouraging him to his utmost speed, which allowed them to quickly outdistance the man on foot.

As AR exclaims, when Rickmaniacs write:
"Happy Fancies to all, and to all a good Flight!" 8-D

Love,

Yes, there had been some pain.

Mary Anne had thought herself prepared for it. As much as she might enjoy reading the occasional romance novel, she has told herself not to expect anything remotely similar to those scenes of passion. Right, she had told herself scornfully. Uh-huh. The heroine is completely innocent and the hero neatly relieves of her virginity--and then, sighs and moans and instant ecstasy. Of course! Nothing messy or uncomfortable about it. Suuuuuure . . .

Still, the sensations had been quite unexpectedly sharp, and Mary Anne had been unable to contain a little sob as she turned her head to one side, hoping that Brandon might not see the tears that had gathered in her eyes.

But he had, and then she felt his lips upon hers once again, as if he had wished to draw her pain into his body and conquer it there, for her . . . his kisses, and the whispering of endearments and love names . . . and the pain had slowly faded . . .

And Mary Anne had realized that she may have been a shade too cynical in her mental preparations, for she had tried, in an attempt to steel herself against possible disappointment, to tell herself not to expect a great deal of pleasure, either. Not Christopher's fault at all, if you don't, but you'll have to get used to each other--and some women don't feel very much, the first time . . .

But Mary Anne had reckoned without her enlivened senses, and the tension of desire built by months of waiting and anticipatory suspense, plus Brandon's singleminded determination that this night would be as nearly perfect as possible. For her.

Brandon knows her well, his love and now his wife, the woman he has loved a thousand times in his imagination, and his approach had been a blend of spontaneity and strategy, in which he had denied her no kiss, no least touch upon her maddeningly sensitized flesh . . . no opportunity for a pleasure greater than any she had ever known.

And it had not been long before her little cry of pain had given way to other soft cries . . .

Well, thinks Mary Anne. I didn't faint . . .

Wavering candle flames. Flickering lamps. The fire, burning low. The dance of shadows across the bed . . . where Mary Anne lies beside Colonel Brandon, her head pillowed against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest . . . as her fingers, from time to time, lazily move against his skin, tracing patterns, not out of any attempt to re-awaken his desire but simply to savour the texture of his skin under her fingertips . . .

Luxury. All of her senses awake, yet satiated.

Touch. Brandon's skin, and the blissful warmth of his body next to hers, his arm cradling her shoulders, and the lingering heat of the fire, and her body's own recollection of its recent pleasure.

Hearing. The soft hiss of the fire, with occasional crackles. Brandon's breathing next to her, and her own responsive sighs, and the distant echo of his heartbeat.

Taste . . . Mary Anne licks her lips briefly. Yes. Still there, the combined salt and sweetness, the flavour of Brandon's skin when she had lavished her many kisses and attentions upon him, and the taste of his lips against her own . . .

Oh, and scent--at times, the most evocative of the senses. One remembered aroma can transport us back across time, across scores of years . . . and Mary Anne is certain that the memory of this night will always recur in combinations of burning applewood and cinnamon-laced potpourri, mingled deliciously with Brandon's own clean male scent and the delicate waft of crushed violet petals . . .

Sight.

Her husband. Mary Anne looks with all her eyes, and with all her heart.

Brandon gazes calmly back at her, his expression serious enough, but there is that telltale crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a slight curve of his lips.

It becomes a game, as they lie and look at each other. Who will speak first? And it is not long before Brandon is smiling openly, and drawing Mary Anne closer to him for a kiss, which she contentedly returns, until he breaks it and murmurs, "Thank you, my dearest."

Mary Anne laughs a little and pushes herself a little higher to lie against the pillows and look into Brandon's eyes. "You're welcome, I'm sure," she softly replies. "Although I'm not sure why you're . . . thanking me."

"Because . . ." Brandon hesitates. "I simply recalled that you had expressed some doubts about whether you would please me. And you had seemed nervous--I expected that you might be frightened. But . . ." Brandon shakes his head at the futility of attempting to express these feelings in words.

Mary Anne smiles at him. "Did you think I would find loving you such an appalling prospect, then?"

Brandon does not answer immediately, but re-arranges his pillows and sits up against them, drawing the blanket up and tucking it warmly about Mary Anne and himself.

"You would be astonished," he replies after some moments. "It is my understanding that this can be rather--" Brandon flushes slightly, but his voice is steady. "--uncomfortable for a woman the first time, and after that, their only impression of lovemaking is of pain. Some consider themselves fortunate if they feel nothing." His eyes upon hers. "Do not deny it, Mary Anne; there was some pain for you."

And Mary Anne cannot deny it . . .

Poolside, a pair of semi-bronzed legs with red toenails protrudes from beneath a sun-umbrella-covered lounge chair. A figure clad in a red swimsuit and obnoxiously oversized hat sips tropical drinks at an alarming rate while simultaneously applying sunscreen and talking on a mobile phone.

Hilo Hattie? Ala Moana Annie? Queen Liliokalani?

No. It is Kari. The very same Kari who was sent overseas on special assignment over the holidays by the Director himself. The very same Director with whom, at this particular moment, she is speaking to on the mobile phone.

He wants a scouting report on locations. She has none at this time.

She waves to the cabana boy. He hurries over to her lounge chair. Pointing to her almost empty glass, she places a hand over the phone receiver and whispers, “I’ll have another.” A big smile. She removes her hand just in time to hear the director cut himself off.

“Who was that?” he asks.

“Who was who?” she responds in her usual manner of answering a question with a question.

“What are you doing?” asks the Director. He was aware that she had not been listening to him. She watches as three children dive, amid shrieks and giggles, into the far end of the pool. The resulting splash echoes resoundingly in the Director’s ear. “What was that?” he asks suspiciously.

“What was what?” she responds in mock innocence as she picks up her glass and eyes the small amount that is left. She hopes the cabana boy is on his way back with her next drink.

“I heard a splash,” says the Director.

She shrugs. “I didn’t hear anything.” She narrows her eyes and glares across the pool. Darn kids! They were going to give her away!

“Are you at the pool?” he asks unamusedly.

“Pool? What pool?” asks Kari as she noisily slurps the final bit of her mai tai from the glass. Aahh. Delicious.

“I didn’t send you to Hawaii to get a tan, you know,” says the Director in an annoyed tone. Another splash. The cabana boy arrives at her side with the replacement mai tai.

Trading her empty glass for the full-to-overflowing one, Kari wriggles her toes in delight as she takes another sip, sighs, and settles back onto the lounge. The sun was high in the sky, and, just beyond the pool, a white-sand beach played intermittent host to a blue ocean as it crested in on white-capped waves and crashed along the shore at regular intervals. Surfers on surfboards could be seen either paddling out or riding in. She adjusts her oversized hat and eyes the distant horizon where blue meets blue .. each indistinguishable from the other.

Opening the stall door, Therese haltered the animal, and led him to the nearby crossties. "We certainly cannot criticize the good Colonel's judge of horseflesh, can we boy?" she asked the animal, rubbing him lightly on his forehead. The gelding tossed his head, as if in agreement. "Don't let it go to your head, old man, no one likes an arrogant horse, even if you certainly have cause to be so." Picking up two of the several brushes hanging on a nearby wall, she began to groom the animal, with steady, even strokes.

Therese sang to herself softly as she worked, practicing some of the Gaelic verses that Eamon had taught her, and was startled to hear a door open at the other end of the building. She looked up to see a bedraggled groom approach her, in various stages of undress...

"Sir? Colonel?" the young man asked incredulously, not believing that anything could have brought his employer to the barn this early on this praticular day. He was a bonny horseman, yes, but....

The young man had almost finished struggling into his shirt, and was attempting to tuck it, as of yet unbuttoned, into unfastened britches, his wool stockinged feet soundless on the cobblestones, when he finally noticed Therese standing beside the horse.

"AAACK! Blimey, Mum! I didna know--" his voice broke off as he threw himself behind one of the partitions separating the stalls. "Ma'am? You're not goin' ta faint, or nuthin' like that, are you?"

Therese laughed at the other man's modesty and obvious distress. "I'm certainly made of sterner stuff than that, I assure you. And I'm glad to see that the rest of the household shared in the wedding celebrations along with all of us. Now, if you'll simply tell me which bridle belongs to the black, and where I might find a saddle and pad, I'll turn my back so you can return to your bed whilst it's still warm."

"Ma'am, I couldna let you do that..." the groom began to protest.

"Go," Therese ordered, "before I step around that partition and--"

"Going, Ma'am!" the groom broke in, and made a dash for his room, shirttails flying out behind him.

Therese returned her attentions to the horse, and in a few more moments had him saddled, bridled and ready to ride. Leading him by the reins, she brought him out into the courtyard, and with a jump up into the stirrup, was off. "Quite a stretch for me, lad, I see the Colonel prefers his horses tall." She reached down to stroke the animal's neck, and directed him to the drive. Her plan was to leave the gates of Delaford, and explore some of the wooded areas she'd noticed adjacent to the entrance.

It was a beautiful morning, the weather was fair, and she was quite possibly seated on the finest horse she'd ever ridden, (other than her favorite mare at home, of course).

Mary Anne, finding herself securely pinned to the bed, sees no point in struggling with Brandon, but smiles up at him instead. "I had understood, sir, that you had surrendered to me. Unconditionally."

The military man smiles back. "A mere diversionary tactic, my darling. Which gave me the advantage of . . . a surprise attack."

"Oh?" twinkles Mary Anne. "Did you need any more advantages?"

A brief silence. Those golden eyes just above her.

"Mary Anne, did I never tell you the rest of my conversation with Hans, that evening?"

Mary Anne plays along. "No, sir, you never did."

Brandon does not take his eyes from hers. "He said that it is the custom of his people for the bride and groom to exchange small gifts on the wedding night." A pause. "And when I asked him what he had given to Renie, he said . . ."

Brandon settles himself even closer, so that his eyes are mere inches away from Mary Anne's.

"He said that he gave her . . ."

A low whisper at Mary Anne's ear.

" . . . no mercy."

Mary Anne swallows and closes her eyes, feeling her entire body flush with heat and longing. A tremor passes through her, and Brandon, feeling the shiver of her body against his own, sets his teeth and fights for control.

Mary Anne opens her eyes, and even manages to smile. "And did he say what Renie gave to him?"

"I think we both have a fairly good idea of what that must have been . . ."

Brandon's great strength, clasping her so securely. Another sigh courses through Mary Anne, and ends in an affectionate little laugh. Another trip into the past. "Oh, sir," she murmurs, "have you no mercy for a poor maiden in your power?"

Brandon remembers. Of course he does. "None what . . . so . . . ever . . ." he enunciates as he grins down at her, making a point of pressing her deeper into the pillows, reveling in holding her there with his superior strength. But Mary Anne knows quite well that strength is not the only weapon in love's arsenal--and that love can wound as deeply as a gun or a knife, or that it can mend and heal. This will be a healing of old wounds for both of them, and Mary Anne, with a mischievous little smile, writhes against Brandon to encourage him and breaks into a giggle as he catches his lower lip between his teeth, fighting yet again for control. "My dear, you are a vixen at times . . ."

"I'm your vixen. All yours." Chuckle. "Aren't you a fortunate man?"

"I am, indeed."

Brandon's smile fades. "I--Mary Anne, I do not wish to hurt you, but I . . . I can wait no longer."

A pause. Brandon's hold upon her loosens slightly, and Mary Anne slips one hand free and reaches up to caress his face. "I understand, sir. I--I know there may be some pain, but . . . you've always been gentle with me. I trust you."

Feeling almost ready to weep at the force of his own desire, and at the winning sweetness of Mary Anne's surrender to him--how much more powerful is that surrender than any amount of resistance!--Brandon fondles the hand that is stroking his cheek and turns it, kissing the palm softly . . .

Mary Anne lies back among the pillows, and feels her arms drawn gently over her head and held there, for Brandon knows that she might involuntarily resist him if she feels any pain and he does not want her to hurt herself by struggling . . .

. . . as he presses himself closely against her, murmuring comfort and reassurance, and covers her body with his own . . .

Unaware of the scented candles and cones burning elsewhere at that same time, Dana lit the groups of candles at the corners of her bath. She sank slowly into the very hot cloud of scented bubbles. Warm water enveloped her limbs as the sounds of celtic harp filled the room.

Ahhhhhh, alone and quiet at last. she abandoned the magazine she'd brought along to read and surrendered herself to the full enjoyment of her surroundings.

"There you are!!!!"

Dana sat up quickly, sloshing bathwater over the edges of the very full tub. "PL O'Hara! What are you doing barging into my private quarters at this hour?"

"Where is he?" PL's wild eyes searched the corners of the room.

With a catlike stretch, Therese stood and went to the bags sitting in the corner near her bed. Searching through them quickly, she retrieved her favorite pair of breeches, paddock boots, knit shirt, and riding gloves. A quick brush through the hair, pulled back into a ponytail, teeth brushed at the basin left on the dressing table, and she was almost ready to go. After returning Eamon's robe, of course.

She tapped lightly on his door before entering, and he looked up from his pillow, a sleepy smile on his face. "Silly girl," he told her, his voice low and raspy from sleep, " always up and about at dawn. My eager little ruffian."

Therese closed the door behind her, and crossed over to the bed. "Lying in, are we?" she teased, crawling upon him, she straddled his stomach, a leg folded back on either side.

"Not if you've come to join me." The voice was velvet, and he placed a hand on either hip, caressing her softly. His thumbs lodged in a belt loop on each side of her breeches. "Though by your attire I would say you'd other plans."

"Colonel Brandon has offered me free use of his livery."

Dev sighed and rolled his eyes, his hands dropping to his sides. "The poor man had absolutely no idea what he was doing, did he?" Therese leaned forward, and kissed him softly. "There's no need to be petulant, dearest. I shall promise to behave myself. I'll only ride for an hour or so before anyone else is up anyway. Then I'll be right back here with you, smelling of fresh air and sunshine."

"And horse." "Probably so," Therese agreed with a smile. As she went to step over Eamon's stomach, he took each of her legs firmly in either hand, and used them to flip her over on her back. Rolling on top of her he nibbled gently on her neck before resting his weight on his elbows and peering down into her eyes. "What if I won't let you go?"

Therese tried to shift herself underneath him, a move frequently achieved in armorous play. However, Dev was nine inches taller and sixty pounds heavier, and with no help on his part, she was solidly pinned. The equestrian in Therese rallied for the cause, ignoring the jangling nerve endings throughout her entire body that were about to suffer a meltdown at the prospect of being separated from Eamon's contact. "But the colonel told me I could ride the black! His very own horse. It is the most magnificent animal..." She looked up at him, dark eyes pleading.

"You, my dear," Eamon replied, dropping a quick kiss on the top of Therese's nose, "are incorrigable." He rolled to one side, allowing her to rise from the bed.

Therese grinned down at him as he stretched out again in the bed. "I'll hurry back, I promise."

The Director diverts his attention momentarily from Alexis in order to answer the ringing phone. He pulls out the antenna, punches the *answer* button, and places it to his ear.

“Rickman here,” he says solemnly.

A high-pitched voice on the other end begins to speak in a furiously fast manner. Alexis raises an eyebrow in the direction of the mobile phone and takes another sip of coffee. There is some static on the line. As it grows louder the voice on the other end grows louder as well .. obviously in an attempt to be heard over the ensuing noise. The Director winces and holds the phone away from his ear. He grimaces at Alexis as she stands and heads off in the direction of Hair and Makeup (the requisite first stop of the day for all cast members), leaving him alone on the phone in the midst of the chaotic set.

As Alexis arrives on the set the following morning, coffee in hand, she is startled to see an emergency aid car parked outside of the wardrobe trailer. Equally startling is the sight of the director ushering emergency response team workers through the doorway.

“What's happened?” she asks in alarm as she approaches the Director.

He purses his lips together and, with a slightly furrowed brow, glances towards the trailer entrance. Deafening, rhythmic snores can be heard emanating through the open door. An emergency worker exits the trailer with his hands over his ears. The Director motions her away from the trailer to explain.

“It’s Achilles,” he says somberly.

“What do you mean ‘it’s Achilles’?", asks Alexis in an incredulous manner. Though not regularly involved with him on the job, she *had* helped him rehearse his lines (what few he had) whilst Kari was reconnoitering overseas on behalf of the Director and, as a result, she had grown rather fond of him as a co-worker.

The Director waves his hand in the direction of the trailer. “I mean he is the reason for all of the commotion.”

“What happened? Is he hurt?” she asks sounding, once again, slightly alarmed.

The Director looks thoughtful. “Not exactly.” The trailer windows rattle as another snore emanates from within.

“Is he ill?”

Another thoughtful look. “Not exactly.”

She becomes impatient. “Well then what exactly?” It was not like the Director to be evasive.

He shrugs and looks puzzled. “He won’t wake up.”

At this, she begins to laugh. “He won’t wake up?“ She laughs again. “He won’t wake up?” She shakes her head and takes a sip of her coffee. “Is that all?” she asks through her giggles.

However, the Director is not smiling. He turns to face her. “It’s not a laughing matter. He really will not wake up. We’ve tried everything. At first I thought he was just faking it because I know how he is about his early morning calls, but he’s been poked, prodded, and goodness knows what else and he just continues to sleep. We called emergency response an hour ago. His vital signs are fine. They say they’ve never seen anything like this before.” The Director looks worried.

Alexis places her hand on his arm. “Do they say he’s in danger?”

“They say he’s not. No.” He shakes his head.

Alexis takes a sip of her coffee as the Director’s mobile phone begins to ring from his parka pocket. He reaches for it as Alexis speaks again. “You know, Achilles was always bragging that he could do his scenes in his sleep.” She giggles and glances towards the trailer as yet another emergency worker enters. Another roar-of-a-snore whistles through the doorway.

About to stray across the borders of the Golden Rule territory soon, so be warned. And may The Empress be merciful.

Sweet agony . . . exquisite torture . . .

These terms, and others of a like nature, run continuously through the mind of Colonel Christopher Brandon as he lies among the heaped pillows of the bed, the recipient of Mary Anne's most loving and inventive . . . attentions.

A fine beading of sweat stands on the Colonel's forehead; his fingers occasionally curl tightly against the pillows, then release . . .

"Mary Anne . . . you are killing me!"

"Not I, sir." The soft trill of her laughter. "Kill you, now? I intend to keep you alive for a long, long time."

"Not if you continue like this," groans Brandon. His adored Mary Anne . . . all those times before, when she had tested him, teased him, driven him near to distraction--or so he had thought, then.

But now . . . now that she is free to let her imagination run riot . . .

She had begun rather hesitantly, as Brandon lay among the pillows and looked at her expectantly to see what she would do next, without encouragement or instruction. A kiss had seemed the way to begin, and so she had proceeded, fondly copying Brandon's own pattern with her: the kiss upon the forehead first, and then upon the closed eyelids, and down to the corners of the lips . . .

The mood had changed, briefly, as she had begun to explore and caress his body as he had hers--but then she had stopped, passing her hand across his chest. Brandon had opened his closed eyes, to see Mary Anne staring sadly down at him--at his chest, with its scars. The long sabre scar is, of course, the one that draws attention . . . but Mary Anne is gazing, with tears in her eyes, at a smaller scratch, now healed and hardly visible.

But it is the wound of her Aurientine, when she had fought the duel with Brandon for the life of The Interrogator.

She had bent forward, then, and Brandon had felt the warmth on his chest, first of her tears, and then of her kisses upon that small scar. Mary Anne had simply lain beside him for a moment, her face buried against his chest, and at her smothered sob he had put his arms about her, holding her to him, stroking her hair.

"Shhhhh. Hush, my darling. That is past, Mary Anne. All past . . . don't think of it . . ."

Her kisses, then, upon his body . . . restless, seeking, urgent, as if determined to atone in love and pleasure for that wound inflicted by her evil self.

That long sabre scar, for example. Mary Anne had devoted herself to that, as a beginning, kissing her way along it as if the touch of her lips had the power to heal, and banish any mark of a wound . . . and that had ended in more laughter for both of them. For Mary Anne, as she had nibbled her way along that scar where it slants down across Brandon's ribcage, had become aware by the silent shaking of his body that her husband is rather ticklish himself. Not quite so much as she, with her extremely sensitive skin; Brandon had managed to contain himself, even after Mary Anne had raised a wicked eyebrow at him and given him another playful nip in the ribs, just as he had done with her--but at the warning lift of his eyebrow, she had decided it would be wise to desist. And so matters had progressed . . .

Until now.

"Mary--" Startled intake of breath, then long sigh. "Anne . . ."

"Mmmmm. Yes, sir?"

Oh. That tone of voice, so sweet and demure. After she has been . . .

Brandon struggles to distract himself. Somehow. "Do you remember, after Ed and Claudia's party? Hans and I were talking, and you came to us . . ."

"I'm not likely to forget."

"When Hans told me later to go and rest, he said . . ." A gasp, and a pause. "He . . . said . . . that I would need my strength with you. I told him that perhaps you could be persuaded to take pity on a tired old man . . ."

A giggle. "And what did Hans say to that?"

"He said--" Concentrate, Brandon! "He said that if you did, he would never think so highly of you afterward . . ."

A low chuckle, delectably naughty. "And what would Hans think of me . . . sir?"

"I am quite . . . certain . . . that he would think he had . . . Mary Anne, please! . . . he had seriously underestimated you . . ."

The sweet witchery of that laugh. As if he can feel the sound of it upon his skin. "Perhaps he wasn't the only one . . ."

Tormenting him . . . bending her head, and slowly . . . slowly . . . moving her head so that the strands of her hair lightly brush against his skin, raising waves of shivers . . . that silken touch . . .

Every man has his limits.

Colonel Christopher Brandon has reached his.

It must be admitted that Brandon takes a distinct pleasure in Mary Anne's startled gasp when he sits up abruptly among the pillows and grasps her by the arms . . .

. . . and has her, within seconds, securely pinned to the bed . . .

No. Andrea does not love him. What can she say to cause him the least pain? How can she convince him to spend tonight with her? "Hamlet, I need you, and I want you. Please stay."

Hamlet releases her hands. His eyes show his disappointment, but he is not crushed.

Andrea continues her plea. Even if Hamlet turns her down, she needs to know that she tried her best to make him understand her request. "Hamlet, after what George did to me, I want to feel the touch of a man who truly cares for me. Please, Hamlet, show me how it's supposed to feel."

Hamlet strongly believes that "how it's supposed to feel" is dependent on loving the one touching you. He observes her eyes fill with tears. Although he has decided not to spend the night, he will not leave her like this. He steps close to her.

When Andrea rests her head on his chest, Hamlet strokes her soft hair. "I do love you, Andrea. I cannot--I will not stay here knowing that you do not feel the same. I continue to hold onto my hope that you will--someday--open your heart to me. It is because you are so special to me that you must love me before I ..."

Andrea looks up at him. He nods in the direction of the bed. She suggests a possibility. "Perhaps my love would come after ..."

Hamlet shakes his head. "It is more likely that you will remain indifferent toward me. You may even congratulate yourself for getting what you need from me without giving me what I need from you."

Andrea pulls away from him. Does he really believe that she would do such a thing? And, why not? Hasn't she been taking from Hamlet all along? What has she ever given him in return? The privilege to keep on giving to her.

Her tears spill onto her cheeks. The realization of how badly she has treated Hamlet pains her deeply. Unable to speak, she opens the door and steps aside to allow Hamlet to exit her guestroom.

Once he is in the hallway, Hamlet turns to face her. "Will you be all right alone? I could try to find Dot ..."

Andrea shakes her head. She'd rather be alone.

Hamlet would like to reassure her of his continued friendship. He grasps the doorknob, and, just before pulling the door closed, he says "Sleep well and join me for breakfast in the morning."

... Andrea does neither.

Colonel Christopher Brandon has been quite pleasantly surprised.

He had thought, as nervous as Mary Anne seemed at times during this day, that he would have to lure her along in lovemaking, with many pauses to reassure her and allay her fears. Not, he reflects, that it would have been unpleasant . . .

But Mary Anne has taken to the proceedings, surrendering herself into his arms with a sweetness of trust and a sensual abandon that moves him to a delight he has not experienced for years, with a corresponding sense of playfulness that he could not possibly express anywhere but here--with Mary Anne, who loves him, and whom he loves beyond all reason.

Brandon feels himself caught between moments of deep, passionate solemnity. A phrase returns to him from the Latin of his schooldays: gravis ardor, the weight of love. The burning heaviness of it, in which a human body seeks to express and experience more than it possibly can, and needs the help of another to draw anywhere near that expression of regard and tenderness for another human creature. The very quest to speak, with the body, what language cannot utter is enough to bring tears to the eyes . . .

Such moments as these, alternating with moments of humour and even hilarity. Brandon recalls as well the wisdom of the ancient Greeks, who always said of their goddess of love, Aphrodite, that she was "laughter-loving." There is solemnity, yes, and majesty in the bed of love, but always room for play and lightheartedness and laughter.

As, for instance, when Brandon is lavishing his kisses and caresses upon Mary Anne's body . . . and she suddenly gives a little shriek and squirms away from him, giggling. "Don't, I'm ticklish there!"

Grinning, Brandon moves her hands aside and gives Mary Anne another gentle nip in the ribcage, which leads to another little gasp and a brief wrestling match in which Brandon is easily the victor. Yet he takes pity on the apprehensive wriggles of his bride, firming his kisses and caresses so that Mary Anne's breathless laughter quickly gives way to sighs . . . and then to soft little sounds of pleasure . . .

As to Mary Anne, she does not understand how the human body, work of wonder that it is in all of its complexity and subtlety, is built to endure such sensations as she has been experiencing. Such pleasure. Every nerve awake as it has never been in her life before, and Brandon--almost as if he means to make up, in one night, for all of the time he has longed for her--seems determined to seek out every one of those nerves and sate them to the full.

His warm hands. His kisses. There . . . and there . . . and . . . there . . .

Mary Anne's eyes fill with tears at the power of those sensations, and at the realization--one that inspires in her a tenderness and humble gratitude--that Brandon, as long as he has waited for this night, is thinking of her before himself. Seeking first her pleasure and delight, before any consideration of his own.

Even among the best men of the earth, it is a rare man who would do this.

"Ah. Christopher . . . ?"

"Yes, my darling?"

"I want to . . . let me love you."

"I know you love me, Mary Anne--"

"No, I mean--let me do for you, what you're doing for me. This is your wedding night, too. Please, let me do this for you."

Brandon hesitates only for a moment. Mary Anne, though she has had no chance to gain skill in lovemaking, is--as he knows very well--a very inventive woman. Naturally imaginative. As his mind dwells on the attentions she might lavish upon him, Brandon quivers with anticipation, and seriously doubts whether his already precarious self-control will bear the test.

But how can he refuse her? He can refuse her nothing. Not at a time like this.

Those enormous blue eyes--brimming with tears of passion for him, and filled with desire to return to him some measure of what he has already given her.

And the night is young.

"Very well, my dearest," murmurs Brandon, bestowing one last kiss upon her body and smiling up at her . . .

. . . and slowly, with a touch of the drama that had made his portrayal of The Highwayman so riveting, Brandon stretches himself out upon the bed, settling himself among the pillows and raising his hands.

Mary Anne. Kneeling on the bed beside him and smiling down at him. "What's this? Are you . . . surrendering to me?"

A soft laugh. "Unconditionally."

Those golden eyes, turned upon her with burning desire, yet with amusement and curiosity as well, as Brandon waits to see what Mary Anne will do . . .

“Something happened,” said Ed, holding her closely, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead.

“I remembered some things. But I don’t want to talk about it yet. I need to think.”

Ever her rock, her grounding force, holding her tightly, Ed brought her back to what was important what was real. Their love. The boys.

She knew that the Interrogator played on people’s weaknesses, found a way in, then took and destroyed what he found. She also knew he had a power over her, but knowing it was also to her advantage. She plotted silently in her head, all the things she would say and do when he did come back for her.

If she could control her body, and listen to her brain, she could be with the Interrogator, get close to him, and help bring him down, finally from inside his own organisation.

Of course, Ed must never know what she planned.

“You made sure I would,” she pulled herself free of him, but took his hands. “But you know that I can’t give in to these feelings.”

The Interrogator smiled. He hadn’t been able to fulfil his desire for revenge on the Brandons, but he was beginning to see a way he could still get back at them. He pulled his hands from hers, and slowly, finger by finger, loosened his gloves, and they fell silently to the floor. She could see his strong long fingers, hands white in the darkness and at the end of dark sleeves. They flexed in the air, as if playing an invisible piano, and then touched the skin at her throat again. She jumped as if from an electric shock. His hands were warm, not icy cold. There must, after all, be a heart in his chest, pumping blood round his body. She couldn’t help herself, she was in his arms again and urgently kissing him, tearing at the clasp of the cloak, searching for the buttons…

And he let her, hoping for a revenge so sweet… “Come with me,” he murmured in her ear, “come away with me now.”

“I…” she breathed, taking ragged gasps of air.

Then suddenly a voice from the darkness. “Claudia? Where are you?” It was Ed, finished putting the twins to bed, and now looking for her, to continue where they’d left off.

Panic in her eyes. “You have to go, now! There are AR agents everywhere, be careful.”

“You aren’t coming with me?” He played his hands up and down her back, a skilled touch.

It took a lot of effort for her to say, “I can’t. Not now, go quickly.”

He mocked her with a low bow, and leapt over the railing of the summerhouse. “I’ll be back for you,” she heard whispered from the darkness.

And there Ed found her, white and shaking. “What on earth?”

“I don’t feel well, Ed. I’ll feel better after some sleep. I’m sorry I’m giving up so early this evening.”

Andrea is thrilled by the physical sensation and does her best to show her intense appreciation.

Encouraged by Andrea's response to his kiss, Hamlet places his hands on her waist and then slides them around to her back. He pulls her close to him and up slightly.

Andrea arches back under his kiss. Her toes barely touch the floor, but she trusts him not to let her fall. She ignores the pain of her bruised ribs pressing against his body.

Hamlet ends the kiss to gaze deeply into her eyes. "I love you."

Andrea slips her hands behind his neck. She tries to pull his head down to her for another kiss. She wants to stop his talking as much as she wants to continue kissing him.

Hamlet resists her efforts. Didn't you hear what I said? After setting her down on her feet, he grasps her wrists and slides her hands to his chest. He holds them over his heart. "I ... love ... you."

“You remember.” It wasn’t a question, HE knew at once that she did.

Claudia was reeling with she shock of the memories flooding back into her head. It was as if she was living them for the first time, but condensed into a few moments. She couldn’t move or say anything as the images and feelings sank in, and made her realise she was a different person than the one she knew.

Her hand was the first thing she could move. It stroked his face, and moved up to untie the silk mask over his eyes. The black silk slid away, but HIS face was still an unreadable mask.

“I loved you,” she said, startled at the sound of her own voice in the still of the night, “Mr I”.

“You made love to me,” he agreed. “Then you left. Don’t you wonder what great things we could have achieved together had you stayed?”

Claudia was indeed thinking what would have happened if the Doctor hadn’t rescued her, what would she have become? Another shiver shook her body at the thought. She was sure that HIS hands, still on her arms were the only things stopping her from collapsing in a heap at his feet.

“Why do you do this to us all? Why do you keep coming back?”

The Interrogator knew exactly what she meant. She was referring to the way HE approached the ladies of the Realm one by one, ensuring they each had some feeling for him, which would stop them from turning him over to the authorities.

Mary Anne relaxes into the pillows . . . then raises herself again, with a puzzled exclamation: "What the . . ." She rummages among the cushions--then smiles. "Christopher, look."

Brandon looks, and becomes aware of some light, sweet scent that he had thought was Mary Anne's perfume. It had, until now, taken second place to other scents of the room--the sweet applewood on the fire, along with the rich, dark potpourri of bark and greenery and cinnamon that Brandon prefers to the Delaford rose mixture set out in the rest of the house.

Brandon takes a closer look. Mary Anne, holding . . .

Flower petals. A handful of them, dark purple and creamy white.

Violets. Thickly scattered among the pillows of the bed.

Brandon exchanges looks with Mary Anne, and they declare with absolute certainty and in perfect unison: "Renie!"

Mary Anne is laughing with delight. "Now, that's just like her! But where did she get violets at this time of year?"

Brandon smiles. "That would be quite easy. Chance, my chief gardener, keeps violets the whole year around in one of his greenhouses--and he and Renie have always been on good terms. One word from her, and he would have given her all the violets she wanted."

"It was sweet of her," muses Mary Anne, remembering that the violet is the symbol of affection and fidelity--and that Renie could have put far worse things in the bed. "Christopher," she continues, "I think Renie might be ill or something. She looked so pale--and there were a couple of times when I thought she might be sick. Like she was . . ."

"No, Mary Anne," the Colonel quietly replies. "Not ill."

Suddenly, all of the details that Mary Anne had noticed throughout this day accumulate to critical mass in her mind, and she knows the answer. "Oh, my," she whispers, then begins to laugh. "Renie's--she and Hans--she's going to . . ."

"That would be my guess," chuckles Brandon, privately reflecting that he is surprised it has taken this long, since Renie and Hans can scarecely keep their hands off of each other. Still, she had been away from Hans in Egdon for so long. "I am certain that Renie will tell us everything when she is ready."

With a sly smile, Mary Anne gives a long, seductive stretch leans back once more among the violet-scented pillows. "I wonder," she murmurs dreamily, "what she and Hans are doing right now . . ."

Brandon needs no further invitation. "Shall I go to their guestroom and ask them?" he replies, grinning, as he gathers up a double handful of the violet petals and sprinkles them liberally across Mary Anne's body, rubbing them gently against her skin to release their scent, then bending close to inhale the fragrance, and to playfully blow them away . . .

"Ooooh," exclaims Mary Anne, with soft sighs of helpless pleasure at each touch of Brandon's warm breath upon her skin, as the petals lift and float about her, then re-settle into the sheets.

"I wish," says Brandon admiringly, "that you could see how you look."

"Perhaps you should hang a mirror above the bed . . ."

"I meant . . ." Brandon gestures to the petal-strewn sheets. "The flowers . . . and these . . ."

Mary Anne had not even noticed, until now, that Brandon had not removed her jewels. Naturally, she was still wearing her rings--her amethyst and silver that Brandon had given her as an egagement ring, and the circlet of diamonds that he had set upon her hand this day. Those aren't going anywhere. But her earrings, and the silver chain of amethysts and pearls . . . he had not taken those away when he undressed her.

"Like some . . ." Brandon grins, searching for the appropriate comparison. " . . . legendary courtesan, fit for an emperor. Or like the prize beauty of a sultan's harem."

"I'm your harem now."

"Or like Queen Cleopatra in all of her splendour . . ."

"Oh rare for Christopher!" teases Mary Anne, drawing a finger across Brandon's waist and down the saddle-hardened muscles of his thigh.

"Mary Anne, are you attempting to send me mad?" exclaims Brandon, as he bends forward and unclasps her necklace, trying to frown upon her with mock ferocity, but his face insists, despite his best efforts, on breaking into a smile.

"Mmmmm, rather," laughs Mary Anne, "now that I can do so and not compromise that honour of yours." Slyly. "I never dared to make my best effort before."

"If you dare me," growls Brandon, "prepare for the consequences."

Leaning down over Mary Anne, Brandon grasps one of her earrings between his teeth and pulls it loose, sending Mary Anne into hilarious giggles at how he looks when he sits up again. Her dignified husband is proving quite unexpectedly frolicsome in the nuptial bed! Colonel Christopher Brandon, the man of propriety and reserve, sitting there smirking at her with an earring dangling from his teeth . . .

The second earring quickly goes the way of the first, but Brandon is by no means finished with his attentions to Mary Anne's ears and the immediately surrounding regions, knowing as he does the sensitivity of her skin, and it is not long before Mary Anne's inclinations to giggle go the way of the earrings.

It had always been Brandon's custom, in his outbursts of passion for her, to begin by kissing her everywhere he can reach. Every inch of exposed skin--and now it is all exposed. Nothing hidden from him. No secrets. No defenses. The one man in the world against whom she has no defenses, nor even the wish for any.

And it soon becomes clear to Mary Anne that, although Brandon has undressed her, he means to clothe her again . . . in a garment of tiny overlapping kisses, fitted closely together . . . as he begins the fitting at her throat, and works his way steadily down her body . . .

From the strength of Brandon's embrace as he carried her to their bed, and from the rain of kisses upon her face and throat and shoulders, Mary Anne had quite expected to be swept away in a flood of his passion, drowned in a thunderstorm of it. But Brandon settles her gently into the nest of pillows piled upon the bed . . . so gently . . . and pauses for a moment, looking down at her. For a beginning, he loves her with his eyes alone.

And she returns that form of love, frankly gazing back at him with an ardent innocence that wrings his heart. Longing and trust written plainly upon her face . . .

The room glows with light. Candle and lamp, moon and star, and the crackling firelight--and Mary Anne thinks that she has never seen anything so beautiful to her as Brandon as he sits at the edge of the bed, gazing down at her. His gleaming skin . . . his amber eyes . . . his hair, in all its mix of colours, now shining golden red . . . a man of gold, there above her . . .

Brandon sweeps the room with a gesture, and softly asks, "Would you like for me to put out the lights?"

"No." Mary Anne raises one hand, touches the shadows at the hollow of Brandon's throat, then passes her fingers along the slope of his shoulder and down his chest. Brandon's eyes close as she murmurs, "Leave the lights. I want to . . . see you."

"And so you shall," he answers, smiling, as he opens his eyes again. Those lover's eyes, golden as the firelight itself, holding her there as strongly as his arms. "I had hoped you would say that, because I wish to see you as well . . ."

Loving her with his eyes. And then with his hands, caressing her, embarking upon a slow exploration of her body, as Mary Anne sighs and relaxes into her pillows . . .

The Highwayman's other gloved hand moved to mirror the first, holding fast to her other shoulder. Then both hands moving in to grasp her long neck, thumbs resting at the dip in her collar bone. Vulnerable, her heart quickened, and the hands moved down to feel the heartbeat.

"You're making this very difficult for me..." she breathed, "I might just have to…."

"It wouldn't be our first time," said the Highwayman, and suddenly his hands had grabbed her arms and pulled her to him, so his sliver buckle dug into her stomach. She gasped out loud.

Ed chuckled watching her dab the glowing skin at her neck with a napkin and slapped her behind. "I'll be right back, keep it warm for me."

"I'm going into the gardens, come and find me when they're settled." She whirled away and out of the double doors before she changed her mind and followed him upstairs.

It was dark, but not pitch black, the glow of lights from the house, lit an enchanted path that she followed, until she reached a part of the garden that seemed oddly familiar. She didn't remember spending too much time exploring the gardens on her last visit, for the Delaford picnic, a year ago. There in front of her was the summerhouse, the gazebo and she felt herself move up the steps as if reliving a dream. She had been here before, but when?

She lent on the railing and looked out over the gardens. It was beautiful, even on a cool winter's evening. She sighed, shivered, and rubbed her shoulders. She was cooling down and beginning to feel the chill in the air. Suddenly there was a gloved finger, tracing her jawline, caressing her neck, and resting firmly on her shoulder. The hand, insistent, turned her to face its owner.

Jumping down from her perch -- if truth be told, in order to get a better view of the, er, proceedings -- Zelda gasped, then slapped her hand to her brow as she viewed the spectacle before her.

"oooOOOooooo my, My, MY . . . Oh heavens . . . Whoo hoo . . . she whispered, exhaling her chilly breath into the room. "That's one way to use ice cream!"

Suddenly, Zelda felt a hand grab her arm and pull her away from her vantage point, leaving the couple to their privacy.

"Are you well, my dear?" he asked her, leaning down over her shoulder.

"Quite well," she responded and turned to face him, her arms linking behind his neck.

Gazing down at her, Dev could read clearly the naked hunger in her eyes, and taking her hand...led her away from the staircase leading to their chambers and toward the dance floor!?

"Dearest," Therese began, "that's not precisely what I had in mind..."

Eamon touched a finger to her lips lightly, "Shhh, trust me," he told her, his voice soft and deep. "We've all night, you know..."

Stepping from her side, Dev approached the band leader, and Therese could see them share a brief exchange, before he quickly returned to her side. "Care to dance?"

The band began to play as he spoke, a slow, musical piece, suggestive and bluesy.

"Good show, Dev!" Ed called from beside them, "belly rubbing music..." he said with a low growl, before taking Claudia by the hand and pulling her to his body. "Dance with me, woman," he rumbled.

Therese felt Eamon's arms grasp her about the waist and draw her gently against his body. Her senses were heightened by his proximity and her need, and she could smell his cologne, feel the friction of the cloth jacket he wore where it made contact with her silk dress. His hands rested lightly on her hips, and she could feel his touch, warm and inviting, through the thin material.

Therese snuggled into him more closely--if that were indeed truly possible--and rested her head on the shelf of his collarbone, that place on him that seemed to have been created specifically for her. A small sigh escaped her as she felt his lips plant a soft kiss on her head, his breath feathery warm in her hair. "You're an awful tease, you know."

"You'd really rather leave?"

"Yes, oh please?"

Eamon gazed down at her and once again felt what it was like to drown in those huge dark eyes that regarded him with such love and passion. "As you wish, darling." He spoke directly into her ear, nipping at it lightly before he straightened.

Her gasp was inaudible to those around them, but he heard it, and felt too the tremor that shook her body, and left her clinging to him. Taking her hand, he led her from the dance floor and toward the staircase. "Didn't even make it through the first song, eh?" Ed called to the couple as they left the floor, but there was no response.

"You make it sound as if we will," Claudia smiled up at him, her stunning blue eyes darkened with desire.

Dev lead Therese to his room, where he shut the door behind them, sliding the lock into place. Normally she would have paused to take in the oppulance of her surroundings, the muted shades of blue and the fine woodwork with which the room was crafted, but presently her thought was Eamon, and Eamon alone. Pushing him backwards to the edge of the bed, Therese threw herself into his arms, causing him to land on his back, her body on top of his.

"Must have been the dance," he murmered, his voice raspy with desire. "However," he added, sliding an arm around Therese's waist, he shifted their positions, sliding her to the bed beside him and laying a leg over her own to keep her there.

When he completes his search, Hamlet steps toward the door. He finds that Andrea has closed it and is standing with her back against it. He is about to voice some joke concerning her fear of spiders when he notices her eyes. They are not afraid, but hungry, and staring at him.

Hamlet recalls past occasions on which he has kissed Andrea. She has always looked away and offered her cheek to him. Now, he watches her face tilt up to him as he steps closer.

Afraid that he may break the spell if he moves too quickly, Hamlet keeps his hands at his sides as he kisses her parted lips lightly. He sees her eyes flutter shut. He lifts his head away, and her eyes fly open to beg him for more.

It occurs to Hamlet that he may be taking advantage of her uninhibited state. She did have a good deal to drink at the wedding reception. He reaches past her for the doorknob. Moving to block his exit, she continues to gaze pleadingly into his eyes. He cannot ignore her desire. He kisses her again.

Having removed her veil, Mary Anne decides the next logical step--if logic can have any possible meaning at such a time as this--is to take down her hair and brush it out. However, as she listens to the various small . . . sounds . . . from the direction of Brandon's dressing room, her nervousness returns in full force, and as she picks up her heavy flat-backed hairbrush, her hand is shaking so badly that she would probably knock herself unconscious with it if she tried to brush her hair.

Perhaps her gown, then . . . Mary Anne rises from her seat in front of the mirror and attempts to reach around to the back of her gown and undo the pearl buttons . . . but the task proves unexpectedly difficult. Something she had not thought about before. Renie had helped her into the gown this morning, but that multitude of pearl buttons, slipped into their tiny loops of silk, would be difficult to unfasten without assistance.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Mary Anne glowers at herself in the mirror, for despite her best efforts, she has only been able to unfasten a few of the buttons at the back of her gown. Christopher will be back in here any minute, and I can't even--

"Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne whirls . . .

Brandon is standing in her doorway, regarding her with curiosity and . . . well, yes, with a touch of amusement at the fleeting look of surprise on her face, for she had expected . . .

Brandon moves toward her. He has changed into the dressing gown she remembers from the Manor House at Egdon, the night she had awakened him from his bad dream: that robe of deep smoky amber, rich and velvety . . . even Hans Gruber, with his dressing gown of black silk, might well envy Colonel Brandon's possession of that elegant robe. Simplicity and quality: the marks of Brandon's impeccable taste.

"Is there a problem, my dearest?"

Mary Anne allows herself to breathe again--almost normally. She had, for a moment, been ready with an excuse that she had remained in her clothes because she wanted to give Brandon the pleasure of undressing her, but at that light of amusement in his eyes, the truth comes out. "I can't reach my buttons!"

"Allow me," says Brandon, softly, and turns her around.

Mary Anne is trembling in good earnest now, as her beloved Colonel slips each pearl button from its loop of silk, slowly opening the back of her gown . . .

. . . and begins a line of kisses down her back . . . one for each button . . .

"Christopher . . . "

"Shhhhhhhh."

The gown slithers to the floor in a hssssssh of silk, and Mary Anne steps clear of it. Brandon gathers up the gown and spreads it neatly across the foot of her bed, then turns back toward her.

His wife. His, at last. There before him in the strapless chemise of semi-transparent linen batiste that she had been wearing beneath her gown . . . her silk stockings and beaded wedding slippers . . . adorned with her ornaments of amethyst and pearl, and her hair still caught up in its pearl-tipped pins . . . that curl lying loose against the porcelain skin of her throat . . .

Wordlessly, his breath caught in his throat, his eyes dimmed with tears at the sight of his beautiful wife--the fulfillment of all his hopes before him--Brandon crosses to Mary Anne, bringing her the violet robe and draping it about her shoulders.

He seats her before her mirror, and she watches their reflections in the glass as he slowly . . . lingeringly . . . draws the pins from her hair, one by one, dropping each into the porcelain box there on the table, then lifts the brush and begins to draw it through her hair in long strokes, smoothing the curls and waves until they lie shining about her shoulders, yet leaving that one curl intact, until he bends and presses his lips to it . . . and then to her throat, relentlessly and inexorably seeking out those most sensitive, tender zones that melt and madden her as he bites gently at them, kissing her over and over . . .

The brush drops to the floor.

Mary Anne's lace robe quickly follows. And, kneeling before her, Brandon removes her slippers, and then . . .

Mary Anne's eyes close, and she bites her lips. The touch of Brandon's warm fingers against her legs, drawing down her silk stockings . . . the touch of his lips. Kisses on her feet, and ankles, and . . . "I adore you," he whispers.

Mary Anne rises from the bench and pulls Brandon to his feet, to face her. "Love me," she pleads, stretching up to kiss Brandon, and he responds hungrily, returning her kisses until they are both flushed and breathing hard. "I adore you, too, Christopher, and we've waited so long. Please love me . . ."

The drift of her chemise, settling on the floor across the lacy robe. Mary Anne slips her hands into Brandon's dressing gown, raking her nails lightly across the skin of his chest until he groans aloud, and moves her hands to the belt of his robe, which falls to the floor to join those articles of Mary Anne's that have already taken up residence there.

A dream. A dizzying, intoxicating dream, "too flattering-sweet to be substantial." But never in dreams of Brandon--and she has enjoyed many--has Mary Anne felt anything to compare with what is taking place between them now. Brandon's skin. The texture of it against her fingers--not soft like her own, yet not as she would have expected in a man. Not rough, simply firmer, and so warm; she had always known that Brandon's body temperature must be slightly higher than normal. His embrace is always so comforting and warm . . . and now, his skin is like a furnace . . . that radiant heat against her flesh, as he lifts her off of her feet and carries her to his bed.

To their bed.

Mary Anne opens her eyes.

Slowly, they adjust to the light . . . the glow of candles, and the shine of lamps, and the flickering of a beautiful fire, for which Mary Anne is grateful. Warm as the days have been, the nights are cold.

Brandon says nothing for the moment, simply stands by and enjoys Mary Anne's obvious pleasure in her surroundings. And she is very pleased. She had seen Brandon's rooms only once before, as she had acquainted herself with the house at the time of the Delaford picnic, and at that time these rooms had been pervaded by the same air of sombre reserve, if not actual gloom, that she had noticed throughout the estate--as if this room were the actual centre from which flowed all those lingering effects of grief. It had been a heavy-hearted chamber, then, with dark velvet draperies closed against the light, a room of little colour and less ornamentation. But now . . .

Mary Anne gazes about the room, and her beauty-loving eyes take note of the simple but elegant furniture in those dark, expensive woods so favoured by the master of Delaford: cherrywood and mahogany, with a few pieces as well in lighter and more exotic woods--gathered, perhaps, during his military travels. Acacia and teak and scented cedar. Heavy drapes, yes, but in a subtly-figured green rather than the former dark brown, and opened to the sky, which is shining upon them with golden moonlight and glittering stars.

"So," smiles Mary Anne, "I take it that this is the secret lair of The Highwayman?"

Brandon grins, offering her a little half-bow. "Indeed, Lady, and all of its . . . comforts . . . are at your service." The smile widens, but Brandon's jesting voice and expression are quite at odds with the smoulder of his eyes as he gazes down at her in her deep, soft armchair. "And you had best enjoy those comforts--" Theatrical, here. "--for you are my prisoner, trapped beyond all hope of escape!"

"What makes you think I want to escape?" Softly.

The Colonel abandons his theatrics, then, and seats himself on the footstool before the chair. "You like it, then?" A sweeping gesture that takes in the room.

"Yes. It's beautiful, Christopher. You have such taste . . ." Inevitably, Mary Anne's eyes wander toward the bed, a massive four-poster with hangings of dark emerald, and she gives a soft laugh, which does not escape Brandon.

"What is it, my dearest?"

Mary Anne nods toward the bed. "I was thinking of Solomon," she chuckles. "Our bed is green . . ."

"And pleasant," promptly counter-quotes Brandon. "At least," he adds softly, "I hope it shall be . . ."

Mary Anne expects, then, that he will carry her to that bed immediately, but Brandon, unknown to her, is silently blessing his long habit of self-control, cultivated through these many months past when he had thought that he would run mad if he could not fulfill his desires toward Mary Anne. Yet he had found he could control himself, as he does now . . . and he means this night to be perfect for her. She shall not, if he can help it, be frightened or hurt.

Taking Mary Anne's hand, Brandon helps her out of her chair and leads her across the room--not to the bed, but to a small door, which he opens and gestures her through. "This," he says, "is another of my gifts to you. I hope you will like it."

Mary Anne pauses in the doorway . . . for it is another chamber, adjoining Brandon's own, but this one has obviously been fitted out to appeal to the tastes of a woman. Without being at all frivolous or ostentatious, it is a perfect little jewel-box of a room with its cream-papered walls and gilt-tipped ornamental moldings and shimmering colours . . . her colours, Mary Anne realizes with astonished pleasure, her favourite shades of deep blue-green and violet and soft rose and clear blue, all carefully arranged to blend and not to clash.

And her possessions have been moved into the room . . . so this she thinks, is why Christopher was so secretive, when he told the servants to move my belongings to his rooms! He had this prepared for me . . .

"Before you ask," Brandon says softly, "I do not mean for us to keep . . . separate rooms." He glances at the bed in this room, with its blue satin quilt, at which Mary Anne blushes a little. "Unless, of course, that is your wish . . ."

"Oh, no," Mary Anne replies hastily. "No! I would . . . want to be with you, of course."

Brandon rests his arm about her shoulders. "But I had thought . . . you would need a place that is your very own. You are my wife, but you are still yourself. Here you can be alone and quiet, if necessary. Some privacy." A smile. "And if the door is shut, I shall knock, of course, before I come in."

Mary Anne is still adjusting to this lovely and thoughtful gift. Brandon is so careful of her. So considerate. The dressing table, there, with her scent-bottles on it, and a porcelain box for her hairpins . . . Mary Anne grins at the sight of her hairbrush, thinking back to how Renie had tried to swat her with it this morning.

The handsome armoire, opened to show her gowns carefully arranged within . . .

And there, draped across the foot of the bed . . .

That must be another gift from the Colonel, for Mary Anne has never seen it before: a long dressing robe. Lace. In a changeable shade of soft violet-gray that will glow like a pearl and appear to be different colours in different lights . . .

That arm about her. That hand, caressing her throat where it joins her shoulder . . .

"Christopher," she sighs, leaning against him. "This is so beautiful. And thoughtful. Thank you. You are so sweet to me." A soft little laugh. "I'm going to spoilt rotten, by the time you're finished!"

Brandon laughs as well. "No one could ever spoil you, my dearest--but I shall certainly enjoy trying."

A silence falls, and Mary Anne waits.

Trembling.

Brandon clears his throat, and steps slightly away from her. "Mary Anne. Why do you not . . . make yourself comfortable, and . . . "

He's nervous, too, thinks Mary Anne fondly, and the thought restores her confidence--a little--and helps her bring her trembling under control.

Brandon continues. " . . . I must just step into my dressing room for a few moments. " He turns away.

"You will not stay away long?"

Brandon turns and smiles, with a gleam in his eyes, before he passes through the doorway and crosses his chambers into his dressing room.

Mary Anne seats herself at the dressing table in her room--this beautiful room, just for her--and waits.

A little while later, the muffled thunk of a boot against the floor.

Then the other.

Mary Anne gazes at herself in the mirror. It is as if she has never seen herself before. That pale face, framed in the mists of the bridal veil. Her wide blue eyes, shining with expectation. The tender curve of her lips . . .

With a deep sigh, Mary Anne unfastens her veil . . .

A half-hour later, Achilles is snoring up a storm from his place on the couch. Trailer windows rattle intermittently and the noise forces Sinclair, David, and the Director outside in search of some peace and quiet.

Since dusk has arrived and the sets are quiet as most cast members have headed home for the evening, the trio decides to call it a day as well. And it *had* been quite a day.

With wishes to each other for a good evening, they parted ways knowing full well that the still of the evening would not last, for, come the following morning, filming would resume and the chaotic events that seemed to pervade the set at times, would, without a doubt, return.

Shaking his head at the sudden interruption by PL the PI, Sinclair bent down to help the Director to his feet. After a few ‘oomphs’ and ‘umphs’, he was standing once again. He dusted himself off and then gave the pile of clothes a good, Director-ish glare followed by a swift kick.

“No!” exclaimed David as he jumped from the couch in an attempt to stop the Director from kicking the pile again. “Achilles is under there.”

The Director threw his hands into the air in exasperation and muttered, “I should’ve known.” He turned towards Sinclair. “What is he doing under there anyway?”

Sinclair laughed. “I wish I knew.” As he bent down to continue disentangling Achilles, the door to the trailer opened *again*.

Without even looking to see who it is, the trio yelled in unison, “DON’T ASK!” as they tossed aside hangers, Issey Miyake shirts, and Nicole Fahri trousers while struggling to aid Achilles up and on to his feet again.

Discouraged by the resounding chorus, the visitor retreated and slammed the door shut. Working feverishly, the trio paid the slamming door no attention.

“I saw one of the bottles hit him on the head,” said David suggestively while they worked. He tugged at Achilles’ arm and gave the Director a knowing look. “I imagine he had the wind kicked out of him when you landed on him.”

The Director gave David a solemn look and asked in a slow and deliberate fashion, “Who .. asked .. *you*?” The question combined with the look achieved the desired result .. and David was effectively silenced.

By this time, Achilles had made it to his feet but was having trouble staying that way .. a combined result of the champagne-bottle-blow-to-his-head, getting-crushed-by-the-director, and the subsequent directorial-kick-in-the-side. He felt woozy. His knees buckled.

“Let’s put him on the couch,” offered Sinclair as he struggled to keep Achilles from falling to the floor. With a bit of effort, the trio managed to lift Achilles and, carrying him across the room, heaved him onto the couch. His eyes fluttered briefly. The images he saw were fuzzy. He had two bumps on his head (one from the flying script and the other from the champagne bottle) and his ribs hurt to boot. What a miserable day, he thought as he watched the images peering down at him while they conferred amongst themselves.

“Let’s get him some aspirin,” offered the Director. No one moved. The Director turned to face David and gave him another *look*. “Doctor David?” he queried in a sarcastic tone. Stirred into action, David ventured over to the medicine cabinet and, after fishing around for a moment or two, removed a small bottle.

“He’ll need something to wash it down with,” said David as he approached the couch.

Sinclair looked around the trailer. What did he have to wash it down with? Oh yes! The champagne! Thank goodness the Director had brought it with him. However, thought Sinclair wryly, if the Director hadn’t brought the champagne in the first place, he wouldn’t have *tripped* over Achilles, *crushed* the air out of him, *dropped* the bottle on his head, and then *kicked* him (albeit unknowingly) in the side. Sinclair shook his head. A classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Here we go!” he said enthusiastically as he spied a nearby bottle. He lifted it and effortlessly popped the top. “Give him the aspirin.”

David pried open Achilles’ mouth and placed two of the aspirin on Achilles’ tongue while Sinclair poured some of the champagne into a nearby cup. He motioned in David’s direction. “Maybe you should give him a few more,” suggested Sinclair innocently. “After all, he *is* pretty beat up.”

“You’re right,” said David as he obligingly placed a few more of the small tablets on Achilles’ tongue.

At that very moment, the trailer door opens again. This time, it is PL's curious face that appears. His gaze immediately lights on the Director .. who is stretched out prone on top of Sinclair's wardrobe (very nearly all of it too!) in the middle of the floor.

David and Sinclair raise their hands in unison and halt his query .. in stereo surround sound. "Don't ask!"

PL shrugs. "Okay, I won't." He is slightly breathless. "Anyway, I'm looking for a dark-haired Irishman."

"Why?!" asks David.

PL shrugs again. "No reason."

They all can sense that he is lying to them. He had obviously been chasing around ever since the last scene was shot.

"Just let me know if you see one wandering around," announces PL authoritatively. David and Sinclair look at him blankly. "Will you?" he asks in a demanding tone.

A sigh. "Sure," answers Sinclair.

An arm obtrudes from the pile of clothes on the floor and waves for help.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” mutters Sinclair as he rises from his seat and starts to disentangle the Issey-Miyake-entwined Achilles. However, before he can finish, the door to the trailer opens and the Director enters bearing bottles of champagne and leftover food from the reception. Sinclair grimaces at the food .. recalling how Claire had berated him for nibbling at it earlier in the day.

“Why the long face, Bryant?” asks the Director. “Usually the sight of food cheers you up as much as the thought of roasting my critics over a burning pit does me.” He smiles satisfactorily at the very idea. A devilish tone. “The Interrogator has generously offered me the use of his skewers should such an occasion arise.”

Sinclair grins. He then proceeds to tell the Director what Claire had said about the food.

Just then there is a loud knock at the trailer door.

“Who’s there?” yells Achilles in a muffled tone as he continues his inventory of Sinclair’s closet .. from *inside* the closet.

The door opens and David enters.

“Weinberg!” exclaims Sinclair. All of this recent company is helping to lift his spirits.

“Bryant!” exclaims David in a mocking tone. Sinclair moves over on the couch and motions for David to sit. David plops himself down next to Sinclair. “I’ve heard they wrapped the wedding celebration.”

“Really?” asks Sinclair in amazement.

“Yes,” answers David. “And it’s a good thing too. If I had to rehearse those David-Alexis-on-the-island scenes one more time, I’d have shot myself.”

“Mmm ..,” answers Sinclair thoughtfully as he realizes he hasn’t learned all of his dialogue. He’d have to bone up on it this weekend. Just then, George races past the trailer window with a frantic look on his face – his black cape billowing theatrically behind him. And following in hot pursuit is the extra with the bright pink skirt and brillo-pad hair. Zelda. A look of alarm crosses Sinclair’s face. But quickly vanishes when he realizes that this is not the first time George has attempted to accost an extra. Good for Zelda. She’d give him what-for!

His reverie is interrupted by rustling noises coming from the inner confines of the closet. David looks in the direction of the noises with a quizzical expression .. when suddenly there is a loud sneeze, followed by an expletive, and a pile of hangers, suits, and shirts explodes from the closet and lands in the middle of the floor.

As Sinclair opens his mouth to answer, Achilles springs from his chair and darts towards the closet – the door had been left askew and prominently displayed Sinclair’s vast and well-made wardrobe. Achilles had never seen so many articles of clothing in one place. In his mind's eye, the over-sized closet could double for a department store .. one the size of Selfridges or Saks Santorini.

“Got enough white shirts in here?” asks Achilles as he thumbs through the various hangers without asking for permission. He is intrigued by the drape of the jackets, the colors of the trousers, the expensive fabrics.

Sinclair smiles proudly.

“Issey Miyake?” queries Achilles as he jealously continues to peruse the hanging attire. “Who is Issey Miyake?”

“One of my favorite designers,” answers Sinclair. Then he smirks. “I don’t imagine he’s well-known in Athens.”

Achilles lets out a quick disdainful *snort* at Sinclair's cutting remark. “Yes, well .. after all the money spent on your fashions, Bryant, there *was* no budget left for me.” He turns to face Sinclair as he points emphatically at his shirt. “Apollo Apparel,” he says with a raised voice. “That’s what *I* got stuck with. Apollo Apparel!” He snorts again. “Meanwhile, *you* are walking around in Issey Moussaka.”

“Miyake,” corrects Sinclair.

Achilles waves his hand dismissively. “Whatever.” He turns and continues to fish through the closet. He draws out a hanger. It holds a large bath towel.

“What is this?” he asks inquisitively.

Sinclair smiles. “That’s for all of my post-shower scenes. I was wearing it at the hotel in New York. Remember?”

Achilles looks thoughtful. “It’s rather *large*, don’t you think?”

Sinclair reddens and runs a hand through his hair, searching for a well-put explanation. “Well ..,” he says and glances at his lap.

Suddenly, the door to the trailer is thrown open and a mysterious figure appears. The unexpected commotion causes Sinclair to emerge from his self-induced, closed-eye misery. Without waiting for permission, the figure enters the trailer as Sinclair peers in the direction of the doorway. The figure is backlit and Sinclair can not make out who exactly it is.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” yells the figure as it brandishes the script-that-had-sailed-out-of-the-window and waves it about.

As the figure steps further inside the trailer, Sinclair realizes it is the cast-member-best-known-for-his-temperamental-states .. Achilles.

“What are you trying to do, Bryant? Kill me?” yells Achilles as he throws Sinclair’s script onto the nearest table.

Sinclair blinks. Speechless. “No .. I .. I .. “

Achilles thumps himself down onto the nearest chair. “You hit me in the head with that thing!”

Sinclair blinks again. He starts to apologize but Achilles will have none of it.

Waving his hand in Sinclair’s direction, he says “Oh, save it Bryant. You didn’t know I was outside.” He sighed as he rubbed his head. “I imagine this bump will go away ... “ he narrowed his eyes at Sinclair. His ominous tone is accompanied by a famous, disdainful, raised eyebrow. “Evennn-tually.”

Sinclair gives a wan smile and is relieved he doesn’t have to explain the script-through-the-window. He is also relieved that he no longer has to venture outside to retrieve it.

Slowly, MA. "Slowly and carefully . . ."

Can anyone tell that my hands are shaking?!

She curls herself more closely into those strong arms, her other senses heightened still further with the deprivation of sight. Those fading noises, now replaced by other sounds . . . the tread of Brandon's booted feet through the corridors, and the shhhh of his cloak and her white silks, and his breathing, and her pounding heart . . .

Strong. So very strong that it might have frightened her, once--Mary Anne knows well the power of the arms that hold her, the frame of the man who carries her easily through these corridors without pausing to rest, and the prospect of surrender to that strength . . . she trembles, yet presses herself closer and lifts her arms to wind them about Brandon's neck.

Yes. There. As her hands slip across the white silk of the shirt beneath the cloak, and briefly encounter the silver chain clasping that cloak, and . . . ah, now, the warmth of Brandon's skin as her seeking fingers find his throat, pause briefly at the sensation of his madly-hammering pulse, then pass across his collarbones, reveling in the texture of his skin beneath her unnaturally sensitized fingertips.

She can see nothing, but can feel everything.

Simply everything.

And Brandon must be feeling something as well, for with a low exclamation at the touch of those slim white fingers against his throat, and then his chest, he turns Mary Anne in his arms, lifts her higher, and pauses long enough to kiss her with a force that makes her head drop back against his arm, that opens her lips against his and threatens to send her consciousness reeling off into a blackness even blacker than the silk that binds her eyes . . .

Finally, Brandon breaks the kiss, collects himself, and proceeds on his way.

Coolness. Echoes. The long gallery, this must be--family portraits. Mary Anne can sense, by the quality of sound, the high-ceiling vastness. No fires here, either, to warm the air. But that passes quickly, as they move through the gallery, away from the side of the estate that houses the guest rooms, to the side where Brandon's own chambers are located.

Mary Anne knows the house quite well, has a fairly good idea even in her blindfolded confusion of where they are, and smiles to herself, for she has not heard any sound of human habitation since they left the ballroom: no startled exclamation, for instance, from a passing servant as they witness the incredible spectacle of their master in the costume of a bandit, carrying his bride away in his arms. Either, reflects Mary Anne, Christopher has warned the servants away from here until he sends for them, or else they have incredible self-control. More than either of us will be likely to have . . .

A pause. Mary Anne feels herself shifted about in Brandon's arms.

The click of a door--passing through it--the door closing.

The scrape of a key in the lock.

Mary Anne feels herself slowly lowered--not onto a bed by the feel of it, but into a soft, deep chair, and then the feel of Brandon's fingers loosening the knot of the thickly-wrapped blindfold.

"Shut your eyes, my dearest."

Mary Anne obeys, for even through the folds of silk she can sense the light in the room and knows it will be better if her eyes are allowed to adjust to it gradually.

The brush of the silk--and Brandon's fingertips--against her face, as the blindfold is drawn away.

Slowly, Mary Anne opens her eyes . . .

Now, there is only one way to follow this act. And with one glance at Brandon's face, Mary Anne knows--immediately--that the Colonel can wait no longer. He is a patient man, but now is the time.

The hour is upon her at last.

Quickly, with a little tremor of apprehension that Brandon might just whisk her away, Mary Anne turns toward Renie and Hans.

One more hug! Just one. For, ah . . . moral support. Hans' whisper at her ear, then, a repetition of his earlier "Good luck." Goot luck. Indeed. As if she needed it--for she feels, and many would probably agree, as if she is the luckiest woman on earth . . .

Then Renie . . .

Mary Anne, concerned. "Don't you feel well, Renie? You've been looking a little pale today."

A broad grin from Renie. "No, dearest. I'm fine." A long squeeeeeeeze of a hug. "And you'll be fine too!"

"Renie . . . " Mary Anne's voice drops to a whisper. So much to say, and so little time! "Thank you, dearest . . ." she manages to choke out. "For everything. Always."

"All ways," replies Renie, her eyes bright and swimming with tears, but she is smiling as brightly as ever. A wonderful and joyous smile.

"You've been such a good friend to me. In case you didn't know, I really love you very much!"

A snorfle of laughter from Renie. "Really? I had no idea!" Patting Mary Anne's back in a final exchange of hugs. "I love you, too, you know. And don't talk like that, about us having been friends--"

"Well, we have been!"

"And still will be." Renie glances up at Brandon, who has moved near and is waiting--well, not patiently, but tolerantly at least.

Mischievous grin from Renie. "Do you think I'd miss hearing about your wedding night?" Before Mary Anne can reply, Renie releases her from the hug and turns her toward Brandon. "Go along, dearest." Sparkle of affection. As if a star danced, and under that, Renie was born. "You do not keep The Highwayman waiting!"

And Mary Anne does not, but turns toward her husband . . .

. . . who smiles his thanks to Renie and Hans, and lifts a hand to quiet the noises still resounding through the ballroom.

"Ladies and gentlemen," says Colonel Brandon, "stay and enjoy yourselves at the party, by all means. I have instructed the staff to keep food on hand and the musicians to play for as long as you wish. However . . ." Dramatic pause. " . . . though my wife and I are honoured by your attendance at this happy occasion . . ."

Brandon grasps the edge of his cloak and gives it a theatrical flourish, as he declares in ringing tones, "We must away!"

Applause. Followed by a few smothered gasps, then shouts of delight, as Brandon reaches into his cloak . . .

Mary Anne has offered no resistance, and so it will not be necessary for The Highwayman to bind her hands. But the scenario would be incomplete without . . .

. . . the blindfold.

Brandon draws a length of black silk from the depths of his cloak and steps toward Mary Anne, holding up the silk, silently asking her permission with his eyes . . . as she gives it with hers.

Brandon turns her on the steps, and lifts the silk . . .

Mary Anne looks at Renie. Looks into the face of her dearest friend in the Realm, before the silk is drawn over her eyes and she begins a whole new life . . .

She will remember it always: the sounds in the ballroom, the laughter, the cheers . . . and there, at the foot of the staircase, Renie and Hans. Hans stands with his arm draped about Renie's shoulders, looking down at her as if he cannot bear to turn his eyes away for more than a few seconds . . . his expression, mingled concern and joy and pride, with a touch of uncertainty.

And Renie. Leaning against Hans, her head on his shoulder, one slim arm drawn across the front of her body, her hand resting at her waist. Slightly pale, still. But smiling. Gazing up at Mary Anne, and lifting her other hand in a wave--a slight wiggle of her fingers.

So much that Renie might say, now--except that no words are adequate.

Or necessary.

The smile says it all, and that smile is the last thing Mary Anne sees as Brandon gently and lovingly winds the silk about her eyes, and knots the blindfold . . .

Sweeping the cloak about them both, Colonel Christopher Brandon gathers Mary Anne into his arms and lifts her up . . .

Quietly, then, he bids his guests "Good night," and, leaving behind near-pandemonium in the ballroom, he turns and disappears up the stairs, carrying Mary Anne away in his arms.

And now, to ascend again . . .

The ballroom is hushed quiet.

Mary Anne stands watching as the man before her descends the last few steps, drawing nearer and nearer.

As you will doubtless recall, readers, Mary Anne is possessed of unnaturally acute senses for a human woman, on account of The Doctor's repairs to her radiation-damaged body. Skin sensitivity, for example, and hearing, both of them half again as high as earth normal.

Which is why, as The Highwayman takes those last few steps, Mary Anne can hear . . . everything. Or perhaps she only imagines she can hear these things: the sweep of that cloak, and the low ssss of the cloak as it rustles against that silk shirt, and the shirt itself as it brushes against the skin beneath . . .

The drawn-out hsssssshhhhh as his black-gloved hand passes along the stair rail, black leather against brilliantly-polished wood . . .

The clnnk of sword and pistol . . .

Mary Anne is convinced she can even hear his heart beating. She is certain that she can hear her own, as he draws near . . .

"My sweet lady. I have long admired you. Are you truly mine at last?" Pause. "For I am yours."

Mary Anne has only to think on her senses, wrought to this pitch of intensity . . . has only to think of the caresses that will this night be lavished upon her sensitive skin . . . Don't faint, don't you DARE faint!

"And so, sir, may I know the man who has taken my heart, but left me unharmed?"

"Lady--" That suppressed laughter. "You know me well already." Teasing.

"Nay, I know thy soul but not thy face."

The Highwayman considers--just long enough to bring the guests to the verge of leaping up and down with impatience. "Lady, you may--if you promise to love me as well as you do now. Do you promise?"

Mary Anne shivers. A bit. "I do."

"And do you vow to stay with me, whatever my fortunes--good or ill?"

"I do."

"Then--" Into the sudden and utter silence. "--you may know me now."

With trembling fingers, Mary Anne reaches for the cord of the mask.

Everyone leans forward.

Looey's eyes narrow, and her hand tightens on the dart pistol.

Mary Anne pulls the cord . . .

And the mask falls away, to reveal . . .

. . . Colonel Brandon, and first a great sigh passes through the ballroom, then a gradually rising tide of applause and shouted approval, in which the Lieutenant's long breath of relief passes unheard, as she secures her pistol in the holster, then joins in the applause.

The assembly is absorbed in the romantic drama being played out before their eyes, though they demonstrate their absorption in many different ways.

Dev and Therese, for instance--watching quietly, their own happiness radiating from them, their faces lighted with smiles . . .

Andrea, offering up her best hopes and prayers for the happiness of Brandon and Mary Anne, her generous heart--despite its own troubles--wishing them well . . .

Giles and Emilie, standing apart, not so very far from each other, an occasional constrained glance between them before they turn their eyes once more to the staircase . . . someday, perhaps . . .

The senior Herr Gruber--who acknowledges that yes, Colonel Brandon has chosen a beautiful woman . . . but Anton Gruber's attention wanders from Mary Anne, again and again, to focus on Renie. Her smile. The smile of a well-loved woman, no doubt of that, but something else . . . a visible gladness, shedding light about her like a carefully-tended fire . . .

The dark-honey eyes of the senior Gruber watch carefully as Hans stands protectively close to Renie, his arm about her shoulders, and Renie . . . lifting her hand . . . that fleeting downward glance and quick gesture, a hand at her waist . . .

Anton Gruber smiles. Zo. His guess will be easy enough to confirm, later . . .

Diggory and Tamsie. Diggory, of course, is approvingly enthusiastic about the scenario before him, warmed as he is by recent memories of how he and Thomasin had played the parts of The Highwayman and The Lady in this year's production, to great effect and success.

Mary Anne's completely unconvincing delivery of the line that she would resist had naturally prompted a round of laughter, but Diggory's roar had been clearly audible above them all, and remembering the wholehearted audience participation during Brandon and Mary Anne's hour upon the stage, Diggory calls out, "What, Lady, where's thy reserve?"

Even the shy Thomasin makes bold to declare, "She cannot fight her fate!" before the return of her natural bashfulness makes her hide her face against Diggory's shoulder for a moment.

And there is no holding Ed. No, sir. No way. Only this time, he does not cry out, "Scoundrel!" No. Instead, he shouts, "Go, Brandon!"

As might be expected, Claudia bumps him in the ribs with her elbow--but gently, nostalgically. An affectionate nudge. As she wonders--not for the first time--how Ed would look in that sweeping black cloak. Or, for that matter, how she would look in it.

And, moving slowly and casually through the crowd . . . the Lieutenant.

Her movements--casual. Everyone is far too taken up with the scene upon the staircase to pay her the least attention. As she drifts along, silent as a shadow . . .

That report, a short time ago. A terrified kitchen girl had gone to the housekeeper with a story about some masked intruder she had seen leaving the house by way of the side door in the kitchens. Looey had happened to be passing by . . .

The imposing Miss MacLeod had been inclined to dismiss the girl's tale. "A seely lass, that," she had huffed, saying that she was only giving the girl a trial in the kitchens because the family had fallen on hard times and needed the money.

But Looey, cold with an awful suspicion about who the intruder might be, and gone in search of Commander Hudson--and when Hudson was not to be immediately found, she had headed to the ballroom . . .

. . .there, upon the stairs . . .

With the utmost nonchalance, Looey edges closer and closer to the staircase. The tumult in the hall creates the perfect distraction, and covers the quiet click as Looey unsnaps the cover on her holster and loosens her dart pistol, ready for a quick draw, if necessary. She had been tested on the AR range at less than a quarter of a second. Pistol out of its sheath, dart fired, subject rendered unconscious . . .

The Lieutenant, attracting no undue notice, moves in close to the staircase. Very close.

A clear shot. If she needs one.

Her hand rests on the grip of the dart pistol.

All right. Past time for the unmasking. And it had better be the Colonel behind that mask . . .

As the last of the grippingly romantic lines are exchanged on the stair . . .

"Busy."

"Busy? That's an answer? You've been gone for ages without a word. People are beginning to talk. I've been quelling rumors all day about a dark haired Irishman."

"Things do get blown out of proportion don't they?"

"Is there something I ought to know, Dana? The Jacks stuff, that's just the script. It's ok. But is there someone?"

Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star your dreams come true.

"Ach." Hans assumes it is his beard, which, when in a particular position, always puts Renie into a squirming giggle.

"No--it's--" Try Renie, try. "It's not your beard--it's--it's--" Her laughter practically uncontrollable, she may just hit tears again, until she sputters "--It's the Gruber dynasty!"

Hans laughs loudly, shaking the bed, and Renie with it. But in the next second, his lips hover over hers. And she feels herself melt under his eyes, his lips, his body . . .

She would always remember Hans' voice, as she waited breathlessly, that evening at Delaford. It was delivered in a cool baritone, with merely a hint of the passion in his eyes.

"My love, is it true what they say about a pregnant woman?" He kissed her before she could answer; his mouth and tongue, on her lips, on her mouth. She answered Hans without words, desire only on her tongue. Minutes passed. Then, breathless, they looked at each other, fully, for a final time. Renie felt eternity surround them, as he whispered three last words:

"Show me more."

Egdon. Yes, the cave, that beautiful morning . . . Today, her illness in the bathroom . . . her fainting in the garden . . . the doctor . . .

Renie's eyes, the size of flying saucers. "The doctor . . . " she whispers.

" . . . has confirmed--" But Hans cannot finish, Renie has begun crying, and thrown herself at his shoulders, burying her face into his fine white shirt. His arms wrapped round her, he lets her stay for a few moments, then lifts her face to his. His voice, full of joy.

"I love you."

In his tiger eyes, she sees his happiness, his wonder. "I will always remember what you have given me, Abendstern. I will never let you forget. To bring another life into the world . . . " Slowly, Hans kisses her tears. Around her eyes. Her dark lashes. Down the smooth skin of one cheek . . . And then the other . . .

His lips and soft beard . . . there . . . on her neck and shoulders again . . . just as before . . .

Sinclair attacks the CD player’s remote control with a well-placed, index finger.

The CD changes to the next song. The third song. As the tune begins, he smiles. Aahhhh, much better. He sighs and leans back with his script, listening in anticipation for the next tune. The music begins.

You’ll remember me ..

Aargh.

The tango with Claire! Was there no end? At this point, he began to wonder if Claire knew Sting personally .. and if this album hadn’t been made for any other reason except to spite him. It was as if all the songs had been placed in strategic order to more effectively dampen his spirits.

He stood up and, in an uncharacteristic outburst of Bryant frustration, threw his script across the room. Not being especially good with his aim, he watched as the script unexpectedly sailed through the open window.

Aargh. Now he’d have to go outside to get it.

As if to mock him, just then laughter echoed through the window from the wedding reception set. Sinclair snagged the CD cover from the shelf and flung himself back onto the couch with a tortured face. He pictured his script outside in the dust next to the trailer.

He studied the song titles .. inserting his own personal commentary whenever possible.

When We Dance (don’t remind me). If You Love Somebody (and they don’t even care). Fields of Gold (a sultry Sinclair smile .. aaah, tango-ing at the reception). Englishman In New York (been there, done that). Mad About You (Mad About Claire anyway. Mad? How about Mad At Antony? ). It’s Probably Me (it’s probably Claire!). They Dance Alone (enough with the dancing already!). Fragile (how I feel right now). We’ll Be Together (hmmm .. not if Antony has any say in the matter).

Sinclair grimaced. Why had he chosen this particular CD anyway? Had he mentioned the word ‘torture’ yet? This certainly wasn’t cheering him up.

He tried to console himself. Maybe if I just close my eyes ....

Giving up, he closed his eyes as the CD continued to play.

. . . and yet, the playful scene unfolds, every moment, as it should--each line an echo of an earlier time, each sweep of Brandon's cloak, preordained, upon the steps, as he nears Mary Anne.

To the impending foregone conclusion. The Highwayman, and the proud lady. No, this white-skirted woman would not stay highborn for long. But she is fair, and he is gallant, and the spell of the play-acting, blending with the rising nocturnal excitement of the occasion, works its magic.

It touches her, as Renie watches, here among her friends. There is no reason to worry about Mary Anne, or the Colonel. Yes, there was the Interrogator. But Renie is sure that HE--whatever happens--will not harm them. Not only because Mary Anne would never mistake HIM for Brandon again--not as she had that last Christmas Eve--but because, on this miraculous day-into-night, HE had told Renie the truth, and she had known it. This was the last time Renie would see HIM, and she knew this as well. Perhaps that is why she could not bring herself to report HIM. As always, readers, you may decide for yourselves.

Sorrow begets happiness. And happiness begets yet more happiness. Such was Renie's thinking as she flashed back, over the events of her life in the Realm. Incomparable. Inconceivable. Irreplaceable.

Mary Anne, in her bridal splendor, reciting her lines . . . Yes, she has been a woman, for a long time, but it cannot be denied that Renie has felt the role of older sister often enough . . . and in their own histories, as well as in the history of the Realm, their love would thrive as finely as between any sisters truly linked by birth.

Birth.

As Renie's flashback lands in the time just before she and Hans had rejoined the party . . . as Renie can taste the liquid . . .

. . . with her mouth more full than it ought to be, as her first sip of a glass--or in this case, a cup--of champagne is never, strictly speaking a sip, but--

She would spit it out--except that she is wearing an evening gown, after all, and--

Renie swallows, hard. Not that the taste is poisonous, bad, or even offensive. It is just--quite a shock. For it is NOT champagne, but . . .

"MILK??!"

She looks into the cup. White. Creamy. And not French.

Yes, it's milk.

Renie looks at Hans. Milk. Milk is fine for tea. For cereal. For--

Then, Renie REALLY looks at her husband, her mouth opening wide. No, no--it couldn't be.

Hans is smiling, and takes the cup from her hands, as he rightly guesses that she is likely to drop it. Calmly, he notes that it's a good thing she's already lying in bed, for she might have keeled over again . . .

As Sinclair sat down, the music began. A soothing melody. Aaah, he thought. This is more like it!

And then the lyrics began.

If he loved you. Like I love you.

Aargh! This reminded him of Antony again!

He recognized the song. Who was that singing? He knew the voice, yet he couldn’t place the name.

When he watches you ..

Sinclair rolled his eyes. It was as if the song had been written just for him. The lyrics continued.

When we dance ..

Aargh, thinks Sinclair. That’s it. Claire. Sting. Dratted Sting! He couldn’t get away from thoughts of Claire no matter how he tried. In fact, this was probably Claire’s CD. Hadn’t she taken up residence in the trailer during the elaborate set changes? Wasn’t Sting her especial favorite?

Not in the mood for misery, he picked up the remote control and quickly changed over to the next song. He couldn’t be reminded of dancing at the reception with Claire .. especially when she was now undoubtedly dancing with Antony.

Free, free, set them free.

Sinclair set his jaw and punched the remote. This so-called “music” idea was not one of his best .. succeeding only in making him feel worse. Until now, he had not thought that possible.

If you love someone, set them free.

Aargh.

He punched the remote again.

Free, free, set them free.

Aargh! Still same song! He must have hit the wrong button. He punched the remote a few more times.

.. can’t love what you can’t keep.

Aargh.

Sinclair studies the remote carefully. Yes, he had indeed hit the wrong button. So, instead of taking him to the next song, he had simply moved farther through the current one.

Sinclair, currently studying his upcoming script in his off-set trailer, suddenly throws aside the pages of dialogue written by Claire and, looking around at the small inner confines of his self-imposed retreat, lets out a long sigh. No doubt, Claire was inside cavorting around with that Antony fellow at the wedding reception. Try as he might to remember that this was just a job, he felt twinges of jealousy. Twinges that he was helpless to stop.

He had certainly noticed that the director had welcomed the new cast member with open arms. Antony. He grimaced as the name rung in his head. Oh yes, the director had welcomed Antony with open arms. And, for that matter, so had Claire. Sinclair could not help but feel displaced. What kind of a name was Antony anyway? He narrowed his eyes. It didn’t sound English.

And (despite what he had selfishly hoped to the contrary) from what he could hear on the set, a good time was being had by all during filming of the reception.

He desperately wanted to see .. to observe .. for himself. But his pride would not let him. Surrounded by silence, he leaned forward on the cushioned couch and buried his shaggy blond head in his hands. It was altogether too quiet. Yes, that was it. It was too quiet in the trailer.

Music, thinks Sinclair. That’s what I need. Good music. Yes. Music should aid in helping him out of his current funk.

He stood up, wandered over to the CD player, and put in the first recording he could find. He didn’t read the jacket label. What did it matter anyway? Any sound at all (well, besides the cheerful laughter coming from the set) would be a welcome one.

He set the CD to ‘play’ and headed back to the couch .. and his script. He still had a lot to memorize and he didn’t know how much longer the wedding reception was expected to film. The director had warned him to be prepared just in case things moved along quicker than they had been for the last 3 or so weeks.

For Mary Anne time stands still.

There, above her on the staircase . . . and slowly descending toward her.

The Highwayman. Just as she remembers from the play at the Manor House: that tall, powerful figure in the sweeping black cloak, fastened at the neck with a silver clasp and chain, that floats and swirls dramatically about him at every step.

Open-throated shirt of white silk above the snugly-fitted black doeskin trousers . . . black belt with a wrought-silver buckle . . . sword and pistol . . . shining black boots . . .

Face hidden behind the black silk mask.

Mary Anne wonders, for that dizzying and timeless moment, whether she might be dreaming, or whether The Doctor has had some outrageous accident with the Tardis that has thrown them all into the past . . . but no, there is The Doctor out in the crowd, watching the developments with pleased interest. After all, he was the opening act for The Highwayman when Brandon and Mary Anne had appeared in it. The Doctor is not a bad spoon player, if he does say so himself. And he does.

The moment passes. Mary Anne becomes aware that she is--well, breathing oddly. That Hans has pushed his way through the crowd and stands just behind her, not wishing to interrupt the unfolding scene, but ready to catch her if she should turn faint . . .

Something tingles through Mary Anne, then, like an electric shock, heartening and steadying her and banishing her giddiness. Brandon is doing this for her, doubtless because he thought it would please her.

And it does. Well, yes, it had caught her off guard--she notices that she has even backed down the stairs, to within a few steps from the foot of them. Yes, there's Hans right behind her . . .

Mary Anne lifts her head and straightens her spine. She will not allow this moment to be an embarrassment to her, and especially not to Brandon, who has planned it with such care and set aside his normal reserve for her sake. She will play along with Brandon on this.

And she will enjoy it. Of that, there can be no doubt . . .

Above, the towering figure of The Highwayman is still descending toward her, step by inexorable step. Mary Anne reaches into her formidable memory, feels the persona of the proud and highborn Lady settle about her . . . and half-turns toward Hans, an expression of mock-terror on her face.

"Ooooh," she proclaims--and quickly paraphrases. Always room for improvisation in this drama. "Herr Gruber, I think 'tis The Highwayman!"

Ripple of excited response through the assembly, many of whom were convinced Mary Anne was going to faint.

Step. Step. The descending tread of those booted feet. The compelling VOICE: "I am masked, my lady . . ." A pause. "How do you . . . know me?"

Mary Anne is driven to clutch the stair rail again. For . . . other reasons. "By your VOICE, sir, and . . . I have heard of you . . . from other ladies."

Renie and The Empress exchange glances and grins.

Step.

Pause . . .

Step. "Why, there is no other lady in the Realm but you, my fair beauty." Step. "There can be no one else."

Mary Anne feels the ornamental carving on the newel post at the foot of the staircase digging into her hand as she clamps down on it for dear life and consciousness' sake. Oh, sweet God, I'm a lost woman. Completely lost. Christopher, your voice is like velvet, like black velvet, like the night sky with stars . . . it's a good thing we were married today! Because when you sound like that . . .

Step.

. . . you may do with me what you will . . .

Struggling to remember the script, which she had hastily committed to memory under most unusual circumstances, Mary Anne gazes up at the tall figure of The Highwayman--the hero of a thousand abduction-style romances, her adoring captor, who is shortly to bear her away in his strong arms . . .

And breathlessly delivers the next line she can remember: "I shall resist . . . by every means in my power . . ."

Much grinning among the guests and shaking of heads, even from those who have never seen the play. Seldom has a line been so unconvincingly delivered . . .

Rarely had she seen him this lighthearted or carefree, and it definitely warmed her heart to see the brilliant smile that lit up his contenance. Dev, her Dev, she thought with a smile, was a handsome man at any time, but with those twinkling eyes and that Cheshire cat grin, he was truly breathtaking.

"When shall we tell everyone?" Eamon asked, lowering his head to whisper in her ear.

Therese closed her eyes and stifled a sigh. To feel his breath on her neck, hear his voice, deep and almost hypnotic in her ear, and know his lips were so near her own, it simply made her melt . She leaned back against him, her head resting in the hollow just below his neck, and felt his arms around her shoulders, hugging her to his body. "Whenever you'd like, dearest," she murmered softly.

Eamon straightened, raising his head from that of his beloved. He knew well how senstive her neck and throat were to his touch, but it was not quite the time, and certainly not the place. "Tomorow, then, I should think. Not tonight. This day, in its entirety, belongs to the Brandons--tomorow will be soon enough for our friends to wish us happy."

Glancing to one side, Therese noticed Andrea standing nearby, and as she turned to look at her, their eyes met for a brief moment. Andrea's gaze startled Therese, and saddened her as well. She could see the raw emotion reflected in Andrea's beautiful, expressive orbs, and could clearly read the hurt and mistrust reflected within. Yet, there was also the glimmer of hope, and the knowledge that there were better days ahead.

Pulling several of the brightest flowers from the arrangement she held, Therese stepped toward Andrea, and handed them to her silently.

"No, I don't, no..." the other woman stammered for a moment, taken aback by Therese's gesture, and somewhat unsure.

"Please?" Therese asked, once again holding the blossoms out to Andera.

Slowly, Andrea's hand extended, her fingers taking the stems gently from Therese's grasp. She looked at the flowers for a moment as she held them, almost gingerly. "Thank you," she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

"We are each ready in our own time," Therese said, her voice gentle.

Andrea looked into Therese's face, and read the compassion there. She couldn't know was her first thought, yet she understands... "Thank you," she said softly.

Andrea sighs with relief as Therese catches the bridal bouquet. She was afraid that it might fly in her direction. And what would she have done with the flowers? She would have handed them to Therese. Although the action makes perfect sense to Andrea, she doubts that Hamlet would have understood.

A blind man could see the love Therese and Dev share. Andrea supposes that this public endorsement is just what they need to spur them to set the date and make it official.

Yes. Andrea is relieved. The one time she came close to catching the bridal bouquet was at her cousin Lois' wedding.

And we are in flashback to 20 years earlier...

The bride looks over her shoulder at Andrea immediately before throwing her flowers. Andrea feels certain that Lois is about to aim for her. And, she does.

In slow motion, Andrea watches the bouquet float toward her and into her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, Andrea becomes aware of a young woman running at her.

Andrea is knocked to the ground. The bouquet is snatched out of her hands. Looking down, she sees a few of the flower petals remain in her hands. Looking up, she sees the... uh, woman... jumping up and down and waving the bridal bouquet.

Andrea picks herself up from the floor and walks to the ladies lounge to splash cold water on her red face.

End flashback...

Thinking back on the incident now, Andrea wonders if it was some kind of omen. Perhaps having that bridal bouquet ripped from her hands portended her failure to ever find love.

Mary Anne over at one of the side doorways to the ballroom and sees Miss MacLeod beckoning to her. Excusing herself from the conversation with Brandon and The Empress, Mary Anne hurries over to the housekeeper, who whispers to her, "It's nigh on th' time, ma'am. Your flowers . . ."

Mary Anne smiles at the Scots trilled r. "Flowerrrrrrs."

"Thank you, Miss M."

Moire MacLeod hands over Mary Anne's bouquet that has been carefully kept fresh in cool water since the ceremony. Seeing Mary Anne's trembling fingers as she grasps the flowers, Miss M's face relaxes into a fond smile. "Nae to fret aboot . . . Mrs. Brrrrandon. It's fair daft the master is for ye."

Mary Anne, who is pretty near to hilarious hysterics after her little exchange of caresses and pinches with Brandon, plus the relief of finding out that The Empress means her no harm, bites her lip to keep from laughing at the broad Scots accent, and after a moment is able to reply, "Thank you very much. That's . . . reassuring."

As the company sees Mary Anne advancing with the bouquet, the women in the ballroom crowd toward the grand staircase, taking up strategic positions . . .

Mary Anne, halfway up the steps, pauses and looks around.

Where is Colonel Brandon? She does not see him anywhere in the ballroom . . . though it should be easy to catch sight of that scarlet jacket. Where has he vanished to?

Mary Anne scans the room. There's Renie, looking a bit shaken, but smiling at her . . . and there's Hans . . . Claudia in her red, no way of missing that . . .

Mary Anne gives it up. Some emergency, perhaps. The business of running Delaford does not stop, even on the master's wedding day.

The musicians are playing again, soft background for the bouquet toss, and Mary Anne smiles as she recognizes the song . . .

I dreamt that one of that noble host
Came forth my hand to claim,
But I also dreamt, which charmed me most,
That you loved me still the same, that you loved me,
You loved me still the same . . .

Amid the clamour and cheers and encouragement of the entire ballroom, Mary Anne ascends halfway up the grand staircase, and smiles at the company.

Drum roll from the musicians.

Mary Anne lets fly with the bouquet, which lands squarely in the hands of . . .

THERESE!

Much laughter and cheers as Dev catches Therese in his arms and spins her about, lifting her off her feet and laughing. There are shouts of, "So when's this one going to be?" and "I've never been to an Irish wedding!" When suddenly . . .

Another VOICE forcefully commands the attention of the hall. This VOICE, when used, can make you tremble with fear . . . or with longing. And sometimes, both.

"Mary Anne . . ."

Mary Anne turns . . . and promptly goes weak in the knees and clutches at the stair rail to keep from falling . . .

There, gazing down at her from the top of the Delaford grand staircase . . .

. . . is . . .

The Highwayman.

The Empress, upon seeing his difficulty, motions immediately for him to come. Although Brandon... tactfully... relaxes Mary Anne a bit, she still feels a trace of anxiety and she looks up to Brandon again, who squeezes her hand reassuringly. But as Rupert advances towards them, a sudden visage of recognition and surprise comes over them.

It's a huge flat gift, wrapped in white and silver paper! Mary Anne is so relieved she nearly burst out laughing. The couple look at each other, unable to repress enormous smiles as Brandon puts his arm around her. I'm not going to be arrested and thrown in the dungeon!!! she reflects excitedly. She can scarcely contain her joy as the heavy burden she had been feeling, is lifted off her shoulders. I *knew* the Empress was tolerant and compassionate! Why don't I listen to my own instincts? She takes a few deep breathes as Rupert sets the gift down before them.

"That was a *long* fifteen minutes." the Empress scolds him.

"Umm, yeeees,... sorry about that, your Majesty. We had a bit of a wild ride and it took longer than I expected.

"Wilder than our ride here?" the Empress teases.

Rupert feignes mock injury at this remark on his piloting skills. "Perhaps you'd like the twins to fly you home? They're really quite good at it." they all laugh.

Claudia and Ed had observed that the twins were not with him when he entered the ballroom and Claudia now draws nearer. "Where *are* my boys?" she asks, concerned.

"Oh, don't worry, they're fine. I believe they're in the garden, tagging along Renie and Hans."

Claudia and Ed share a glance when, as if on cue, Luke and Joseph burst into the ballroom. Upon seeing their mother, they run and jump into her arms, nearly knocking her over. "Did you have fun?" she asks them.

"Yea!" they both agree. "We flew backwards and upside down!" Joseph relates.

They all look at Rupert, who smiles and shrugs "They were doing most of the steering......, two against one, I didn't have much choice......" he turns to Claudia. "I believe aviation may be in their future."

Ed laughs "Yeah, kamikazes, I should wonder."

The twins attention is now, however, focused on the mammoth gift balanced on the floor, which Rupert is still holding on to with one hand, so that it doesn't fall over.

"Would you prefer to open it now or later?" the Empress addresses Mary Anne and Brandon.

"Oh, now, please, the suspense is killing me!" she blurts out.

"Then by all means... though I'll say now that I believe you'll appreciate this gift more than Christopher."

Brandon raises an eyebrow as he helps Mary Anne, who immediately removes the ribbons and starts to peel away the wrapping paper. She notices the twins staring wide-eyed and asks if they'd like to help. They accept eagerly, and in no time at all, every trace of paper is removed.

Mary Anne gasps as she beholds a gold framed painting. Very life-like. A spitting image of Colonel Brandon, from head to foot, in full uniform.

"How... where...?" Mary Anne is overwhelmed. She takes a few quick breaths and tries again, "When on earth did you pose for this?!" she asks Brandon in amazement, not taking her eyes off the painting.

"Seems like ages ago... I completely forgot about it." a bit astonished himself, he looks to the Empress.

"It was nearly two years ago." the Empress reminds him. And then to Mary Anne, "His regiment was in the area at that time, so he dropped by to visit me on a day, as it happened, the royal artist was present. And,... well, I just couldn't let the opportunity pass without getting *that* on canvas for all prosperity." gesturing to Brandon who is wearing the same exact uniform on this special day. "He kindly agreed to pose for me by the South Gate.... and now that he is married, I thought it more appropriate that you should have it." She says this more to Mary Anne but winks (yes, winks!) at Brandon. Mary Anne, still admiring the painting, did not notice.

Brandon, however, is a bit taken aback, and not knowing how to take it, actually blushes. But he sees the Empress smiling sweetly at him,... what a tease she is... and recovering himself, he laughs softly and thanks her for such a thoughtful gift.

"Oh, yes! Thank you so very much, your Majesty!" Mary Anne breaks in, "I simply adore it and will cherish it always. And I already have in mind the perfect place to hang it." she smiles at Brandon who is, no doubt, wondering where that could be.

"I shall have to contract an artist to paint *your* portrait to hang next to it." he suggests to his wife. The Empress immediately offers the services of her artist, telling them to call on him whenever they're ready.

Mary Anne is delighted with this idea. She is exhilarated, period, and feels genuinely fortunate. She can scarcely believe the way things have turned out.

And the Empress is extremely pleased to see Mary Anne and Brandon so happy. As she glances towards the tables where the wedding feast is set up, the wonderful aromas enticing her, she spies a servant carrying a tray of drinks. She nabs a glass of Champagne as he passes by and toasts the Brandons, wishing them a long, healthy life and much happiness.

Just as Mary Anne is occupying herself with thoughts of Brandon's bedchamber--and how can she be blamed for this?--she becomes aware of a peculiar sensation in the small of her back . . . peculiar, but not at all unpleasant . . . oh, quite the contrary.

For Brandon, as they converse with The Empress, has his arm about Mary Anne's waist. The Colonel had not had time to replace his gloves after the cake-cutting and Mary Anne's . . . attentions . . . to his fingers, and so his bare hand rests on the small of Mary Anne's back . . . she can feel the heat of his fingers through the silk of her gown . . .

Ask not, readers, what mood has seized upon Brandon. It is a mischievous mood of rare quality, practically unknown to him before he met Mary Anne, and rare even afterwards. But this day may have told upon the Colonel. The urgent pressure of desire, of long-delayed fulfillment drawing nearer every moment . . . in such circumstances as these, men have been known to behave strangely.

Brandon's hand moves teasingly at the base of Mary Anne's back, straying occasionally to the curve of her hip and sending prickles and shivers up and down her spine with every playful caress.

Mary Anne could almost believe that Brandon is not really paying attention, that the movements of his hand are involuntary or at least absentminded, until she gives him a measuring sidewise glance from beneath her long eyelashes, studying his profile as he chats easily with The Empress . . .

Ah. There. Brandon, perfectly straight-faced . . . save for those betraying crinkles at the corners of his eyes. A smile, just barely suppressed, and a casual observer might well set it down to his pleasure in the conversation. But Mary Anne sees his eyes flicker in her direction for a fraction of an instant . . .

. . . and that is enough.

Christopher Brandon . . .

Mary Anne just barely manages to restrain a gasp as Brandon's warm hand nudges at the notches of her spine, and she sees one corner of his mouth lift briefly in a grin.

. . . I'll GET you for this.

With a sweet and demure smile for the benefit of The Empress, Mary Anne slips her arm around Brandon . . . and slides her hand beneath the back of his jacket, "walking" her fingers lightly up and down his back. Two can play at this game, sir!

Mary Anne nods and smiles at the proper intervals in the conversation . . .

. . . while lightly tapping out a dance rhythm on Brandon's back, just above the waistband of his trousers . . .

. . . and her smile sharpens as she feels a quiver pass through that strong frame.

But Mary Anne is not finished. Oh, noooooo. Not yet.

The Empress turns away to set aside her plate and fork, and Mary Anne's fingers move slightly lower, and . . .

. . . pinch . . .

Only Colonel Christopher Brandon will ever know just how close he came to letting out a startled yelp in the presence of his Empress.

He manages, however, to control himself, and after a few seconds of refreshing meditation as to what he will do with Mary Anne when he gets her alone, he resumes the conversation with Her Majesty, who appears to have seen nothing at all out of the way . . .

There. Rupert has appeared, and Brandon allows himself a small sigh of relief.

Later, Mary Anne, my dearest. Oh . . . later . . .

As Mary Anne and Brandon chat with The Empress, Mary Anne gradually relaxes. Well, sort of. She does have a tense moment of wondering whether this is some clever ruse--are there Imperial troops surrounding the house at this moment? Will she find herself under arrest for her part in the Interrogator incident?

However, her nervous imaginings soon give way before common sense--and curiosity, for Brandon and The Empress are evidently on quite good terms, socially . . . and quite familiar ones. "Christopher," yet. And an invitation to the Imperial palace . . . yes, this will definitely warrant investigation at some future date.

All of her fears and curiosities to one side, however, Mary Anne--the warmly affectionate, emotionally demonstrative Mary Anne--soon finds herself quite taken by the charm of this extraordinary woman, ruler of the Realm. And a brave woman she must be, to accept the throne and crown in such a place as this!

While most of Her Majesty's remarks are addressed to Colonel Brandon, Mary Anne feels quite included in the conversation, especially during The Empress' praises of Delaford and how Brandon has changed it since . . . Since when? When was The Empress here before? Ah, well. I'm sure Christopher will tell me all about it one day . . .

It is true that there have been changes in Delaford; Mary Anne had noticed that the moment she arrived, and even more so when she returned from her brief stay at Barton Park. She recalls the comments at the now-legendary Delaford picnic, from some of the guests who felt that Delaford could use a "woman's touch," consisting of more than simply filling the rooms with flowers.

Something has indeed changed, and Mary Anne realizes in her newfound happiness that what had previously troubled her about Delaford, on the occasion of the picnic, was the atmosphere of sadness, verging on gloom, that had permeated it. Mary Anne allows her mind to wander, recollecting Brandon's stories of how Renie had restored his will to live, his perception that life might be a thing to enjoy and not merely endure. But his deep grief had left its marks on Delaford, and the signs had still been there at the time of the picnic: a mustiness in some rooms from curtains too long left closed . . . heavy draperies, in dark colours that had blocked the light. The pervasive stillness of a house of mourning, in which all of the inhabitants have long since learned to walk lightly and whisper. This house had not lost the habit . . .

. . . until now. Over Brandon's months of absence, the estate had virtually run itself: a compliment to his well-trained and industrious staff. But the new face of this estate . . . there is more to this than training and industry.

There is good will. Happiness. Joy.

New touches in practically every room that Mary Anne has seen. Subtleties: walls painted in lighter shades that reflect the sun. Sombre velvet draperies? Gone, or else drawn wide open to frame the striking views in every direction. Ornamental moldings, carefully touched in gilt for subdued sparkle.

The flowers remain, of course. The conservatory plants, set about in the rooms . . . but also the scents from dishes of potpourri, compounded of the famous Delaford roses.

And sounds. The staff moving about in normal fashion, rather than tiptoeing through the corridors in deference to their master's grief. And at this moment, the sounds of the wedding festival, still in full swing.

A house of rejoicing.

With a little smile playing about her lips, Mary Anne allows herself to wonder for a moment what changes might have been made in Brandon's bedchamber . . .

R--"Don Armadillo," etc. ROFLMAO! (And in the words of Bugs Bunny: "I need what little I got . . . ") As to what is in that glass, I just hope HE didn't pour that drink . . .

Andrea--Holy Plot Twist, Batman! The Interrogator's drugs . . . and the time-honoured FOF tradition of resurrecting a detail that others have forgotten. Atta girl. Looking forward to more twists and turns.

All those we haven't heard from in a while (Leigh, Kari, etc.), hope you're enjoying reading along.

All those who are new and have just joined us--hope you're having enough fun to stay! 8-)

And last, but by no means least, Suzanne--(throwing myself flat on the floor and burying my face in the carpet) I do most humbly entreat that your dread Majesty shall take pity on her subjects and not long allow them to continue in suspense . . . (lest ye have a riote on your handes!). *grin*

George growls and pounds on the door while Mesmer questions Hudson. "What about the evidence Dr. Dubois collected when she examined Andrea?"

Good question. "The skin gathered from under Andrea's fingernails matches with The Sheriff's DNA."

Mesmer's mind explores the possibilities. "Then the absence of scratches is some illusion. Or... Do you recall how amazed the doctors were when Andrea recovered so quickly from her injuries after the car accident?"

Hudson's eyes widen. "Yes."

Mesmer continues. "The Interrogator administered some drug to speed her healing. Perhaps HE helped The Sheriff in the same way."

Preoccupied with the cloning scenario, Hudson hadn't considered this alternative. "I'll have my medics check into it. Thank you, Doctor."

Hans bends over Renie . . . and she wakes as the door clicks closed behind someone . . .

"Hans--who was that?" The possibilities which foggily occur to Renie are, as you might imagine, in the realm of the far fetched. Kenneth Branagh? The Interrogator? The Director?

"The doctor. You fainted, mein Abendstern."

Oh yes. Oh--YES. Renie looks at Hans, but he discloses nothing in his tiger eyes. She tries for a casual air. "We were--in the South Rose Garden."

"Yes. We were." Hans strains, invisibly, for the strength to keep "things" to himself.

Renie looks at Hans' watch. That was some time ago.

"Did--well . . ." Hans looks innocently at Renie, well, as innocently as Hans Gruber can manage, as she speaks, "--anything strange happen?"

"I don't think so. Do you?" Hans asks, dangerously close to spilling the beans.

"Uhhmm, no. I just thought--ahhh, no reason. I guess I'm feeling a little odd. This has been a big day.

Bigger than you think. Hans smiles very widely indeed, but says nothing.

Renie sighs, and throws off the blankets, revealing the pinot noir silkience of her dress--and real stockings, the software for which, is showing. She wiggles the long dress down over the black silk clasps . . . as Hans watches . . .

"I'm going to miss when Mary Anne throws her bouquet, if we don't get downstairs!" When Hans mockingly glares at her, she can't help but "glare" back. "Oh, you know--to see who catches it, silly!" She reaches up for him, as if she's getting up, but Hans swoops down upon her . . .

. . . his beard burying itself in her exposed neck, so that it tickles like mad . . . then moves across her shoulders . . .

"Hans!" she cries, only one-third in objection; the other two-thirds lobbying furiously . . . Hans halts the attack.

He sits up at her bedside. And, seemingly unruffled, picks up a cup that has been sitting there, on the night table. . "If you're determined to go back downstairs, you should drink this." She cannot see what it is, but she assumes it's champagne, the best way to prepare for anything . . .

As Hans hands Renie the cup, she looks deeply into his gleaming eyes, as she drinks--and when the liquid hits her tongue, her eyes fly wide open--

More rustling . . . as Hans and Renie, unsuspecting, and rather self-absorbed in their stroll, finally hear a little something, and Renie turns . . . and, to her surprise . . . beholds . . .

An armadillo?! A familiar-looking one, if she could see closely enough, but she cannot, as the darkness seems in a completely nonsensical way to suggest that the armadillo is actually "dressed"--that is, not in a casual attire, but in a top hat, and tails--

Renie rubs her green eyes, knowing she has had but a sip of champagne . . .

Another rustle, much larger, this directly behind the creature, evidently stalking it, and the natty armadillo bolts off under the shrubbery trim, and out from the shadows steps . . .

"Kenneth Branagh!" Renie chokes, in a manner which would irk Hans, had she not been wearing his sizable diamond and alexandrite wedding ring. Renie looks off to the left of Branagh, in the seeming direction of the critter, but she is actually looking straight at the Director. Are we still rolling? her eyes ask. Out of shot, the Director nods mischievously.

"SO sorrryyy," Branagh apologizes, and Renie notices that he, like the armadillo, is dressed in a top hat and tails. Ken looks much better though. "I'm having a go one set over--Love's Labours Lost--with Don Armadillo instead of Don Armado. Not sure this idea will work-- Did you see Paul Whitehouse happen by?"

Hans raises his hand and points, and then slips his arm back around Renie. The whur of the camera or no, she isn't about to let this slip by . .

Renie's voice begins before she can stop it. "Ken--I've never met you, but--" Hans crosses his arms, watching his wife reduced to simple fandom. "But..."

Ken smiles, and walks right up to Renie. He tilts his head, inquiring of Hans whether the Teutonic Terror will humour what's next. The next moment takes Renie completely by surprise. Hans steps away from Renie, with a tiger's grace, and, in his loveliest and well-trained low voice croons, "If it be not now, yet it will come."

Oooohhh, Hans as Hamlet . . . Hans folds his arms again, and watches with amusement as Ken takes Renie's hand, and drops to his knees. With his left hand he removes his top hat, and places it over his heart. Renie's heart races like the downtown "A" train at 2 a.m. She cannot believe this is happening.

Ken smiles, and suddenly he is in full regal regalia, King Henry V, conquerer of France, ruler of England, there, at her feet. With a pleading eye, and softest voice, he whispers, "Canst thou love me?"

Looking down into those twinkling blue eyes of his, Renie parts her lips to speak, and promptly keels over, a giant **THUD** as she hits the soft dirt of the empty flower beds where late the rosebuds sang.

"Allow me," Hans is immediately in charge, Henry V stands back, and Hans checks her breathing. For a minute or so, Hans places his lips over Renie's, and energetically attempts to--resuscitate her. When he finally stops, Ken--solicitously--inquires, "Is she all right?"

"She's fine," Hans replies without any trace of worry. Hans shakes Branagh's hand. "I'll take her upstairs to her room." Hans lifts Renie into his arms, and Ken picks up his top hat.

Ken's voice sparkles in the higher registers of amusement. "Are you going to tell her you arranged this, with help?" Ken motions in the Director's direction.

"No," returns Hans, "she hates birthday surprises."

R, dearest, perhaps Her Majesty picked up the habit from you? *wink*

Or maybe even from me . . . mea culpa, mea culpa . . .

Hans leads Renie outside, into the quiet of the South Rose garden. Being here with Colin is not the same as being here with her husband . . . "Hans--I know what you had planned for the hospital crew--but do you think, perhaps, you should show the finished front buildings to the newlyweds some other time?" Her voice barely suggests the postponement, but that is all that is needed for Hans.

"Hmmmmm. Of course. Do you think they are anxious to be left to their own devices?" She loves it when his voice sounds like this--low, and quietly quiver-inducing.

"Well, I didn't see you dance with Mary Anne, but I believed that the Colonel was going to spontaneously combust! So if she was anything like Brandon . . . "

Renie, laughing. Hans, thinking of Mary Anne's "talk" in the small parlor, and then his tango with her. "She did confess to being only human." His jacket--and his right arm--are around Renie as they stroll, together, among the empty rosebeds. The smell of rich blossoms, and even scones, entirely illusory, but no less real. What is real, and what is not, is never entirely clear . . ..

The love that people share, and the joy they spread, can never be tucked safely in your hand. But when your hand is left open, it will only be a matter of time before another hand takes it - - and this, the human touch - - will be long remembered when all that is tangible in this world lies forgotten.

So it is, that Hans and Renie, in a world of their own, do not see any masked shadows moving about in the bushes . . .

The Empress lays her hand upon Brandon's arm. "Such privacy really isn't necessary, Christopher." she assures him. Mary Anne's eyes widen at the Empress's familiarity in addressing her husband. Brandon glances at Mary Anne.

"Among other things,..." the Empress starts, looking around, hoping to spot her right-hand man, Rupert, to make sure he is ready to respond at her signal. But he is nowhere to be seen. Instead, she catches the eye of Hans. Her hand tingles and waves of pleasure travel through her entire body all over again. Ohhhhh... The Empress nearly drops her saucer with her half eaten slice of cake, and looks away, trying to remember what she was just saying. Ummm... Rupert. Oh, yes. With considerable effort, she scans the ballroom again. Where *is* he? I hope everything went okay with the twins. She sees a man impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo... No... that isn't him either. So many of the men here look remarkably similar. Hamlet, standing next to the beautiful woman in green she met earlier, next catches her attention. Then Colin... and Reverend Slope... Ed,... Eamon... Valmont... PL... Sinclair... How *do* the women keep their composure around here?!

The Empress gives up... for now... before she loses all her equanimity and turns back to Brandon and Mary Anne. And now she sees the look of concern in their faces. The Empress thinks about Commander Hudson's note and realizes what they must be thinking. And poor Mary Anne. Although she is hiding it well, the Empress can see she is anxious. Even Renie sends her a sympathetic look. Oh, no! This isn't right. The last thing she wants to do is cause them any sort of distress. After all, this *is* their wedding day. Years from now, when they look back on this day, the memory should be one of the most happiness days of their lives. And if she has anything to do with it, it will be. "First of all, I want to apologize for being so late..."

Mary Anne exhales in relief... and then catches herself. *First* of all? What could the second be? She braces herself.

"There is no need to apologize, your Majesty." Brandon says with some relief, as well. "We realize you are a very busy woman. We are honored that you could make it at all."

"Ah, well. I would have been here sooner, but by the time I received your invitation--" she smiles at Mary Anne "--which was exquisite, by the way, thank you-- it was too late for me to cancel an engagement I had earlier today."

Once again, Mary Anne feels guilty and she reproaches herself. Oh, why didn't I send it sooner?! Of course I should have known the Empress would have a hectic schedule. Why didn't I think of that?

But they could not know that the Empress's invitation was delayed, due to the Interrogator's interception.

"As it was, I had to take drastic measures to arrive when I did, but I was determined. As I already told Renie, I wouldn't have dreamed of missing this for the world."

"And arrive you did," Brandon beams, "on *modern* transportation, I am told."

The Empress laughs. "Yes. Well, you know me. I would have much rather taken my carriage, but if I had gone that route, I wouldn't have arrived until after your honeymoon!"

They all laugh and the ice is broken. The Empress is please to see Mary Anne is much more at ease, albeit a bit quiet. Perhaps she is still a little nervous.

Mary Anne does feel *somewhat* better. The Empress looks pleasant enough, she ponders, Certainly not as if she's about to drop the bomb or anything. She looks up at Brandonp, curiously. There seems to be some mystery about him.

"I also wanted to complement you." She gestures around her. "You've really done wonders with the place."

Brandon looks around. What a great complement, coming from the Empress with such a grand estate as her own. "Thank you, I wanted it to be as perfect as possible." he smiles down at Mary Anne.

"It *is* perfect." Mary Anne says softly.

"And what about your Castle, your Majesty? Have you completed the renovations you were planning the last time I visited?"

Mary Anne stares up at Brandon in astonishment. He never told me he knew the Empress personally... and visited her, no less! She wonders what other secrets he has kept from her. Well,.. I shall have a lifetime to discover every single one of them. she smiles to herself.

"Yes, I have. The main Gallery turned out especially well. Better then I expected, in fast. You two shall have to come visit soon..." She smiles again at Mary Anne.

"Oh, I would love that more than anything!" Mary Anne exclaims excitedly and then looks pleadingly at Brandon.

"How could we refuse such as kind invitation? Of course we will... after we have settled in over here a bit."

Mary Anne is grateful that the Empress hasn't mentioned the interrogator even once... but now she sees Brandon squint his eyes, looking over the Empress's shoulder. Several heads turn towards the door.

The Empress turns around. Ahhhhh, Rupert...

Colin has already taken care to photograph this work of art before it is cut. The seven-tiered cake appears to be decked in flowers and trimmed with shimmering ribbons, but a closer inspection reveals that every decoration is, in reality, fine-spun sugar, entirely and deliciously edible. A tribute to the skill of the bakers and confectioners from London.

It does seem a shame to cut it, but the guests are waiting. Brandon receives the silver cake-knife from the servant and--after pausing to remove his gloves--he passes the knife to Mary Anne, resting his hand lightly on hers as she sinks the blade into the cake and cuts out the first slice, the one for the bride and groom to share between them.

The reason why Brandon had shed his gloves becomes evident as he smiles and breaks off a morsel of the cake, lifting it to the lips of his bride . . . no crumbs on those spotless gloves! On the Colonel's hands, however . . .

Despite the friendly "warning" she has just received from her husband, Mary Anne cannot, simply cannot resist this priceless opportunity for mischief. For there are a few tiny smears of frosting on Brandon's fingers . . .

Brandon lifts the bit of cake to Mary Anne's lips, and she receives it--then, with a twinkle in her eye at the memory of the shopping mall and the ice cream, she flicks her tongue daintily about the tips of Brandon's fingers, licking away the frosting.

It is over in seconds, and it is doubtful whether the other guests, milling about and lining up for their servings of cake, even notice anything out of the way. But Mary Anne hears Brandon's startled intake of breath, and glances up at him . . . to see him smiling at her, but oh, such a smile as makes her heart hammer wildly, and looking into his narrowed and intent eyes, she swallows hard. Oooooh . . . I'll be paying for THAT, sooner or later. Sooner rather than later, I should think . . .

And yes, the "payback" begins almost immediately, for when she offers Brandon his fragment of the cake, he accepts it as readily as she had, but bites gently and playfully at the tips of her fingers, and his eyes sparkle at her with mischief--and more. Soon, my dearest. Very, very soon . . .

Mary Anne goes weak at the knees, and all that prevents her from sinking to the floor--and drawing Brandon down with her--is the realization that The Empress is right there by the table and will receive the next slice of cake. One does not keep Her Majesty waiting, and Mary Anne manages to cut a slice and lift it onto one of the dainty Sevres saucers without the blade clattering too much against the porcelain. Smile, Mary Anne--that's right. Now, a napkin and a fork . . . good.

Mary Anne is about to congratulate herself on having kept her composure before The Empress, who samples her cake and nods approval. But then that august personage draws nearer to the table and, beckoning Mary Anne and Brandon closer to her, speaks in a low, quiet voice: "Colonel Brandon--Mrs. Brandon--I know that you have many guests and much to attend to, but I would appreciate the opportunity for a . . . private talk . . . with the two of you. Would that be possible? I will not keep you long, I promise."

Mary Anne and Brandon glance at each other, at once curious and anxious--but an Imperial request is as good as a command, and Brandon allows no more than a second to lapse before he smoothly replies, "As you wish, Your Majesty. Perhaps we should speak in the library . . . "

As Colonel Brandon nears the cake, and we cannot hear him finish. We do see Mary Anne's lips move, however . . .

. . . Renie introduces herself, and then Hans, to the Empress of the Realm. The Empress' smile is as dazzling as the metallic silver thread pattern in her stunning black evening gown. Renie feels the warmth behind that smile, as genuine as the diamonds, which, beautiful as they are, are no match for the woman who wears them. "We have spoken, but it is an unexpected honor to meet you, in person, finally. I know Mary Anne and Colonel Brandon are so pleased that you could come--as are we all."

"This is an event which I wouldn't miss for the world," assures the Empress, turning to Hans, whose tiger eyes blaze at her, making for a slight butterfly backstroke inside of her . . .

Even the Empress melts a bit at Hans' low baritone. "A woman in charge is a woman who is irresistible." His lips brush the back of her hand, and Hans' fingertips gently touch the Empress' inside palm. Her blonde hair is not the only thing with waves . . .

The guests, including a handsome array of uniformed soldiers from the Colonel's regiment, taking a moment or three, to welcome her, as the servant readies to hand over the knife for the cutting of the cake . . .

The Empress passes through the kneeling throng of guests--and all of the Alliance troops in the ballroom, with a subtlety and discretion that does great credit to Commander Hudson's training, converge protectively around her as she greets her subjects and gestures for them to rise.

Brandon is on his feet in one graceful motion, ready to offer his greetings, and he draws Mary Anne up with him . . .

Mary Anne, however, is trembling in her pearl-beaded wedding slippers. The Empress. Yes, the invitation to the wedding had been sent in all sincerity, but Mary Anne had never dreamed it would be accepted; The Empress is a busy woman, after all, with many invitations and engagements and matters of state. That she should make time to attend the wedding of one of her subjects . . . Mary Anne is overwhelmed. And anxious, remembering that, along with that invitation, The Empress must also be in possession of Hudson's reports concerning the removal of The Interrogator from prison, and Mary Anne's part in those proceedings. To be sure, a copy of HIS note would have been included: that Mary Anne was under the influence of THEIR machine and not responsible for her actions at that time. The Empress is reputed to be a tolerant woman--and for the moment, the Imperial policy appears to include clemency toward offenders so far as the security of the Realm allows.

It is one thing for Mary Anne to know all of this, but quite another to actually be confronted with this woman who holds the power of life and death, dazzling in her diamonds, majestic in her authority . . .

Mary Anne leans on Brandon's strong arm, and pulls herself together. You're the mistress of Delaford now--act like it. Show some backbone. With this heartening thought, Mary Anne is able to lift her chin, and smile, and add her own heartfelt welcome to Colonel Brandon's as The Empress draws near and offers them gracious wishes for their happiness.

"Your Majesty has arrived at a fortunate time," smiles Brandon. "We were just preparing to cut the wedding cake, and it would be an honour if you accepted the first piece."

Mary Anne sees The Empress glance briefly in her direction and catches a flutter of the eyelashes that might almost be a wink, before she replies: "Oh, no, Colonel, that would never do. The first piece is for the bride and groom! For you to give to each other. The newlyweds should come first, after all."

Mary Anne looks down at the floor and presses her lips together, trying not to burst out laughing. Stop it, guttermind! she rebukes herself. And for her life's sake, she dares not look at Renie, who is doubtless snickering to herself as well. If Mary Anne and Renie should look at each other now, they will both be helpless with laughter for hours . . .

However, Mary Anne manages to bring herself under control when Brandon returns a respectful nod and replies, "Just as Your Majesty wishes," and leads Mary Anne toward the multi-tiered wedding cake.

As the musicians pick up their instruments and begin to play a slow, beautiful, but sad, Irish tune called He Moved through the Fair, the Empress catches sight of Mary Anne and Brandon half way across the room. Their eyes meet and Mary Anne smiles at the Empress, which turns into a laugh at something her husband tells her. Speculating over my choice of escort, no doubt. "Valmont..." she says as she smiles back at Mary Anne.

"Yes, your Highness?"

"I believe I can take it from here." she turns to look up into Valmont's eyes and sees his disappointment. "Thank you for your assistance." She removes her arm from his.

"Are you... quite sure you wouldn't like me to show you around? Introduce you..."

"Yes, I'm quite sure." she manages to say convincingly, which took some effort for now he looks positively wounded."However,..." she relinquishes (can you blame her?!)... "I *am* awful remembering directions and I'm positive I'll never find my way back to the helicopter without a guide." His expression lightens and a sparkle returns to his eye. The Empress feels a weakness coming over her again. "Though I'm not exactly sure when I'm leaving."

"I will be counting the minutes." he conspirers with a half smile.

Hmmm, if he thinks he's going any further than the helicopter doors... Valmont takes the Empress's hand and once again kisses it while continuing to gaze into her eyes. ....well... I'll think about that later.

She takes a deep breath and turns away from Valmont and endeavors to makes her way towards the Brandons, who are standing next to something that looks oddly like a cart... with a model of some sort on it.

Meanwhile...

Unaware of The Empress' arrival in the ballroom, Mesmer and Hudson walk down the hall. Mesmer asks "Can you give me a hint of what I am about to see?"

Hudson shakes her head. "I do not wish to prejudice you. I want your unbiased opinion."

She nods to a guard, who unlocks and opens a door. The occupant of the room rises from a chair but does not approach them. He has rushed his captors before, with unsatisfying results. He waits.

Mesmer recognizes The Sheriff immediately. He addresses Hudson. "You doubt this man's identity?"

The Sheriff is glad to see him. "Mesmer! Good. I cannot reason with these women. You must tell me. How is Andrea?"

Mesmer glances at Hudson, who offers him no advice. Returning his attention to The Sheriff, "She is recovering. Hamlet is currently looking after her."

George hrmphs. "Hamlet. I wouldn't be surprised if he orchestrated all this to eliminate competition and have Andrea to himself."

Mesmer is confused. "Do you deny assaulting Andrea?"

"Yes, I deny it! Why would I attack her when she was so near to succumbing? You saw how she kissed me good-night on the stairs. She wanted me then. But, I promised to stay out of her room, and I did so."

Mesmer is staring at George's face. "Would you permit me to examine your cheek?"

The Sheriff rolls his eyes. "Go ahead, but you won't find what you are looking for."

Indeed, after closer inspection, Mesmer sees no sign of the scratches Andrea was to have inflicted on her attacker. "I don't understand this."

Once again, The Sheriff professes his innocence. "She didn't scratch me because I'm not the one who attacked her! You have no right to keep me here! I demand to be released!"

The toasts follow one another in rapid succession--some serious, some humourous, but all of them truly loving, tendered with great affection and followed by generous rounds of applause.

Mary Anne looks around the company at the faces of her various friends . . . but what is going on with Claudia and Ed? They look as if they knew some delightful secret and keep glancing at the windows, out toward the gardens . . .

Mary Anne smiles a secret smile. Probably couldn't contain themselves any longer . . . but what did they do with the twins, I wonder? And what was that awful racket outside?

Mary Anne dismisses these thoughts as Colonel Brandon refills his champagne flute and waits for the room to grow quiet, which it quickly does.

Brandon clears his throat. "My wife and I--"

Mary Anne thrills from head to foot.

"--are deeply grateful for your good wishes."

Murmurs of encouragement and affirmation throughout the crowd of guests.

"There are, however, two toasts that must not be neglected. And as your host and the master of this house, it is my duty and my pleasure to make them."

An expectant hush.

"There is no greater honour," Brandon continues, "than to be sincerely loved. And to be loved in this fashion, by so many--" The Colonel's voice catches as he gestures with his glass. "Mary Anne and I are grateful for your presence here with us on this happy occasion. We drink to you. To our friends."

"To our friends," echoes Mary Anne, tapping her glass against Brandon's, and together they toast the assembled company.

Brandon waits for the applause to die down, then lifts his glass again.

"And one more," he solemnly pronounces. "To Her Majesty, The Empress."

Ring of glasses all over the ballroom. "Her Majesty, The Empress."

"Thank you, Colonel Brandon. We are honoured."

A wave of surprise passes through the ballroom. There at the great double doors . . .

Gasps of recognition--then, the rustle of the assembled gathering, all sinking to their knees . . .

"You're thinking of Sinead, and your own wedding, aren't you?" she asked him softly.

He began to raise his hand, as if in denial, but laid it very deliberately in his lap instead.

"It's okay, Eamon," she reached over to comfort him, hugging him to her chest as one would comfort a small child. "You must know that I couldn't watch these proceedings, and certainly not begin to think of our own some day, without thoughts of Andrew. Just because we have lost our respective spouses doesn't mean that we shouldn't still celebrate their memories."

Eamon nodded his head slowly. "I know, I know... She was a grand lady, my Sinead. You would have liked her very much, I'm sure, perhaps you could have been friends." He paused for a moment before continuing, "She only knew me as a simple teahcer of mathmatics, who quietly supported the movement to free Ireland; it was her death those many years ago that caused me to leave everything and pursue the fight."

"She'd be very proud of you, and all that you've accomplished."

Dev straightened, pulling Therese into his lap, once more beginning to feel like himself. Thoughts of his wife had been with him throughout the day, yet he hadn't known if sharing them with Therese would have been painful for her. He should have known to trust her more, her kindness and understanding had been two of the qualities that had appealed to him the most.

He cradled her within his arms, kissing her gently. "So tell me about this Andrew lad of yours."

Therese smiled at the memory of her husband. "He was a professor and a scholar, much like yourself. He was a good man. I didn't really expect to ever have another in my life. That's why I came to Ireland in the first place, I just had to get away for awhile, to lose myself in study. And it worked, for the first year and a half, anyway, until one of the boys in my writing class drug me off to an independence rally."

Dev lowered his head to kiss her once again. "Never did thank him for that, did I?"

"It's problably just as well," Therese giggled, "he'd been trying to get me to go on a date with him for months. We lived in the same rooming house at the time I met you, so he knew that I never made it home that first night we met... I don't think he was too keen on you for a bit after that."

"I can just hear Father Kilroney now," Dev chuckled, "Aye, young Dev, it's surely y'know that we taught ye better 'n that!"

"Nae ta worry, young Dev," Therese mimcked him in her best Irish brogue. "Sure an' I'll make ye an 'onest lad on one o' these days."

Eamon gripped her by both shoulders, all traces of laughther gone from his face. "When?" he asked.

Therese wondered at the sudden mood shift. "Why so serious? You know I'll have you, any time you ask."

"Are you certain? You're to graduate soon..." he paused, as if the words pained him. "I thought you might wish to return to the States--and I can never leave Ireland, my calling is here."

Therese pushed herself off his lap, and stood before him, arms on her hips. "Eamon Vivion de Valera," she said, enunciating each sound of his name very clearly. "Just how do you think I've been regarding our relationship until now? What do you think--that you're just some sort of fling!? Some little--" she looked at his seated form, he was almost as tall sitting as she was standing up, "some rather large foreign fling!? Do you really think that I'd be sleeping with you if I wasn't planning to keep you!?" Therese stopped her small tirade, her ire growing as Dev remained passive before her. Damn politcians! she thought to herself. "Well??"

"Your little tantrum is all well and good, my dear," he drawled lazily, "but you still haven't told me when you'll make me and honest man."

"June!" she spat.

"Which?"

" This June!"

Eamon lept to his feet, and crushed Therese to his chest, lifting her clear off the ground, and kissing her thoroughly.

"You certainly have the temper of an Irish lass when you're riled," Dev teased her, several moments later.

Therese grinned up at him. "Nothing makes a girl angrier than a man who refuses to fight back, you know. It's a good way to get a piece of crockery chucked at your head."

It is said that the gardens of Delaford are some of the finest in England. Even in the months of Winter, when not at their most dazzling, the sights and smells were intoxicating enough to draw quite a few guests out into the fresh air.

"It got a bit hot in there during the Tango, didn't it?" Claudia asked Ed, shooting a glance at him as they tried to keep up with the twins, who were having fun running through a maze. Ed smiled at the memory, only a few minutes old.

The camera cuts to another part of the gardens, where Therese and Dev could be seen, slowly strolling along, talking casually...
They look around as they begin to hear a low murmuring sound...

Even Mesmer, who's gardens are grand in there own right, cannot even begin to compare them, as he walks along a path, accompanied by two delightful women.

In yet another part of the gardens, not far from them but closer to the center, Lis sits on a bench, trying to catch her breath and cool off. Valmont, sitting by her side, is very attentive,.. not helping matters. What is it about this man that always makes me lose control of myself? she asks, silently. The same question she's been asking herself since the day she first laid eyes on him, she did not expect to find the answer now, here in the gardens of Delaford. Nor was she able to contemplate on this question once again very long, for she, too, noticed a strange noise growing louder by the minute.

Instinctively, they both looked around. "Where is it... what is it?" she inquired.

Valmont listened intensely for a moment. "Sounds as if feathered wings fluttering feverishly." he replied.

Lis couldn't help giggling at the way he said this (but, ohhh, how she loved the way he said it!), at which he gave her a questioning look. "I bet you can't say that three times real fast." she said with a sly smile.

Valmont was just about to take her up on the challenge, when suddenly they heard someone yell.

"LOOK!!! LOOK!!!" cried Luke, as he and his brother emerge into the huge clearing at the center of the gardens, Claudia and Ed following.

Everyone within site looked into the sky, where Luke was pointing. A silver object, with black markings and sparkling as the setting sun reflects off its surface, could be distinctly seen approaching them (no, not aliens!) and a strong wind begins to blow as it draws nearer.

Is it a bird? A plane? No, it's......

A helicopter!

Ed snatches up Luke and Joseph as they try to bolt towards the middle of the clearing, where the helicopter has obviously chosen as its landing pad. How perfect, as if it were made for that very purpose. It hovers for a few moments before softly setting itself down and its engine is turned off. The wind dies down as the helicopter blades turn slower and slower.

"About time," declares Claudia, "before my hair gets totally whipped into a frenzy."

"To late." Ed says as he inspects her, trying to hide a wicked grin. And she elbows him in the ribs.

"Good thing Renie isn't out here," she teases, "or we would all be tangled up!"

By this time, a small curious crowd has gathered around the clearing. What wonders some of them have seen today, and this the strangest of all.... so far. They all wait anxiously, wondering who it could possibly be. Although a few have their suspicions.

Finally, when the blades come to a complete halt, the door opens and a woman with long wavy - almost curly - blonde hair, steps out. She is wearing a stunning black evening gown with a metallic silver thread pattern that is dazzling. Not to mention the sterling silver earrings, necklace and bracelet set with so many diamonds it would blind the sun.

"Oh, look," Ed muses, "she accessorizes to match her transportation.... ooufff.."

Claudia elbowed him harder, "Shhhhh, she might hear you!"

As the woman tries to get her bearings, she notices all the people staring at her. It doesn't bother her, though. She's used to it. She smiles at them as she makes every effort to be at her most elegant and graceful, but the helicopter trip made her a bit queasy.

A tall man now emerges from the door behind her and, to her annoyance, announces at the top of his lungs,
"All hail, the Empress of the Realm of Rickmania!"

As if in unison, everyone kneels in reverence before her. Everyone, that is, except the twins, who haven't taken there eyes off the helicopter.

"Oh, pleeeease!... I mean... thank you, everyone." she exclaims, "Really, you're too kind, thank you. Please rise."

A majestic looking men, whom she has never met in person but knows to be Valmont, steps forward. Lis looking on, suspiciously. "Enchanté. your Highness." he takes her hand and kisses her ring, "I had heard you were invited. You cannot know how delighted I am that you could grace us with your presence today." The Empress is not fooled by his honey coated words, for his reputation precedes him. But, all the same, she is intrigued. In fact, truth be told, she starts to feel week at his intense gaze. Or... was that still the affects of the helicopter ride. She wasn't sure.

"Oh, I'm so glad I made it here. I was beginning to think I was going to miss the entire thing!"

"Well, you're here now, that's what counts. And I wish you every enjoyment during your stay. If there is anything at all I can do for you, I am at your service."

Lis fumes and crosses her arms. Has he completely forgotten about my existence? But she managers to stay in control of herself. The last thing she wants is to 'lose it' in front of the Empress.

The Empress looks around. She hears the faint traces of a band playing. Ohhhh, I love that song. "Yes, actually. You could point me in the direction of the reception. I'm really anxious to see the newlyweds."

"Ah, well,... it's over there." He turnes to his left and she tries to follow his line of site, but she cannot make anything out, for the sun had already gone over the horizon and twilight was upon them. "But it might be a bit tricky getting there." he said, gesturing to the garden around them.

And that's when she realizes for the first time that they are in the middle of a maze! Hmmm... perhaps this wasn't such a great place to land, after all. She turns to her man, who is standing nearby, for suggestions, but he just shrugs.

To the Empress's utter delight, Valmont holds out his arm. "Here, allow me to show you the way."

Lis's jaw drops as the Empress takes Valmont's arm and he begins to escort her through the maze. The Empress's man is close behind, followed by the crowd, who had watched the whole spectacle in amusement. But now Lis is really furious.... and... a bit jealous. But the Empress is out of her reach... or is she? No! Don't even think about it, she tells herself, and tries to focus her attention on Valmont. Will he ever learn?... Will *I*??? She wonders why she keeps putting up with his libertine behavior. Little does she know the pang of envy the Empress feels for *her*. Ahead, she hears Valmont laugh. Oh, he's really asking for it now... And she starts to think of some new revenge to take out on him.

Just then, the twins squirm loose of Ed's grip and make a B-line towards the helicopter. The Empress turns around on hearing their squeals of laughter, and her man nearly runs into her. "Rupert, why don't you give the boys a tour of the helicopter. Show them how it works, let them press all the *safe* buttons. You know."

"But..." Rupert begins to protest, but stops short when he sees her stern stare directed at him. "As you wish, your Majesty." he surrenders and steps back.

"Oh, one more thing." She leans forward and whispers in his ear.

"Will fifteen minutes be sufficient?" he asks.

"Yes, that's fine." And once more she turns to Valmont and together they, along with the entourage she seems to have gathered, resume their exodus of the maze.

Lis lingers, deep in thought. Rupert, a very observant man, did not fail to recognize Lis's distress from almost the moment he and the Empress arrived, and makes an educated guess at what is bothering her. He glances back at the helicopter to see the twins have already climbed aboard. But before he excuses himself, he waits a few seconds more, and when all the others are out of hearing range, he tries to comfort her. "Don't worry," he says softly, "she's just using him." he winks at her, and Lis laughs, despite herself.

Mary Anne is not often at a loss for words. Circle this day in red, readers, for it is a momentous occasion.

"Renie . . . Hans . . ." she falters, then looks to Brandon for assistance as she takes refuge in a simple statement of truth. "I don't know what to say!"

"Nor I," adds the Colonel, no less moved. "We are deeply honoured. It is indeed a wonderful gift."

The spell of the moment passes and the guests crowd around to inspect the building model and exclaim over the design as Hans points out its various features, and Mary Anne goes quietly to Renie and puts her arms around her friend's neck in a long, heartfelt hug.

There are times when no words are adequate. And there are other times when no words are necessary.

Eventually this moment passes as well, and the two women are able to dry their eyes and return to an appropriate mood of festivity--for the toasts have only begun, to be followed by the cake-cutting, and bouquet-flinging, and . . .

Mary Anne shivers a little. Nervous. Undeniably nervous. But . . . curious as well. A blend of apprehension and anticipation . . .

Renie's whisper at her ear. Teasing, yes--unable to resist that ribbing about the wedding night that is so much a part of these occasions--but reassuring. "Mary Anne, don't look so scared! Everything's going to be all right."

Mary Anne is a little irritated, not at Renie, but at herself, wondering if her nervousness is that obvious to everyone present. Her reply is a trifle sharper than she had intended it to be. "Don't look scared?" she mutters in return. "Yeah, and what were you like, your first time--"

The words have scarcely left Mary Anne's lips when she realizes what that first time may have been like, for Renie, as well as who the man in question might have been . . . and she feels ready to sink through the floor with shame as Renie responds, gently: "Do you really want to know?"

Mary Anne shakes her head. "No. I do not, and I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, Renie. I am a little scared, I suppose . . ."

"Of Christopher? You know he'd never hurt you."

"Well . . ." Mary Anne blushes, and looks about to make sure they cannot be overheard. "No more than he can help, but that's not it . . . Renie, we've waited so long. I--I want to please him, that's all . . ."

This is a golden opportunity for more of Renie's wedding-night humour. And under normal circumstances she might indeed needle Mary Anne, knowing and expecting that her friend is fully capable of defending herself. However, looking into Mary Anne's pale and earnest face--those wide eyes and trembling lips--Renie smiles, instead, and pats Mary Anne's arm soothingly. "Dearest, you please him simply by being alive. I doubt whether there's anything you could do tonight that he wouldn't love." Renie's eyes twinkle. "Short of setting the bed on fire, with him in it!"

Mary Anne pulls herself together, determined to overcome her wedding nerves, and replies with equal mischief: "Setting the bed on fire? Now there's an idea . . ."

The level of teasing quickly escalates, though it must be recorded for history, readers, that Renie carries off the victory in this particular contest when she whispers some appropriate remarks in Mary Anne's ear about the amount of heat that can be generated by friction . . .

Mary Anne's whoop of laughter, mingled with Renie's, catches Brandon's attention as he is inspecting the building model, and he gives an exaggerated sigh of resignation. "They are at it again, Hans."

Hans returns sigh for sigh, with a shake of his head. "Ja, that they are."

The two men exchange a glance--and a smile that is hardly more than a crinkling of the eyes.

A look that speaks carefully archived volumes.

Once the interested guests have inspected the building model to their satisfaction--and Mary Anne and Renie have reached a stage, finally, where they can look at each other without bursting into laughter--the toasts continue.

Hans is a hard act to follow, but Eamon de Valera steps bravely into the breach, determined that this couple shall not go their way unblessed by an Irish toast.

Dev raises his glass, and, glancing around the company of friends, he intones: "I give you one of the toasts of Ireland, appropriate for such a happy gathering as this." He clears his throat. "May the roof above us never fall in--and may those of us gathered beneath it never fall out."

Waves of response. Murmurs of "Yes" and "Hear!" and the ring of tapped crystal . . .

Hans stops next to the cart. Renie is at his side, holding two glasses of champagne. Suddenly servants appear throughout the crowd with silver trays of liquid refreshment for all. The first, but not last toast to the happy couple. Brandon and Mary Anne advance towards Hans Renie, then stand nearby, like men at a mark.

The man of power in the blue-black tuxedo begins, "Ladies and gentlemen . . . " A hush over the party-goers . . .

"Today, I was privileged to tender Miss Mary Anne to another . . . " A significant look at Mary Anne. She cannot fail to understand his meaning. She smiles at Hans. " . . . a very worthy man, who was kind enough to deliver my wife to me. My thanks to Colonel Brandon. I was pleased to return the favor." Light titters of laughter and applause . . .

The listeners look quickly from Hans to Colonel Brandon, who beams, his arm encircling the slim, soft, white waist of his wedded love. Mary Anne, singularly blissful. Hans continues when the applause subsides. "Colonel Brandon's happiness is assured this day--and this night." Hans' tiger-eyes glint gold as he recites, "For to the best bride bed will he, which by us shall blessed be; and the issue there create, ever shall be fortunate."

Diggory Venn roars at this quote from Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and makes the others bold. They clap a bit louder than before, encouraging Hans. Hans raises his hand to quell them. He needs no encouragement.

"And Mrs. Brandon?" Mary Anne nods, listening. "Good luck."

Goot luck. Mary Anne blushes from young cranberry to reddist rose. Renie hands Hans a glass brimming with champagne. Mary Anne and Brandon raise their glasses. And Hans' voice booms over the hills surrounding Delaford. "To the Brandons!"

"The BRANDONS!" The clinking of glasses, rounds of, "Hear, hear!" And Father Grigori's voice, from under a chair, to a passing tray-bearing servant: "Here!! HERE!"

More cheers. And the voice of Mrs. Jennings can be heard with reference to Raz: "A jot too keen on the wine, but such a dancer!"

As everyone sips, Hans and Renie exchange a few words, and some men of the Hansbank roll in a tall flat white-sheeted object which looks like it might be a very large wheeled blackboard. Except that its covered in white. The two men remain at its side, until they are needed in a few minutes.

The chatter quiets, since Hans has taken hold of the middle of the sheet laying over the cart. He's going to unveil--something. "This gift was a challenge to wrap, but, Mary Anne, my wife agreed, it will be a perfect fit." Hans, with a mix of eclat, pride and gratified amusement, whisks the sheet from the cart.

Layed out on the top of the cart is a three-dimensional structure. It is a building. Well, no, not a real building, a model of a building--a very large building. The model's scale suggests a rather mammoth institute of some sort. But not white, and not modern, its style is distinctly that of--Egdon Heath. Lovingly created to be architecturally beautiful, and fitted to its surroundings.

"May I present the first proper hospital in Wessex: *The Brandon Medical Center and Research Institute*.

Gasps and a huge roar from the guests, once their disbelief evaporates.

Mary Anne gasps--there is no other word for it--at Renie--"You're giving us a hospital?!"

Renie giggles, so very pleased. "It was Hans' idea. For the woman--and the man--" Renie presses her hand against Brandon, "--who have everything. It will have a trauma center, infant care, elder care, and a research team is lined up to do cancer research." Do you like it, dearest?"

As Mary Anne tries to please nearly every man with a dance or at least part of one, the women are enjoying the changing of partners not one iota less, and even Lis is obliged to let Valmont go for a few spins. One of these spins is with Renie, by way of public apology, and Valmont has the presence of mind not to make it a tango, or anything too risque. A slow dance, at a forgiving and respectful distance. Lis and Ed spin together, leaving Claudia and Hans to trade witticisms (his)--and a few batted eyelashes (hers)--at close quarters.

Finally, though, Hans has a chance to dance with his wife. And dance they do. No, they do not attempt an Irish jig; the first is a slow jazz classic, the second, a Latin version of "Under the Boardwalk." Equally at home in any musical genre, equally at home in each other's arms. And equally happy. Then their third and last dance of the party as the evening beckons . . .

And when the distinctive 4/4 beat of Motown hits the dance floor almost every else does too.

Doot . . . doot-doot, doot . . . doot . . .

The horns blow it sweet and cool, the insistent bass backbeat making bodies pulse . . .

I--I'm so in love with you,
Whatever you want to do
Is allright with meeee--
You make me feel so brand newww
I--hiii--want to spend my life with you.

Baby . . .
Since we been together
Loving you forever
Is what I nee-hee-heee-heeed
Let me the one you come running toooooo
I'll never be uh-hun-true, oh baby, Let's--let's stay together,
Loving you whether,
Whether times are good or bad or happy or sad . . .

Ooohhhh, oohhh, yeah . . .
Whether times are god or bad or happy or sad . . .

Renie will always remember this day, and this night. This dance. This man. These people. This place. This wonderful place.

The music starts again, and Hamlet wonders if Andrea feels up to a dance. "Andrea, I would be terribly disappointed if we did not have at least one dance this day. Perhaps something slow?"

Andrea drains another glass of wine. "Only if you allow me to lean on you."

Meanwhile, Doctor Mesmer catches sight of Commander Hudson on the side of the room. As he approaches her, he notices her distress. "Commander, are you feeling unwell?"

Hudson is glad to see Mesmer. Perhaps he can shed some light. "A slight headache. Nothing serious. Doctor, you were present when Andrea gave her account of the assault. Do you recall where she claimed to have scratched The Sheriff?"

Mesmer thinks a moment. "Let's see. She used her left hand... and was aiming for his eye... Yes. His right cheek, just below his eye. Why do you ask?"

Hudson shakes her head. "That's exactly how it reads in the report. Doctor, would you mind leaving the party with me. I have something to show you--someone I want you to meet."

Renie: "I'll wait for you to--move it?" LOL! And "yummy noises": I knew that seemed familiar when I wrote it!

Therese: Nice to meet you. I am enjoying your posts.

The line forms on the right, gentlemen . . .

No sooner does Mary Anne leave the side parlour than she is mobbed by the men who have not yet had their "turn" and insist upon it most fervently, cutting in upon each other in their eagerness. First, Anton Gruber, before whom some of the pressing gents give way in awe that they are not willing to admit--the "Hans of the future," touched with a gravity that is little short of majesty . . . but he is still able to "cut a rug."

Ed and Colin, twirling Mary Anne around, making a mock-ferocious show of cutting each other out every few minutes, until the matter is settled by the intervention of Diggory Venn, who has not yet had his chance and isn't about to give it up for anybody . . .

But the most amusing development of this dance set occurs when Raz, who has conceived a grudging respect for the Irish "cold feesh" who was able to deck him, dares Dev to a "challenge" dance, gambling that the rather constrained Irishman will not be equal to the vigour of the kazatsky . . . and gets the surprise of his life when Dev, with a little half-smile on his face and a glint of amusement behind his spectacles, sweeps Therese out onto the floor and proceeds to show Raz a thing or two about physical culture, in the form of a whirlwind Irish jig.

Mary Anne can quite honestly plead exhaustion after her earlier efforts, and is quite content to stand by, laughing and clapping, as Diggory and Tamsie join in the contest and clear the floor with their rendition of one of the country gavottes of Egdon, their hands joined, leaping and stamping and circling as everyone pounds their hands together in the vigorous rhythm . . .

Not Riverdance. But close. Very close indeed.

Delaford rings with laughter and fun, as it has not for years. Cheerful and indulgent smiles on the faces of the Delaford staff, as they go about the house on their various duties--reflecting that their new mistress appears to have entered her home with joy, and that is all to the good for everyone present. A time, indeed, for giving thanks . . .

And Mary Anne, flushed with laughter and excitement over Diggory and Tamsie's display, is completely self-forgotten in the occasion . . . until she feels an arm about her shoulders, and hears Renie's voice at her ear: "Are we having fun yet, dearest?"

Renie pulls Colin away before Ed--or Claudia--can land one on his kisser. "Come on--I need to find Hans. He's probably looking for me. I hope I haven't missed all the presents."

Colin and Renie head for the side parlour, and meet Hans on his way out. For a moment, seeing Renie, Hans remembers his promise to Mary Anne, that he will stay his hand, as far as his honor allowed, if he should come face to face with HIM. Hans wonders if Mary Anne realizes what a gift he has given to her.

It is certain that Hans realizes, and realizes that there is little he would not do for Mary Anne. As her friend.

Yes, Hans Gruber, savoring the joy of friendship. His mood is expansive. "Colin, thank-you for all your work. I think it's time Mary Anne opened another present, don't you?"

Another few minutes, some activity, and the three of them await Mary Anne's re-entrance into the main ballroom.

"Christopher! Wait!" Renie shoos him away. "I--I have some, some, ahhhhh, articles of, ummmm, that is . . . "

Colonel Brandon catches no hint of Renie's real distress, attributing it to her apparent bashfulness of having him discover her "couture de boudoir." "Very well. I'll wait for you to--move it?"

Accckkkk. Right. Excuse me, but close your eyes while I just move this body over here to my top drawers! ARGH!!! Renie swallows. She should just tell him. It might ruin his wedding night, but at least she wouldn't be alone in trying to hide this secret from Mary Anne . . .

Sighing, she opens the door, and steps back, "I should have told you about this, but I just didn't want anything to ruin tonight--" She closes her eyes, waits for Brandon's cry of anger and horror . . .

She hears Brandon's voice. "Ah, yessssss. Well, will I find this in the nuptial bed this evening?"

Renie opens her eyes. The Interrogator! Gone! Inside the armoire, her hanging clothes are pushed to one side, and one lacy piece of night wear hangs separately from the others, as if someone had indeed "chosen" it.

Escaped! "No!" blurts Renie, realizing that she must sound as sane as Mrs. Jennings' mother, who spoke to currant jam regularly.

Brandon reaches down to Renie's forehead, and gently rests the back of his fingers against it. "You don't seem unwell. Though you are warm, and look a bit pale."

Unwell? No. Out of my mind! "Never mind me, Christopher. Let's get your version of the Highwayman," she utters, sliding the drawer of the closet trunk open. She nods and sighs. "It's empty."

Brandon smacks his lips. His staff had been too thorough, after all, and had spoiled his plan. "It seems I am destined to borrow the things you brought from Egdon." As Brandon gathers the garments, footsteps approach, and he flings the things towards Renie's bed, so as not to be seen with them.

Lis, alone this time, walks by. Sticks her head in , and whispers, conspiratorially, "Visiting, again! You'll be missed downstairs, Colonel Brandon!" Then she picks her chin up high, and walks on, a perfect parody of the sleuthing "actresse."

A look from Brandon, which Renie answers only with a helpless shrug. "She must be hearing voices."

With a quick hug of thanks for the disguise, Brandon again gathers the vestments of the Highwayman. In the doorway, he leans in, a perfect parody of Lis. "Act nor-mally." Brandon lifts his chin up high, a bundle of black hidden under his arm, and is gone.

Normally. Renie sits on the bed for a minute. HE is gone. And Brandon's Highwayman garments are gone. I'm not going to think about this. I'm going downstairs. Getting a nice, big, fat glass of champagne, and . . .

She makes it to the bathroom just in time.

A short while later, she is downstairs. Colonel Brandon has already rejoined the party, and Hans motions for Renie to join him.

Suddenly, a huge hug squeezes the breath out of her.

"Renie! Are you having a good time?!" grins Claudia. "I wonder if Mary Anne--or the Colonel--has opened up our gift yet!" A giggle from Claudia, as Ed kisses Renie on the cheek.

"Absolutely," smiles Renie, hugging Claudia back. "Why don't all of us line up and do 'Riverdance'!"

Such a statement shows Renie's distracted state of mind, for it can be dangerous to suggest anything far-fetched to her fun-loving friend, who will probably be the first in line.

Reverently, she lifts Andrea's candlesticks from their box and reads the accompanying note.

Hans sees the tears come to her eyes once more, and extends his hand for the note--but gives her a questioning look first, asking permission, and Mary Anne silently hands over the letter, reflecting on the passages about Andrea having no home of her own . . . the candles adding to the "brilliant illumination" already present at Delaford . . .

My mother would certainly approve my choice of your hands as being most deserving . . .

Hans finishes the note and hands it back to Mary Anne. "There," he says. "You see? Andrea has a very high opinion of you."

Mary Anne leans against the wall beside the table, staring out the window. Daylight fading . . .

"Oh, Hans," she murmurs, "if only she knew. She--well, I don't know what she'd do. There's some connection between her and The Interrogator. I don't understand it. Andrea--" Mary Anne hesitates. "Andrea is very intuitive, extremely sensitive to people's emotions--and she's nobody's fool. Sooner or later, she'll figure it out. I believe she already knows that Christopher and I were both missing from the Safehouse at the same time that HE went missing from the prison. Not only that--" A little groan of despair from Mary Anne, for she has only just remembered. "I told her, in a note I wrote to invite her to the wedding, that she might hear some strange talk about me. She doesn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to put it all together! She will, soon enough, and then she'll despise me!"

"Stop that," orders Hans. Quiet, but commanding. The handkerchief is at the ready, but Mary Anne waves it off; she has herself under control now. "Good," says Hans, tucking the silk away, as Mary Anne smiles a little to herself. Goot. As Hans escorts her further down the tables, away from the candlesticks. "Mary Anne, I do not know Andrea so well as you do, but from all reports, she is a sensible woman. Everyone else has understood when you explained it to them. So will she."

Mary Anne is not so sure, but she is not about to argue with the formidable Hans Gruber. She summons a brave smile, instead, and murmurs, "They are beautiful candlesticks, after all. But . . . it's the letter I'll value the most."

Hans steers her along as smoothly as if they were still dancing. "Ach, here's another that has not been opened." He hands Mary Anne the card.

"This one's from Claudia and Ed," she replies, and, slitting the wrapping paper with a fingernail, she peels it away and lifts the lid of the box . . .

. . . only to blush brick-red at the contents and hastily close the box . . .

"What was it, Mary Anne?" queries the highly amused Herr Gruber, reaching for the box, which Mary Anne tries--in vain--to shift out of his reach. "Err--well . . ."

Mary Anne resigns herself to the inevitable. "It's lingerie, Hans," and she slowly opens the box again.

The initial surge of shyness past, Mary Anne decides that the contents of the box are not so embarrassing as she had expected. Lingerie, yes, quite a selection of it--and some of it racy enough to give testimony to Claudia's sense of humour. But the selections have been chosen with an eye to Mary Anne's tastes and appearance, for there is no bright red. It simply isn't her coulour. The shimmering dainties in this package, touched here and there with silk ribbons and frothed with lace, glow in the soft colours that suit Mary Anne best: rose and violet and deep blue-green . . . and there, at the bottom of the box . . .

One in black. A sort of jacket . . .

The material is gauzy, semi-transparent, with a trim of soft plumy marabou feathers at the neck and cuffs. There is a note pinned to it.

Claudia's handwriting. This ought to "tickle" Brandon's fancy!

Mary Anne grins over the joke--typical Claudia--and at the little "smiley" face that follows it.

The note continues. We wish you all the happiness in the world. Let me know what the Colonel thinks of these naughty bits!

And then, Ed's handwriting. Mary Anne, would Brandon kill me if I asked you to model for me in some of these? There follows Ed's version of the grinning face, with an interjection in Claudia's writing: If Brandon didn't kill you, *I* would!!!!

The note ends with Lots of love, in Claudia's lettering, and then with their signatures.

But aside from the lingerie, Claudia has thoughtfully tucked a couple of other items into the box as well: a lovely blue wrap of fine-gauge merino wool, from the best New Zealand lambs . . . a coral and crystal paperweight--Great Barrier Reef, perhaps? And a beautiful little NZ calendar. Lost in admiration over a photograph of Glendhu Bay, it is some time before Mary Anne is aware, from the noise level outside the parlour door, that it is time for the final dance sets of the evening.

Yes. Getting on towards evening now. Light fading from the sky . . .

"Hans, be an angel, will you?"

"I believe you called me a devil, earlier," he growls. Playfully.

"Well, I'm sorry, then. Don't be one now! But if you'd go out and make my excuses to the guests? I'll be out for the dancing in just a few minutes."

"Very well." A pause. "If I may make a suggestion--"

"Of course."

Hans raises an eyebrow at the gift box Mary Anne is still holding. "Some of the contents of that box . . . should not, perhaps, be on such public display?"

Hans. Perfectly straight-faced. No laughter at his lips, but his eyes, sparkling at her with such fun that Mary Anne cannot help grinning back. "Quite right, she says, and tucks the more . . . revealing . . . items of lingerie under the wool wrap, then closes the box and returns it to its place among the gifts.

"Go ahead, Hans. I'll be right out . . ."

Only a few moments ago, Looey had appeared quietly at Hudson's side, and confided that Joanna McCoy had examined this "George" again--and yes, his objections had been just as strenuous--without finding the least mark on him.

Hudson's head aches. They cannot hold him without proof, but Hudson dares not release him to roam the party and happen upon Andrea unexpectedly; the results could be disastrous, even if George is speaking the truth. This George.

Dire possibilities arise before Hudson. Was it the duplicate who attacked Andrea, and their George who is innocent of the crime? Or is it the other way around--have they arrested the duplicate?

The duplicate . . . ?

What if there is more than one?!

A few asides.

R--Hans may be a devil, but sometimes I think you are the devil! The Highwayman strikes again!! ACCCKKKKK!! Hmmmm. Should Brandon reserve the costume for me alone, or show up downstairs in it for the delectation of everyone? Decisions, decisions . . . *wicked grin* And Mister I in your armoire, good grief. What next? 8-D

Andrea. I've already thanked you, but I'm still tearing up over those candlesticks. They shall deserve a special mention . . . meanwhile, you must be making Hamlet almost as crazy as I'm making Brandon. And I wonder what George (whichever one of him this is!) is doing . . .

Therese, I am enjoying every minute of your posts; I'm so glad you've joined us. Dev has been neglected for far too long! As Leigh is doing with Lukas Hart, you're putting your own stamp on the character, and I love it. And thanks for the beautiful tablecloth.

Now, back to the party of parties . . .

Andrea frowns and sips her wine. She wonders if Hamlet has been keeping count of how many glasses she has drained so far. She spins around to glare at him.

Hamlet is truly surprised to have angered her. "What did I say?"

Andrea immediately backs down. She is overreacting, and she knows it. She lowers her eyes to the floor. "Forgive me?"

Hamlet raises a plate of food in front of her downturned face. "Only if you have something to eat."

Andrea hadn't gone near the food tables, so she is amazed by the variety of tasty morsels on the plate. "It's too much, Hamlet."

Unsure of what might tempt Andrea, Hamlet dished up a little of everything. "We can share. Here, taste this."

Mesmer had warned Hamlet that Andrea might be adverse to using silverware. So, he pinches a small piece of chicken between his thumb and forefinger. Holding the tidbit at Andrea's lips, he waits for her response.

Andrea looks up at Hamlet. He doesn't seem to be up to any mischief. She glances to the left and then to the right. Nobody is watching them. She parts her lips, bites the morsel, and closes her lips around it. While chewing, she makes yummy noises. She swallows, smiles at Hamlet, and sips her wine.

She decides to reward Hamlet for not taking advantage of having his fingers past her lips. When he presents her with a tortellini, she opens her mouth and lets him place it on her tongue, brushing her lips against his thumb as she closes her mouth.

Dev looked over to the dance floor where Raz was attempting to tango with his bottle of Madeira. 1-2-3-sliiiide, gulp, turn, gulp... "I believe I'll accompany you," he said with a nod toward the drunken Russian. Taking her hand, he led her from the room.

"Where have your bags been placed?" Therese asked as they approached her doorway.

Dev indicated the threshold across the hall with a small grin. "Colonel Brandon has had us placed in separate accomidations in his quaint, old world way. I would have expected no less... However, he has also made things quite convenient for us as well."

"Does this mean that I'm going to have to bar my door this evening?" Therese teased as she entered her room.

Without a verbal response, Eamon swept her into the room with him, and kicked the door shut behind him with his foot. Turning her body to face him, Therese could feel the cold, stone wall pressing into her shoulderblades as the force of his kiss pushed her backwards.

"What was that for?" Therese asked dreamily, several minutes later.

"No ees cold feesh," Dev replied, his tone mocking Raz's earlier assesment of him.

"No, dearest, you definitely have never been that ," Therese smiled, reaching to straighten his spectacles,which had been knocked slightly askew. "In fact, I'd say that your Latin heritage stands you in good stead in that regard."

Eamon frowned at her words. "I don't believe the Colls of County Limerick would be pleased to hear you disparage their manhood in that way. All of those lads are my cousins--and you can be sure that we're known as a randy lot."

Therese laughed at his words, and the brogue that thickened as he spoke of his beloved family. "I'm afraid I'll simply have to take your word for that , Mr. De Valera." She laced her hands behind his head and drew his face down to her own, kissing him softly. "Besides, there's only one lad from County Limerick who appeals to me."

She stepped back from him several moments later, and turned to pick up the present from where she'd left it on the bed. "We'd probably better get this gift down with the others before anyone notices that we're gone."

Eamon nodded and took the gift from her. Instead of heading for the door, however, he gazed down at his lady appreciatively. Her trim form was shown off to its best advantage in the streamlined black dress that she wore, and her huge brown eyes regarded him lovingly. "I've a mind to forget all about the party, you know," he told her, his rich voice caressing her ears.

"And leave the newlyweds to begin their marriage without an Irish toast?"

Dev sighed. "You're right," he acknowledged, tucking the present, a hand made, Irish lace tablecloth,under one arm and extended the other to Therese. "In that case, until tonight?"

"Nonsense. It has to be in here. Trust me," he grins. Then his face flickers--"Renie, surely you don't think--" Renie is quick to shake her head. No, it's true, she isn't thinking. She is acting like someone who has something--or someone--to hide. She manages to laugh. "We could talk privately in the parlor downstairs."

She pauses, with what she hopes seems like nonchalance. But the Colonel is eager. "In here, if you don't mind. There's something I want to show you."

Crossing her toes for luck, Renie opens the door. Brandon's left hand motions for her to enter first. She does, he follows.

There is nothing that looks amiss in her room. Except for Brandon's expression.

His face is full blown mischief. "I've made some plans for tonight--I want it to be--everything it should be, for Mary Anne." What on earth is he getting at? wonders Renie, trying to listen with full attention. He turns and paces a bit, which makes Renie smile. He feels very comfortable with her--enough to act like himself, as if he were talking to himself. He continues. "I believe she will be nervous--and I know that she likes play a bit--What I mean is, that her flair for drama and sense of humour--" Brandon twists his hands together. "Do you think that this evening should be entirely serious? Oh, well, of course, I'm serious about it, but--"

Renie takes pity on him. She moves to her bed and reaches under it. Pulling out a suitcase, she opens it up. Brandon cannot imagine what she is doing.

The suitcase reveals . . . socks. Pairs and pairs of them, stuffed to the gills. "Ooooppssss," she giggles, "wrong suitcase. That one's for Hans and I." She returns it and slides out another. Brandon is gobsmacked.

This suitcase reveals . . . the vestments of . . .

The Highwayman.

Brandon is laughing, and not just laughing, he is howling hysterically. Renie is sure that he has lost his mind. Marriage can do that.

"You brought them from Egdon!" Renie nods. "We two think alike," he wipes his eyes, and settles down. Roars like these will attract attention to his presence in Renie's room. And he wants this to be a surprise.

"I have had my own made, for the occasion. I was gong to ask you if you thought--well, in light of all that's happened, whether it would be wise--"

"Christopher, Mary Anne loves a good laugh, and a good surprise. And she loves you. I cannot think how this would go astray. Besides, what woman would refuse you, in these?" Renie holds up the dashing black cloak.

Brandon's heart is dancing. What a night this will be! "Here--let me show you mine--only slightly different. I left the costume and accessories in here, so my staff and Mary Anne wouldn't find them. I knew this would be your room . . . "

Renie's laughter turns to horror, as Brandon walks towards the walnut armoire.

"There right in here--I'm surprised you didn't notice them when you unpacked--here, in the large trunk at the bottom."

His hands hover at the door of the armoire.

"Christopher! Wait!"

She flashes back . . .

Renie wished that there had been instructions with the Black Orchid--how long would the Interrogator be incapacitated? No way to know for sure. A few hours, she guessed, which would give her time to sort out what should be done. For God knows, she has no idea. She looked from his slumped body, then at the huge walnut armoire, and a second later had thrown open both of the armoire doors. The left side was full of drawers. However, she looked approvingly at the sizable space on the right side, where her hanging clothes brushed the bottom of a single large trunk-like drawer which she had not had use for, though her suitcases, as we know, had number three.

Hmmm. . . She dragged his body to the armoire. No one, no one in one piece, that is, could fit in that trunk, so Renie opted for settling him on top of it, then replacing her hanging gowns and such. It was overkill, really to fuss about with the clothes hanging in front of the Interrogator, since no one was gong to enter her room, let alone rummage about in her closet during the party., But, rarely one for moderation and a perfectionist in the oddest of endeavors, Renie fusses until every bit of HIM is obscured, even when the doors are thrown open.

Resolved to try and forget about what has happened, Renie slips her pinot noir silk dress on over her shoulders, and slides it into place. A few brushes to her hair. A spot of color of her face. A deep breath.

She pauses at her door. If she locks it, Alliance Rose agents may believe something is amiss inside, and investigate. But if it is left open, her room will likely be undisturbed.

Or so she hopes, as she closes the door, and dashes down to the party . . .

Dissolve to: Real time.

Renie, almost at her door, glad that no one has followed her or accompanied her, as suddenly she is aware of someone at her side. Absorbed in her thoughts, she had not heard anyone.

"Colonel Brandon!"

Brandon smiles a winning smile. "So formal--after our tango?" he teases. "I'm glad came up here alone, there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a some time." Brandon looks around. No one in sight, in a house that is fairly well full of people. He knows Renie will be discreet. "May we--just this once--be in your guestroom together?"

Mary Anne meets the gaze of Hans Gruber and steadily returns that gaze. "No, Hans, not in the sense you mean." At the questioning lift of his eyebrow, she clarifies: "The Interrogator is not going to hurt her--she's 'safe' from HIM, if anyone is. He loves her as much as he's capable of loving anyone."

A noise of contempt from Hans. "Yes, I've seen how much HE loves her. So much that he gave her that drug that almost--" He has to stop for a moment. The memory . . . Hans Gruber, proud and ruthless, on the verge of angry tears, but he fiercely wills them away and finishes. "--that almost killed her."

"That was when HE thought he could still win her back, if only he had her there with him. Now he knows better. I tell you, Hans, I saw HIS mind. There are details about HIS organization, things I don't remember--codes and procedures that didn't stay with me, I supposed because HE is conditioned not to remember them or think about them unless it's necessary. But I do remember--" A shiver, and Mary Anne rubs her arms to warm herself. "--some general things. HE is terribly bitter about Renie, yes. And . . . deeply hurt. She's the love of HIS life, and he knows he can never have her again." Quietly. "You've won her for your own, and HE knows it. Show some pity."

"No pity!" spits Hans. "Never! When--" Again, that choked feeling in his throat, harder to master. "When I think of her lying behind that glass . . . or of sitting there beside her at Venn's, wondering if it was too late--no. He deserves no pity."

Mary Anne resettles herself in her chair, her eye briefly caught by her shoes--her wedding slippers, yet another of Brandon's gifts to her: lovely kid slippers ornamented with a design of seed pearls at the toe. But thinking of what she is discussing with Hans, Mary Anne is not seeing that soft cream slipper, but a black stiletto-heeled boot . . .

She sighs. "I suppose I'm in no position to counsel you to pity, Hans. Not after what I did to HIM."

"You were under the influence of THEIR machine, Mary Anne. It was not your fault."

"No?" Mary Anne rises from her chair and advances to within a yard of Hans, looking him in the eye. "Hans, did anyone ever tell you what happened while you were in Diggory's van, waiting for Renie to revive?"

Hans is puzzled. "Only that you had a chance to kill The Interrogator . . . and you spared HIM instead."

"Yes. And you told me that I should have killed HIM when I had a chance. What you weren't told is--" Her breathing is ragged at the memory. "--I enjoyed it. Where was THEIR machine, then? I thought Renie was dead, and there HE was . . . I asked the Colonel to loan me his sword, and he did. What a risk he took--I see his purpose now, but at the time, everyone thought I was going to kill The Interrogator. I thought so myself. I held the point at his heart . . . I was dreadful, Hans. It frightens me to think of it, even now . . ."

Mary Anne is shivering, and though they are standing in full view of the open door, Hans briefly rests his hands on her shoulders until she calms herself and continues. "HE . . . has courage; give him credit for that. He was afraid, but he didn't plead. He asked for nothing. He thought Renie was dead, and I don't think he really cared if he lived or died--but I was cruel to him. I cut a button off of his shirt to taunt him, told him that I had always wondered what it was like for him, doing the things he does . . . and said I knew, at last."

Mary Anne has been near to tears several times this day, but has managed to control them. No more. Now they spill over, running quietly down her face. "I thought I knew then. But I had no idea. None. Now I really know, God help me . . ."

Quietly, Hans passes her his fine silk handkerchief. He might, under other circumstances, hold and comfort her . . . but there is that open door. He settles instead for a half-smile. "Don't, Mary Anne. Do you want to spoil your eyes for Colonel Brandon? What will he think if he sees you like this?"

That gets the desired result--some laughter through her tears, as Mary Anne performs mopping-up operations and returns the handkerchief.

"I'm all right," she assures him. "But . . . this is a memory I have to live with. I spared HIS life on the heath, but I think that the wrongs he has done me since have been--fully revenged. I don't know what Christopher told you . . ."

Hans leads Mary Anne back to her armchair and seats her, then himself, before he replies. "Almost everything." Quietly. "That you captured and tortured HIM. And . . ." The gleam in those Gruber eyes escapes analysis. "That HE bore it bravely. If you were driven by HIS evil--"

"Yes. Apparently, something of my . . . goodness . . . was bestowed on him, for a time."

"From the way he behaved, it speaks well of you."

"Perhaps. But just as some of the evil was mine, some of the goodness was HIS." Once again, Mary Anne turns her gaze toward Hans. This time, however, there is no deliberate manipulation in that wide-eyed gaze, only a sincere plea--one, she reflects, that might almost be for herself. For she has shared The Interrogator's mind, and is in the unenviable position of understanding HIM better than any other human being possibly could. "Hans, I don't think HE is completely ruined. Pretty nearly, yes. But there's something there, still. Something worthwhile. I know you hate HIM, and I don't blame you, after what he's made you suffer. I don't ask you to forgive him, but . . . stay your hand, where HE is concerned. If you possibly can. I know with all the Hansbank resources behind you, you could probably track him down and kill him, but . . ."

Hans does not reply for a moment. He considers what Mary Anne is asking, and whether this is a favour he can possibly grant.

She smiles at him. "Can you refuse me on my wedding day?"

A sharp smile in return. "Yes. I could, if it were not a promise I could keep. Mary Anne, have you considered that by asking me to stay my hand, as you put it, you are leaving HIM free to do more harm? As you say, you have been in HIS mind. After what you saw there, do you really think he should be left free?"

"No. But I want to see justice done--not murder. Because of what I have seen . . ." A pause. " . . . and been, I want to take more care than ever not to become like HIM. And to protect--" Mary Anne looks shyly at Hans. "--those I care for . . . those I--" She glances down again. "--love, from ever becoming like HIM, as well. Hans, I'm not telling you not to use your resources. Keep an eye on HIM, by all means. Protect Renie, by every means possible! And use your judgment about what is best to be done. But . . . spare HIM, so far as your honour allows."

The powerful and ruthless Hans Gruber--former exceptional thief, killer, maker of mayhem, tough guy extraordinaire--somehow manages not to melt like ice cream on a hot sidewalk before those entreating blue eyes lifted to his once more. Instead, he considers the problem for a moment, then smiles and nods. "Very well. Because it is your wedding day, Mary Anne. Be warned, however, that I will use my judgment, which may be of a slightly different order than yours. And if I think that Renie--or you, or Brandon, for that matter, or any of our friends--is in danger from that man, I will not hesitate to act. Otherwise, I will spare him, 'so far as my honour allows.' That is all I can promise."

"That is all I ask. Thank you."

Hans rises and offers his arm, which Mary Anne takes. "Now, for something more enjoyable. Would you like to show me your wedding presents?"

"I'd love to--" Mary Anne frowns. "Oh, but what time is it getting to be?"

Hans consults his Baume & Mercier, and Mary Anne is surprised that only a few moments have passed; it had seemed like hours.

"Good! Then we have a little time--"

A little time. Morning has worn into afternoon, and afternoon has passed imperceptibly into late afternoon. Time, soon, to cut the cake . . . the ritual of the wedding toasts . . . throwing her bouquet from the Delaford grand staircase . . .

. . . and then . . .

"Is something the matter, Mary Anne?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

A glance out the door. Still no sign of Brandon in the crowd. Or Renie. What could they be about--?

Mary Anne shakes it off and walks with Hans to the gift displays. "Here, Hans. Oh, some of them haven't even been opened yet!" A mischievous grin. "Do you think Christopher would mind . . . ?"

I'm not trying to be pushy, dearest, but that Argentine tango tells me your husband is not going to be patient much longer! The man was sizzling! Yowza!

The envelope. HIS stationery. On her bed.

The package . . . long and somewhat thin . . .

"Give it to Commander Hudson?! Not on your life. I'm not spoiling this wedding, Mary Anne will know nothing of this. Not if I can--"

Her emotions betray her defenses, and HE twists her arm behind her before she can do anything. A tiny involuntary yelp escapes her--more out of surprise than pain, though it does hurt a bit--

HIS voice. At her ear. "It's a *smaaaaaaaall* thing that I ask, you would be advised to--"

With a twist, Renie spins HIM onto the bed, and lands a kick which causes HIM to double up in pain . . . for a few crucial seconds HE desperately struggles to get up and off the bed . . .

Stepping back, partly in horror at his pained look, Renie understands the reason he is struggling so . . . She bolts from her room, leaning on the door outside of it--as if that would be of any help . . .

Be stronger than the gates of Harfleur . . .

When, after two minutes, the door does not fly open, nor budge, Renie opens it and returns inside . . .

There . . . HE had made it to the window. No further. Thank goodness it was still open. The slumped body of a gardener, in plain clothes, HIS spectacles still in place.

She feels for HIS heart--yes, HE has one. Lays her head against HIS chest. And yes, it beats.

On the bed, the ordinary-looking cloth slipped off, and the remnants of a long thin glass box, in pieces.

Among the shards of the thin glass box lays a single flower. Its long stem, stretching out, beneath, and connected to, the delicate bloom .

A Black Orchid.

Clipped. For travel.

Gift-boxed.

The envelope is addressed to Mary Anne. Without pause, Renie rips it open.

Mary Anne,

If you think of me, on this, your wedding night, it shall please me. If you find that something is missing, tonight, or any night, then break this glass.

The note is unsigned. As if anyone would not know its author.

Renie looks at the body of the Interrogator. A wanted man. Her ex-husband. Her husband's sworn enemy.

Her best friend's wedding night.

What should I do *now*?

As Colin delivers Renie into Colonel Brandon's arms for . . .

The tango.

As Mary Anne and Hans spin on one side of the room . . . Sinclair and Claire pick up the beat . . .

A playful smile from Brandon, clearly pleased and eager for this opportunity. Renie, only too happy to engage in this particular dance with a man whom she has so long admired, and yes, loved as part of her life. The motions begin with the music . . .

1-2-3-4. Chestnut hair against scarlet red. A flash of brass. The deep ruby/purple silk of her thin gown slides against his white dress breeches . . .

Her smooth silk, between his legs. Then out--as he flies her out, then back in again . . .

5-6-7-8.

And though Brandon looks and acts every inch--every inch the gentleman, his turns, his embrace, and everything about him scream out to Renie, at least, that he has been hanging by that thread that keeps a loving man from loving the one he loves. And while he does not mistake Renie for Mary Anne, his muscles and nerves, and even his skin seems to tingle with the prospect of tonight. If ever a man were ready . . .

The crescendo . . . and then, Renie finishes in a petite slide . . . for she does not dare to prick this man any further into his state--or, without question, he will flee the dance floor with Mary Anne in his arms . . . the rest of the party be damned.

The dance, finished. Short of breath, Brandon's chest heaves a little, underneath his scarlet jacket. Renie cannot help the terrible grin on her face, as the Colonel kisses her hand, and applause for the musicians and dancers ripples across the floor.

"Thank-you, Renie. I shall always remember that." Renie can hear the cheers for Hans and Mary Anne.

"Maybe you should take a cold shower," whispers Renie, unable to keep from teasing him.

"No, thank-you. I will be fine in a moment," he answers, pulling down the front of his jacket, heedless of her ribbing.

And although she could be laughing at him, there is something so noble and dignified, so amusingly brave and sincere in Brandon, that she cannot. A completely different sensation hits Renie, very far from the giddy dance moments before. She is struck by his sweetness. Sweet, like a child, able to truly believe and live without guile, and love so gently, but exhuberantly.

A butterfly might be drawn to his fingers, where it would stay, happily secure, folding and unfolding its wings, until he released it, without so much as dust from its wings upon his fingertips. Yet his passionate strength of soul resided in a perfect body, capable, and willing to fight and love, without reserve, when the occasion informs . . .

And it will tonight, that dance leaves no doubt at all.

And as they stroll, smiling, away from the dance floor, she realizes what many men never do: that while men and women admire him, as a soldier or a saint, women would always adore him as a man.

Mentally, she wishes the Colonel good luck this evening, as they part . . . and she excuses herself to see to other matters . . . which are upstairs . . .

Renie walks through the hall, towards her room, and as the scene dissolves . . .

Hans is well aware that this topic of conversation is uncomfortable for Mary Anne, but his concern will brook no refusal. Mary Anne knows this and resigns herself to it, with a little sigh. "What do you want to know?" Listen to yourself. Someone mentions HIM, and you sound like the target of an interrogation already. She shivers a little, hearing in memory that German-accented VOICE--Hans, ruthless as he has never been to her since: "If I cannot make you speak, I know someone who can . . ."

Perhaps Hans can sense something of this, for his voice is extremely subdued. Yet he persists. "Were you truly able to . . . know HIS thoughts?"

"Yes."

"Colonel Brandon has told me something of this. You . . . were HIM."

"Not exactly. I was driven by HIS evil impulses, but some of the evil was mine, as well--what we all keep hidden. I think it's why THEIR experiment failed; my own . . . darkness was released, and it had its own agenda. Beyond HIS control." A pause. "Beyond anyone's." Mary Anne glances at the door, mindful of more than propriety, and then looks over at Hans. "And speaking of Colonel Brandon, you do realize that if he knew you had asked me about this, he would have your head on a silver tray."

A nod from Hans, and a little smile. "I must trust in you to defend me from the Colonel's wrath, if he should find us here." Then, more seriously: "Am I distressing you?"

"Yes, but not so much as he would believe. Hans, I . . . I think I could talk to you about this more easily than I could to anyone else. It's all right."

There is no need to explain, as Hans wears a look of perfect understanding. This man knows the face of evil--he has worn it. And yet he had turned from it, won away by love. Looking at Hans, Mary Anne sees a man in whom she may safely confide, a man who knows the fears and fascinations of evil . . .

"Ask your questions, Hans."

Hans is quiet for a time, and Mary Anne waits. Until . . .

"If you knew HIS mind . . ." A sigh from Hans, as he rises and paces about the room, finally stopping near the windows, gazing out . . . a view of the South Rose Gardens . . .

"You had a chance to see what The Interrogator was thinking. HIS . . . plans."

Another long pause.

"Is HE any threat to Renie?"

Trying to post without being ungraceful,

Erotic.

Smouldering amber stares down into defiant blue.

"Zo, Mary Anne . . ."

Turn. Gliiiiide.

"Hans Gruber, you are a devil."

A gleam of amusement. "Only a devil? Not the devil?" His hand, grasping her waist . . . lifting her clear of the floor . . . setting her down again, just in time to resume her daring strides across his. Strength, and grace, and uncanny timing . . . and a wicked sense of humour.

Perhaps he thinks he's doing Christopher a favour, getting me all stirred up like this . . . well, two can play at that. A mischievous grin. Renie will thank me later . . . Trusting to the superb balance cultivated by her training in swordplay, Mary Anne waits until Hans spins her away from him, then abruptly reverses the spin, pulling herself in close to Hans and knocking him slightly off balance. He recovers, however, within seconds . . . and retaliates with a deep dip that leaves Mary Anne feeling quite helpless and vulnerable, swept backward like this in his arms, his face just above hers, those golden eyes staring so relentlessly into her own.

Mary Anne, however, catches the saving gleam of humour in those glittering eyes and smiles up at Hans, receiving a near-wink in return as he slowly raises her upright and traps her in his grasp again for their slow and stylized love/hate pacing across the floor.

"That is better," comes the VOICE at her ear, low and amused. "You know that I will not bite you."

"No, you will not," Mary Anne murmurs sweetly, turning her head just enough to catch a glimpse of those amber eyes. "Though a nibble here and there is quite enjoyable . . ."

Mary Anne can hear the buried laughter. "I would not presume upon the Colonel's privileges."

Mary Anne does laugh out loud at that, and feels Hans relax slightly, as if some trouble had passed away from him. "Yes, that is much better," he comments approvingly.

His hand on her back . . . turn left, turn right . . .

" . . . don't wish for you to be afraid of me, Mary Anne. Why are you? You must know that I would never hurt you again."

Quiet. Wistful. Gentle. Renie is often privileged to view this side of Hans Gruber; to Mary Anne, however, it is all-but-unknown territory. "I'm not afraid, Hans. Exactly. It's just memory. And . . ." Almost impossible to talk this over dispassionately in the midst of a torrid tango, but Mary Anne gives it her best effort. "You're a powerful man in many ways--intelligent, rich, handsome . . . and confident." Hans winces a trifle over "confident," and Mary Anne takes note of it, but continues after some little hesitation. "I love Christopher with all my heart. But I'm only human--" Tiny smile. "--and I'm not made of stone." Teasing. "How does it feel, Hans, to know you can make us all swoon just by raising your hand? Something as simple as, oh, stroking your beard--"

Wicked grin from Hans, who--without missing one turn of the tango--smooths his hand along his face. "Like this?" A pause. The music. Quick, slow, quick-quick, slow . . . "But there is only one--if I can make her swoon, that is all that matters."

"Exactly." Mary Anne sighs. "Hans, we have a history. When you see me looking at you, and you catch that little . . . frisson . . ."

Hans turns his eyes upon Mary Anne, with just such a look guaranteed to induce the shiver in question.

" . . . it's not because I'm still holding that against you or anything. I'm not. I can't. I've really begun to think of you as my friend; not just because you're Renie's husband, but because I feel a regard for you. For you, as you are." Mary Anne somehow manages to shrug, without being ungraceful. Step, glide, slow turn . . .

"Hans, this is the longest tango I've ever danced!"

"Yes. I arranged for the concertmaster to play a medley of tango music, so it would last a long time."

Finale, as Hans bends Mary Anne slooooooowly back across his arm, down, down . . . then raises her, whirling her into the air and concluding with her caught in his arms, her hands braced on his shoulders, before she sliiiides down to the floor.

Smoky and smouldering, yes. But in the ensuing racket of applause and whistling, Hans takes the edge off of matters by giving Mary Anne a quick, affectionate hug, which she laughingly returns.

And hears him whisper to her: "There are a few other matters I must discuss with you. Would it be possible for us to have some private conversation?"

"I suppose, if we stay reasonably in view of everyone. No one will be surprised if I sit out a few, after that . . ."

Slowly, Mary Anne and Hans work their way toward the small parlour at the other end of the room, where the wedding gifts are on display.

Mary Anne had lost track of Brandon and Renie during the dance, and now she scans the room, wondering what has become of them. A brief qualm--perhaps Brandon had thought her behaviour too forward, in the tango with Hans? No, don't be silly. He has far too much sense for that.

Nevertheless, for Brandon to have disappeared with Renie . . . And don't be a jealous little fool, either. You know better than that, Mary Anne! Renie lived here for a time, remember? You can trust them both. They trust you, after all. Return the favour.

Sudden light of suspicion in Mary Anne's eyes. Other possibilities. Dearest, what mischief are you up to this time? If I find bells on my bedsprings tonight, I will tear you limb from limb!

Bells or no bells, Renie would be in no danger, judging from the smile on Mary Anne's face . . .

"Don't close the door, Hans. People will talk."

Mary Anne and Hans have entered the small parlour, and the guests are far too occupied at the moment with the three D's--dining, dancing, and drinking--to follow them. Hans, with his meticulous old-world manners, escorts Mary Anne to an armchair before taking his seat in the chair opposite her . . .

. . . and coming directly to the point. "Mary Anne, I wanted to speak to you about The Interrogator."

Mary Anne is definitely not smiling now.

PL looked into her eyes, trying to reconcile the woman before him and his doubts and dreams. Perhaps that was best left for the time being. Today she was real and apparently choosing to be with him.

Andrea slips on her shoes and returns the twins to their mother. "Thanks Claudia. The boys were a great help to me. Luke has a promising future in construction, and I predict Joseph will become a demolitions expert."

After taking her leave of Claudia, Andrea grabs a glass of red wine from a passing tray. (Not that she needs a drink after playing with the twins--she just needs a drink.)

Andrea makes her way to the gift table, or, rather, the gift tableS. Several tables are clustered together to display the multitude of wedding presents. Andrea is nearly blinded by all the shine and glitter. Some gifts remain in their wrappings. The happy couple hasn't yet gotten around to opening them all. In this category, Andrea finds her gift box.

And we are in flashback...

Andrea sits at the writing desk in her guestroom at Delaford. She wraps tissue paper around the silver candlesticks and places them lovingly into the box. Now, she must compose a note to explain their history. She wants Mary Anne and Colonel Brandon to understand this gift's meaning. At the same time, she does not want the recipients to feel that they should refuse to accept it from her.

Dear Mary Anne and Colonel Brandon,

Although these may appear to be simple candlesticks, I assure you that they are much more.

When our village was plundered by Nottingham soldiers, my family was able to hide only these candlesticks. Every other heirloom was taken from us, never to be seen again.

When I left home, my mother gave these candlesticks to me in exchange for a promise that I would not allow them to fall into undeserving hands.

As I carry them with me from one location to another, they are a sorrowful reminder that I have no home of my own. My fear of losing them in my travels is great.

It would bring me immeasurable pleasure to have you accept these candlesticks into your home. May they add to the brilliant illumination already residing here.

My mother would certainly approve my choice of your hands as being most deserving.

With all my love and best wishes for future happiness together,
Andrea

"Ahh, ees better," he said, patting his stomach contentedly. "Time for more Madeira!"

Following the garden around to the parlor, Raz approached the servant who was in charge of refreshments. "What may I bring you, sir?" the young man asked with a slight smile.

"Madeira, and be quick," Raz grumbled.

Stepping from his position, the barkeep reached for a glass and the wine bottle simultaneously. Setting the glass on the table, he was quite surprised to feel the bottle yanked from his grasp.

“Renie had someone in her room,” Lis mentions curiously, “did you catch the voice? It was familiar but...”. She is not really speaking to Valmont but wondering aloud. Valmont is not really listening either and he shrugs disinterestedly. He is more concerned with Lis.

“Elisabeth, you’re sure you are well?” He quizzes her. She smiles at him calmly and draws him down beside her.

I’m fine, really”, she reassures, “I just got a bit hot - all that flying around the dance floor - it made me dizzy. I don’t think I should have had so much wine beforehand...” Lis’ voice trails off as she sees the look on Valmont’s face. He clearly disapproves of her drinking. Lis presses her fingers to his mouth before he can utter his admonishment. She smiles at him coyly, invitingly (cunningly!). Valmont is captivated (putty more like). His eyes settle on her mouth - so inviting (amazing what licking your lips can do).

There now, Hans, see how flustered I am at the prospect of a tango with you?!

I'm going to be real wreck by "tonight . . . "

Hans intends to have the next dance with Mary Anne. And readers, when Hans Anton Nietsche Delbrook Gruber intends to have a thing, it is a foregone conclusion that he will, in all probability, have it, sooner or later.

Hans also has some particular ideas for this dance. Hans does have a sense of mischief, though he generally keeps it well under control. It is not often on display to the general public.

Not often. Today, however . . .

Hans takes up his station next to the first violin and explains what he has in mind, ascertaining that these musicians, representing such a wide range of skills, are quite capable . . .

They are. Oh, indeed they are, and assent readily. Not that they would dream of refusing, when presented with such a polite . . . request . . . from Hans Gruber. Over sips of an excellent Pouilly-Fuisse, Hans considers the selections put forward for his approval, and chooses.

Mary Anne is quite oblivious to what is taking place, being happily engaged in chatting with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and reminiscing about Baker Street days, until the sounds of tuning up alert her that the dancing is about to begin once more.

She feels a hand settle on her arm, and glances up to see Hans Gruber, who asserts with a bow and a smile, "I believe this one is mine, Mary Anne."

Colonel Brandon is leading out Renie, and they both grin in her direction as Hans escorts her out onto the floor. That mischievous smile on Renie's face, and the twinkle in Brandon's eye . . . what in the world . . . ?

The music solves the mystery.

Hans draws her arm up toward his chest and settles his hand at her waist, then sliiiides it around to her back, and Mary Anne instantly recognizes the beat . . .

The Argentine Tango.

No sign of Andrea for the moment. Or Hamlet. But in the crush of people it's not surprising . . .

Another waltz, which is fine by Renie. Dancing is one of the best parts of weddings, and a good time may take her mind off of--other things.

"Giles, you do look exceedingly handsome, if you don't mind me saying so."

"O' course not. D' ya think I am a bloody fool?" comes his answer--followed by the blushing redness that always tempers his o'er hasty replies.

Renie sparkles into a laugh. Giles seems to have just the right amounts of shyness and candor which, in a man, can seem like a gift from heaven which is only too rarely opened. As Giles opens his mouth, Renie spies Claudia and Ed, briefly.

"If I've offended--"

Giles' words melt into the sounds of music and swirl of people, enjoying themselves.

Across the room, Hans exits and slips into the "office"--activating a laptop and the rectangular box satellite which gave him access to Hart during the conspiracy sting. Of course, now the party on the other end is much less distasteful.

"Yes, sir?"

We see Hans' face, as he looks into the screen, which has become a monitor. The blue-black formal wear assumes the cachet of business. "Progess report."

"We'll be ready for you, sir."

"Excellent. Please tell the crew that they will receive an additonal bonus.."

"Yes, sir, they'll be happy to hear it."

Meanwhile, back the dance floor . . .

Colin taps Giles on the shoulder. Renie gives Colin a mock eyebrow rebuke, and Colin shrugs. "Giles, there is Emilie. Go and ask her for dance. Drag her out here, if you have to." Giles crosses towards Emilie.

Colin whirls Renie with ease, and the two do not speak for some moments. Colin holds her considerably closer than Giles had--and for some reason Colin's arm reminds her of the earlier incident upstairs.

"If you don't feel like dancing, let's go outside," urges Colin. "I'm going to do a piece on the Delaford bash, and I need to see the gardens anyway."

Either Colin imagines it, or Renie blushes. Her reply: "The best time to see the rose gardens, especially the South Rose garden, is at night."

He is sure he does not imagine the sigh that escapes her.

"Besides, they aren't in bloom right now," she adds, wistfully.

"They wouldn't have been competition anyway," assures Colin, offering his arm. "Come, and tell me what you've gotten Mr. And Mrs. Brandon as a wedding present."

"Miss Therese, do not trouble yourself. It is forgotten, I assure you. My only wish now is that you enjoy our celebration, and let nothing further mar your stay whilst at Delaford."

"You are truly kind, sir," she replied, smiling up at him for the first time.

"That is much better," Brandon nodded with approval at having put Therese at ease, as he continued to lead her through the intricate steps of the dance.

The music continued, and Therese gradually lost herself to the music and the moment. Eamon and Colonel Brandon were similar men in many ways, and it was very easy to feel safe within his arms.

"Miss Therese, one final thought before our dance ends," the colonel said softly, breaking into Therese's reverie.

"Yes, of course, Colonel, what is it?"

"I have known your Mr. De Valera for many years. Please understand the regard with which he must hold you for him to react as he did."

Therese could feel the slight color Brandon's words had brought to her face, but the smile she showed him was radient.

"I am quite happy to see that it is, indeed, a mutual regard," he added, taking her hand to lead her from the floor as the final strains of the song died from the room.

Both couples gathered briefly at the edge of the floor after their dance, and Therese leaned forward to give Mary Anne a brief, impulsive hug. "Thank you, thank you both so much. I wish the two of you all the happiness in the world, and am sure that it could not be vested upon two more deserving people."

"Colonel Brandon, Mrs. Brandon, Therese speaks for us both when she says this, I assure you. Now I fear we have detained you from your other guests far too long."

"In a sense. But she was herself as well."

Mary Anne, a torturer. She must yell now, and yell loudly . . .

"If Andrea isn't afraid of me, there's no reason to report my presence. I'm no threat to Mary Anne or her new husband."

Renie looks over at the door. Why hasn't Hans come in?

"Then, why did you come?" HE withdraws from the mirror, and walks to the door as someone--no two people walk by, laughing and talking. Neither the Interrogator nor Renie speak, as the voices pass.

"Monsieur Valmont, and the woman I saw him with." HE raises an eyebrow.

She ignores it.

"I came to deliver this. You won't want to give it to her, but you'll have to give it to Commander Hudson."

He tosses an envelope on Renie's bed. HIS stationery.

An inner pocket produces something else, wrapped in a very ordinary-looking cloth. This HE lays on the bed as well . . .

Renie looks up . . . and . . .

. . . into the face of Giles Winterbourne. Real time. The party.

His soft voice rasps in another key, as Giles turns from Hans to Renie.

"Are you rested enough for another turn?" Giles inquires, his green eyes twinkling.

Renie assents, and leaves Hans thinking it may be difficult to get Mary Anne's attention for the dance he intends to have with her.

"I would love to visit Ireland." Renie's face seems *just* about as far away . . . as we are in:

Flashback to some time earlier:

Renie stands at her mirror, in her bathrobe, with HIS left hand around her neck and over her mouth. For a moment, they look at each other in the mirror. Then, with his right hand, HE removes HIS wide-brimmed hat.

"I love weddings. So FES-tive."

HIS eyes dart only once to the door; he cannot tell whether it is locked or not. Unlocked, he would guess. Everyone is so trusting, here. . .

She does not try to bite his fingers. In fact, HE notes, she hasn't bolted, or even moved. HE tries to read HIS ex-wife's eyes, and finds that HE cannot. Annoying, for HE had nearly always been able to read her feelings from her eyes, even when others found her without emotion. Which, come to think of it, hadn't been all that often.

"You won't scream, will you, my old darling? Are you surprised to see me here at Delaford? I was here with Claudia, you know." A small semi-sweet laugh.

HE releases HIS hand from her mouth. A beautiful mouth, he notes. Renie does not scream. She knows that Alliance Rose agents are all over the place. HE must know that, too.

"Are you trying to scare me, Mistral? Or shock me?" Renie fights the instinct to tighten the belt of her robe. She feels vulnerable. But not for herself.

A mock whimper. "You don't seem surprised at all," HE asserts. And, seeing her robe falling open ever so slightly, HE slips his hands to her waist, and loosens the bow . . . then . . . reties it, neatly and tautly.

Then, HE takes a half-step back from her.

Is that supposed to prove something? "I'm surprised you came here, yes. But I saw you, there, at the Parish Church. At the back. You couldn't stay away."

Now HE can feel her eyes on HIM, searching HIM . . .

She knows she shouldn't ask the next question. She knows she should probably scream bloody murder, and in minutes, if not sooner, AR agents would swarm in and capture HIM again--just like California . . .

To the utter horror and embarrassment of Therese, Colonel Brandon appears almost instantaneously with Mary Anne at his side, and surveys the situation. Then, beckoning to a group of Delaford servants who were called in to remove emptied trays from the buffet tables, Brandon gestures to the fallen Father Grigori and orders, "Take him out of here. Let him sleep it off in the billiard room--no one will be disturbing him there for a while."

To a few ironical cheers from the bystanders, Raz is carried out: the first casualty of the Delaford wedding festivities, and Colonel Brandon turns to face Eamon de Valera.

Mary Anne is quite well aware of how matters will proceed and draws near to Therese, trying to put her more at ease, for the poor woman is quite plainly apprehensive: have they insulted the master of Delaford? But Therese's fears are groundless, for the two men eye each other with perfect understanding: reserved and constrained personalities, both of them--but, roused to anger, they can be dangerous.

"Mister de Valera."

"Colonel Brandon." A slight bow.

"It is a pleasure to see you again."

Behind his glasses, Dev's eyes flicker with what might be amusement. "Likewise. Especially on such a festive occasion as this."

Hint of a smile from Brandon as he moves closer, and speaks so quietly that he cannot be heard more than a yard away. "I quite understand your protective impulses; Father Grigori can be rather too . . . forward at times. So long as you remember that you are a guest in my home. And so is he." Before Dev can reply, Brandon adds softly, "You need not blame yourself, Eamon; I saw the entire incident."

Dev is not in the least perturbed--as a skilled politician, he understands Brandon's need, as host, to remind his guest of the proprieties. Their roles fulfilled, the two men can exchange complicit grins of enjoyment over the fate of Raz, who will probably not even remember the incident when he awakes in the billiard room.

Dev inclines his proud head a fraction. "My humble apologies, Colonel, for the disturbance."

"Accepted," replies Brandon. Then, with a tiny smile: "Would I be risking a blow in the face, Mister de Valera, if I requested the honour of a dance with Miss Therese?"

"You will have to ask the lady," replies Dev. "But I venture that she will offer no objections. Nor will I--if Mrs. Brandon will favour me."

Mary Anne turns from Therese, whom she has been trying to reassure as the men have moved through the formal advance-and-retire of their style of courtesy. "It will be my pleasure . . ." A smile. " . . . Mister de Valera."

Brandon bows to Therese; Dev offers a hand to Mary Anne, and the couples advance to the floor . . .

Therese couldn't even begin to keep track of the names and faces she'd been introduced to that night, but it really didn't seem to matter, because everywhere she turned she was greeted by friendly smiles and genuine warmth.

"Do you suppose we'll be attending another wedding soon?" Renie asked Hans as Dev lead Therese back to the refreshment tables.

"I should certainly hope so," he responded lazily, "its been far to long since we've visited Ireland.

Taking a sip of her third, or was that fourth? bellini of the evening, Therese chuckled to see the twins over across the room. They couldn't arrange their cards quickly enough to get at their destruction, and were varying their methods with each endeavor. The current style was a flying karate kick to the assembledge, which had the satisfying result of cards scattering everywhere. "Perhaps we should check in on those two?" Therese suggested, as she noticed Ed manuevering Claudia to a quiet, out of the way corner of the room.

"What are you two hooligans about?" Dev demanded in mock stern tones as they approached the group seated on the floor. "Andrea, Father Gregory, may I introduce my companion, Therese Gellert --"

Dev was interrupted by a joyous keening which eminated from the other man. "AAYEEE!" he cried, leaping to his feet. "She ees from the motherland?" he grabbed Therese tightly by each shoulder, kissing her soundly on both cheeks, before planting his lips firmly on her own. "Ees Gellert Hill in Russia where I grew up as boy!" he continued, his enthusiasm unabated, and was drawing her toward his body for another round of kisses when Dev intervened.

"I believe that will be sufficient," Eamon intoned, pulling Therese from the other man's grasp and draping his arm protectively about her shoulder, " Father."

"But she ees sister from Russia!" Raz protested loudly, reaching toward Therese once again.

"Actually, I'm American," she explained, beginning to feel somewhat like a rag doll as she was pulled back and forth between the two men. "Vith name of Gellert, ees Russian!" Raz insisted, "and Russian woman deserve Russian man ...." He peered at Dev through his dark, tangled fringe. "He--ees--cold fish," he sneered, indicating Dev. Therese was very thankful that Eamon was a trained speaker and politian, because she could tell by the icy look in his eyes and the slight flair of his nostrils that he was seething. When she placed her hand on his arm, she could feel his muscles, taut with anger. "Dearest, please," she cautioned, "not here, not now, it's not fair to the newlyweds."

Dev took a deep breath, and nodded his head. "You're right. I apologize, my dear. Andrea, may we bring you a drink, or something for the boys?"

"No, thank you, we're all fine, I --"

"Coward! Ees Irish coward, yes? You, leetle woman, need -- no, you deserve *real* man!" Raz grabbed Therese by her left arm, spinning her out of Dev's grasp and to his side. The newlyweds, the sanctity of the day, and all else forgotten, Dev reached forward and taking a firm hold of the front of the other man's shirt, planted a solid facer to his jaw.

In all probability, it had as much to do with the considerable amount of maderia Raz had drunk as it did with Eamon's right arm, but the former slumped to the floor in a heap, unconscious.

When Mary Anne can take her eyes off of Brandon--that adoration in her gaze, though purposeful, had been unfeigned--she takes not of other couples who whirl past them, and catches glimpses of matters both amusing and alarming.

There for instance. Lis and Valmont. Mary Anne sees Lis smile at her, then catches Lis' question to Valmont: "--think of her gown?"

And the reply: "--suits her." Quietly. Valmont is going out of his way not to call attention to himself, knowing that his polite reception here is based entirely on Brandon and Mary Anne's good graces--and though the Vicomte cannot know, he guesses from Mary Anne's glances at him that those graces had been difficult for her to extend to him.

Renie is her friend. If he had forgotten that--let him remember now.

More bits of conversation, as Lis and Valmont once more come within range. "--admired the way she keeps things simple. So few women do--"

Lis. A bit of jealousy, just to keep Valmont on his toes. "And do I?"

He is equal to it. "Mais bien sur. But of course. You keep things simple--by always being simply ravishing--"

Such a speech would have reduced the former Lis to a fine powder, but this one smiles a bit skeptically and returns, "Right. Well, don't forget just who you're going to be ravishing tonight! That is--if I decide you're worthy of the honour."

Lis and the Vicomte glide away once again, and there, near them now, Renie and Hans . . .

Mary Anne had not noticed it before, but Renie looks rather pale--not fully recovered, perhaps, from that difficult time in Egdon. Strange. She had looked fine this morning . . .

And there, Anton Gruber with . . .

Mary Anne would rub her eyes, if Brandon were not holding her hands. Anton Gruber, in a waltz with--Martha Hudson?! Ah, well . . .

Lis and Valmont. He is just murmuring something to her about "En ciel un dieu, par terre une deesse . . ." and smiling enigmatically when Lis demands a translation.

"Lis," calls Mary Anne in passing.

"Yes?"

Mary Anne smiles sweetly--first at Valmont, then at Lis. "A god in heaven--a goddess on earth. Monsieur le Vicomte has just paid you a very handsome compliment."

Lis beams, Valmont fumes, and Mary Anne waltzes away . . .

The celebration is off to a good start . . . perhaps Emma and the swing band, not to mention the magically-imported glitter ball, have something to do with that.

Also, there is the atmosphere of Delaford itself. Brandon is a wealthy man, to which the flinging of those gold sovereigns bears eloquent witness, but he is a believer in solid comfort rather than ostentatious display, and his tastes and habits have made of Delaford a comfortable home rather than a cold and cheerless "estate." Sensitive and intelligent guests respond instantly to the surroundings: warmth, light, practical luxury. The gleam of expensive fabric, the rich glow of polished wood--furniture, however, that can actually bear the weight of use without falling into pieces, and carpets that can and do measure up to the tread of human feet (as well as the odd canine foot or two--or four).

In such surroundings as these, and given a happy occasion to celebrate as well, the citizens of the Realm are at their absolute best.

The doors have been opened between the large parlour and the drawing room on the ground floor, so that one large ballroom is formed, and it is here that the formal receiving line has been established, so that Colonel Brandon and Mary Anne may greet their friends and well-wishers before everyone completely abandons formality and proceeds to "PAR-TAY!" with heart and soul.

Looking about, Mary Anne reflects that Delaford has done itself proud for the occasion--perhaps those rumours that the Empress would be in attendance had something to do with that--and reminds herself to congratulate the staff later.

The food. Good heavens, the food. Tables, almost literally groaning with the weight of the copious repast, have been set up along the far wall so that guests may help themselves to whatever they fancy--and the floor is left clear for dancing later. Mary Anne's mouth waters as she eyes the multi-tiered wedding cake at the far end of the tables, but her mouth dries with nervousness a moment later when she reflects that, shortly after the cutting of the cake, there will follow the formal wedding toasts--at which point, she and Brandon will probably excuse themselves from the proceedings and retire upstairs . . .

Brandon turns to Mary Anne, feeling her grip tighten on his arm. And Renie is also at her side in an instant. "Dearest, don't you feel well?" Overlapping with Brandon's concerned, "Mary Anne--?"

Mary Anne rallies. Don't be an idiot! "I'm fine," she smiles. "It's just . . . well, standing up so long, and I didn't have any breakfast this morning; I was too nervous. Renie, if you could get me a glass of something?" At her friend's wicked grin, Mary Anne warns, "Not alcoholic!"

"Right. And you need a bite of something, too--" The two women exchange yet another salacious grin over the possibilities of "a bite of something," and Renie hurries to the tables and secures a cup of cool water for Mary Anne and a few biscuits, as Brandon settles her in a chair.

Embarrassed by her faintness, Mary Anne tries to joke with Brandon. "Of course you realize, now, that there'll be gossip all over Delaford Parish--"

The gloved fingers touch her lips, shushing her. "Never mind about gossip, so long as you are well." A pause. "You are well?"

Mary Anne nods. "I'm fine. I just don't usually miss breakfast, that's all. You remember, back at the Manor House, don't you? I came over faint one morning when I waited too long for breakfast--" Brandon does remember, but recalls as well that Mary Anne had been involved in a rather passionate exchange with him just prior to that faintness, and he thinks he can guess what is troubling her now--besides hunger.

Renie returns, pulling up a chair next to Mary Anne and offering the biscuits and cool water . . .

In times to come, Mary Anne will often think of that simple food and drink as one of the best meals she has ever eaten, for in her overwrought state, she is acutely aware of flavours, of textures, of sensations. The crunch of the biscuits, and the awareness of return to strength with every mouthful . . . And the water--cooled to just the right temperature . . .

Mary Anne sets down the cup. "That's much better. I'll be fine now."

Dubious looks from both Renie and Brandon. "You're sure, dearest?" And, "Mary Anne, what can I do? If there is anything I can do--"

Smiling, Mary Anne rises from her seat, more than ready to turn attention elsewhere, for people are beginning to look at them and wonder what is wrong. "Yes, sir, there is something you can do. Go and tell the musicians to tune up."

Mary Anne summons her most melting smile and gazes adoringly at her husband, who smiles back at her, only too aware that she is winding him around her finger, but he is not of a mind to object or resists as she murmurs, "I believe that we have the first dance--?"

After the preliminary scrapings and squeakings, the musicians from London find common ground with the locals. And the crowd of partygoers moves back toward the walls to allow Colonel Brandon and Mary Anne a few moments alone on the floor with their privilege of the opening waltz as first couple.

By the time other couples pair off and move out onto the floor to join them, Mary Anne's head is spinning, though not from hunger.

At least, not that kind of hunger . . .

Long strokes with her Mason Pearson remind her that her wrist is sore . . .

The blow dryer she has borrowed--thank goodness, for otherwise her hair will be wet the entire night--operates on batteries, and she flops her hair over her head, "Cousin It" style, fluffing it, as she stands by the mirror. Although why she stands by the mirror is anybody's guess, since she cannot see a thing through that mop.

And--with that zzhhhzzzhhhzzhhhh noise in her ears, she cannot hear anything either. Hans knocks, hears the noise, smiles, and decides to come back later. Not so with the visitor who is climbing in the open window.

Zhhhhzzzzhzhzhzhhhzhz.

. . . through it now, and into Renie's room . . .

Zhhzhzhzhhhhhzzzzhhzh

There, that should do it well enough for the first brushing . . .

As the noise of the hair dryer stops, she flips her hair over her head. . . .

And a hand claps over her mouth, to stop any scream, if scream there would be.

Her eyes stare into the mirror.

A thin smile moves across the half-hidden face that greets her there.

"Hello, my old darling."

However, now the twins were occupied, she could share some of her misgivings with Ed. She dragged him to the edge of the room, where he misunderstood, pinned her to the wall with hands on her hips, and kissed her.

“Mmmm, mmm,” she protested after only a few minutes. Ed pulled away and raised an eyebrow. “I mean, very nice, but I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about? It’s a party, we’re supposed to have fun,” he challenged.

“Yes, but I can’t help thinking about the Master and the Interrogator. It’s all too recent in my mind. Or it isn’t, mores the point.”

“I beg your pardon, that is your first glass, isn’t it?” he said nodding at the champagne, forgotten in her hand.

“I mean that history was changed. Even though the Master didn’t manage to stop me meeting you a year ago, he did manage to change history, and things happened here which I don’t remember. I’m worried that being here will bring back those suppressed memories.”

“Well, I thought you wanted to remember. Anyway, if it’s any help, I’ll do a tour of Delaford with you, and be there if you do remember anything.”

Andrea has had a few drinks and is exceedingly happy. She approaches Claudia and Ed and greets them warmly. Grasping their hands, she kisses the air next to their ears and avoids any potentially painful hugging. "Claudia, you look stunning, as usual. And, Ed, very handsome indeed. I'm so sorry I couldn't spend more time at your gallery opening, but I wasn't well, you see."

Claudia and Ed exchange glances. You're not looking much better now. "We were glad you could come at all."

Andrea asks to borrow the twins. "I have found a deck of cards and need their help to build a house."

After Mummy gives her permission, the boys follow the smiling lady to an out-of-the-way corner. Luke and Joseph plop onto the floor. Andrea kicks off her shoes and holds onto a nearby chair to lower herself slowly to the floor.

Andrea suspects that the boys would much prefer running around to sitting still, but this is the best she can manage right now. She divides the deck into three piles, one for each of them. By leaning the side of one card against the edge of another, she erects the first two walls of the house. "Now, we continue to add walls by gently placing the cards like so."

The boys have excellent eye-hand coordination and follow her example without knocking down the existing walls.

Andrea wonders how long this game will retain their interest. "When you think we have enough walls, we can put on a floor and add a second story."

Andrea soon realizes that she is the only one constructing walls. She looks at the twins. Bored already? She notices that they are staring at something behind her. She turns her head to see "Father Ras-poo-tin! How are you?"

Raz has had a few more drinks than Andrea. He plops onto the floor next to her, sending the walls of the card house crashing down.

The boys cheer the demolition of their house. They are suddenly eager to begin construction again so they can have another house to knock down.

Andrea clears away the rubble and gets them started with the first two walls. The boys take over, anticipating the ultimate destruction of their creation.

Raz now commands Andrea's attention by tickling her neck with his beard and rubbing her bare feet with his hands. "May I join you in floorplay?"

For Commander Martha Hudson of the Alliance Rose, however, the motto of "business before pleasure" is not to be taken lightly, and the business before her is certainly no pleasure as she checks in with her staff about George and examines the text of the incredible statement he gave after was arrested at the church and hauled back here to be detained--as far as possible from the party guests, especially Andrea.

There is a slight lift of Hudson's eyebrows as she hears of George's reactions to the medical examination--no, he had not been any too pleased about that . . .

But the response of her eyebrows is more than slight when she reads his statement asserting his innocence. That, plus the medical report that there are no marks of injury anywhere on him where Andrea was supposed to have scratched him. No evidence, even, of half-healed injuries.

"And you may wish to have a look at these as well, ma'am." One of Looey's people, who has obviously been very busy indeed. These "scrounge" assignments, back-checking on someone's activities and whereabouts for months or even years, are the worst, but Looey has trained her people to be thorough even in these thankless tasks.

Hudson begins to leaf through the pages--then stops, cold with shock, as she reads over the archival material. Reports from approximately a year previous, articles by reporters Eunice Vye and Susie Messex (from Wessex), supplemented by clips of supposed assaults that took place on Egdon Heath . . . an attacker named . . . George.

But here: documentation that during the times these assaults supposedly took place, George was occupied--harmlessly?--at the Manor House . . .

Hudson's mind reels and her noteworthy self-control trembles as she recalls various reports and rumours that, taken separately, make no sense whatsoever. But taken all together . . . those illegal experiments in cloning, for instance. Another of Lukas Hart's irons in the fire, muses Hudson, though it didn't bring him down; it took the bank operation to do that. I hear he's quite a reformed character since his prison term. A grim smile. Perhaps there's something to be said for "rehabilitation" after all . . . but what about this business with Nottingham? Is it possible . . .?

Hudson's grim smile widens to one of genuine humour as she wonders what Mr. Holmes would make of this business if she were to seek him out at the party and lay all the facts--such as they are--before him. But there is no need. She has spent years in the company of Sherlock Holmes and knows what he would say: "Eliminate the impossible. What remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Eliminate the impossible. Andrea was assaulted by George, Sheriff of Nottingham--but it is impossible that she was assaulted by George; at least, not by the George who is presently in Alliance custody. The medical examination bears it out: there is not a mark on him.

What remains, however improbable . . . must be the truth.

Hudson can feel one of her headaches coming on. Perhaps she had best join the party, and seek out the assistance of Doctor Joanna McCoy . . .

Andrea sees her opportunity and approaches the man from behind. "Are you feeling better?" She places her hand lightly on his shoulder.

HE recognizes the touch. It's the touch of love HE felt in the church when HE turned around and saw no one there. Although HE does not spin HIS body around now, HE does turn HIS head enough to see the hand on HIS shoulder. And, HE recognizes that hand. The birthmark just below the third knuckle of the middle finger--Andrea.

The warmth from her hand penetrates deep into HIS shoulder. But, it's more than just warmth. There is a tingling sensation radiating throughout HIS body. HIS heart flutters, and HIS feet stick to the ground.

HE attempts to clear HIS head. HE must not draw attention to HIMself and invite capture now. She asked HIM a question. What was it? Are you feeling better? The safest response seems to be nodding HIS head, which HE does.

Andrea is not surprised that the man does not make eye contact with her. She imagines that she has caused him distress by simply touching his shoulder. However, she will not let go until he answers--in the affirmative--one more question. "Have you abandoned your plan to exact revenge on the Brandons?"

How does she know my mind? HE cannot think about that now. HE must get away before she sounds an alarm. Again, HE nods and bows HIS head.

Andrea is satisfied. The man had a momentary urge. It has passed now, and he is ashamed. He poses no threat to her friends. She lifts her hand from his shoulder. "Go in peace."

HE nods one last time, unsticks HIS feet from the ground, and shuffles away without looking back.

Mary Anne knows as the carriage draws away from the church that some of the company will have returned to Delaford before she and Brandon arrive. No doubt the party will already be underway--these people do love a good celebration--but it suits her, she finds, to ride quietly in this carriage with . . . her husband.

She can hardly take it in.

She is a married woman now.

Mary Anne sneaks a glance at the Colonel, and meets an expression that tempts her to pull her veil back down over her face to conceal her blushes, for Brandon, who has an arm around her shoulders, draws her nearer still and murmurs, "Do you remember, my dearest, the day that I asked you to marry me?"

Mary Anne, mindful of the coachman--who is a faithful servant, but not a deaf one--whispers back, "I'm not likely to ever forget it." She smiles. "When you showed up in the Tardis garden in full uniform--"

A brief tightening of Brandon's arm. Mary Anne understands that it is meant for a hug. "You thought I had come to scold you . . ."

Mary Anne forgets the coachman, and any spectators along the road, and the world itself, to nestle closer against Brandon. The strength and warmth of that encircling arm . . . "I misunderstood you entirely, that day. It came as a complete surprise." She turns her face up to Brandon's, searching his expression and finding in it a tenderness that melts her to tears. "Christopher, it seems to me that a great deal of love is simply . . . understanding. Taking the trouble to listen to someone, really listen, and try to know what they mean and how they feel. And not to twist their words or their motives to fit with what you would like to believe."

Brandon considers. "I am certain that is true, though understanding can be very difficult," he says softly. "It has taken us some time to reach ours."

"And we certainly have no claim on perfection." Mary Anne's gentle laugh. "Yet. I suppose that we will have to keep trying."

"It shall be my pleasure. And," adds Brandon, with a significant look that Mary Anne could not possibly mistake, "yours as well, I hope. And . . . intend."

Gazing down at the white-gloved hand that is clasped in her own, Mary Anne makes no reply, but her heart is beating so hard that she is surprised it cannot be heard over the clatter of the carriage wheels.

Brandon. His lips right at her ear. "Do you remember," he breathes, "after I had asked you to marry me . . . and you had consented, and we had to return to the Tardis control room. What I said to you--?"

"You said . . ." falters Mary Anne. She has to stop, for her breath is coming short. Perhaps it is the snugly-fitted bodice of her gown, though her trim figure has no need of corsetry, so she cannot blame her sudden dizziness on tight lacing or anything of that nature . . .

"I said," continues Brandon, enjoying the play of colour in her face, the fluttering of her lowered eyelashes, the pulse he can feel beating madly in her wrist, "then . . . that I wished tonight could be our wedding night."

"Your wish--our wish--has come true," whispers Mary Anne, once again daring to look up at him, and Brandon reads, there in her eyes, her love and faith, and the sweetness of her trust . . . and he is tempted to bypass the reception and wedding feast altogether.

But no. He has waited this long, and Brandon is observant of propriety, though not always strictly obedient to it. Custom and hospitality among friends shall be satisfied, before they proceed to other . . . satisfactions.

They are drawing near to Delaford, and Brandon smiles as he catches a glimpse of vivid colour near the main entrance. "There," he gestures. Scarlet uniforms similar to his own. "Good! They have managed it after all. My dearest, I have arranged a little surprise, that I thought you might enjoy."

The carriage draws up at the entrance, to cries of greeting from other arrivals, and hearty welcomes from the scarlet-uniformed men, for these are some friends from Brandon's former regiment, turned out in full glory for the occasion. And full glory includes not only scarlet uniforms, but dress swords as well.

After some moments, the men arrange themselves before the main entrance of Delaford, smiles on their faces and steel in their hands. Brandon takes Mary Anne's arm, and the master of Delaford proudly leads its new mistress, his bride, through the military arch of swords to the doorway--then sweeps her into his arms and carries her across the threshold, to shouts of approval both indoors and out . . .

"For our golden future together, as well as theirs, I'd say," Therese said with a smile, tucking it securely away in her handbag.

"Dev! Dev! Is it really you?" Therese turned to see an attractive woman and a handsome, bearded man approach, with two adorable twins in tow. The woman wore a huge smile and threw herself into Dev's arms, hugging him soundly.

Eamon's face broke into a wide smile, and he returned the hug, while reaching out to clasp the other man's hand warmly.

"Claudia, Ed, so good to see you, I was hoping that we'd meet before the reception. I wanted to introduce you to," his voice lowered for a moment as he paused, and then smiled, "to Therese Gellert. It was my hope that you could perhaps introduce Therese to some of the other women at the reception."

"Therese, I'm so pleased to meet you!" Claudia replied, her face radiating her genuine delight at meeting what she suspected was someone very important to Dev, if the besotted look he wore was any indication. "And of course you must meet everyone here, it will be my pleasure to show you around. Besides, then you'll be able to give me the lowdown on just how it is you've met up with this character," she teased, indicating Dev.

"Dev, why don't you and Therese ride with us to Delaford, I imagine if we strapped the twins to the boot we'd have plenty of room," Ed suggested.

"You'll have to catch us first!" Luke yelled, taking his brother by the hand and darting through the crowd.

He is not even in the front seat.

The car windows are open--all the way open. Golden air whooshes through the car as it speeds along.

A few moments later, and the car door at Renie's side is opened.

"Thank-you." She is smiling. "You're an excellent driver."

The chauffeur politely thanks her. Hans offers Renie his arm. . .

But Renie kisses him on the beard, and runs up to the main door. "I've got to fix my hair before everyone gets here!" She is gone.

An Alliance Rose agent sneaks a look at Hans. Instead of a withering or stern look, Hans smiles at her, and she feels her knees go a bit weak. "The open windows," he intones beautifully.

Ohhhh, that voice. She tries in vain to show an acknowledgement, but she has only heard his low German voice of honey, and not a word the man has said.

. . . Then flipped it into the air.

Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails. Heads. Tails . . .

He stared at Claire as she snatched it without a word.

Heads she thought. She looked at it. "Stealing my good fortune?" Sinclair strained to see the sovereign in her hand.

"I am your good fortune."

"What on earth is that??" puzzled P.L. aloud, pointing to some sort of something, held high on a stick with a small platform. A young man was parading about with it, and banners streamed down its side, as if it were a maypole stick.

"Wedding cakes," sighed Dana. P.L.'s face rumpled, and he started in the direction of the Rickman Matisse.

"Mmmmmm. Let's not be late for the reception, at least." Sinclair, with food suddenly on his mind, jabbed with his finger in the direction of the Rolls Royce.

"Was it something we said?" Claire sighed. Dana brushed away an imaginary wrinkle from her jade silk sheath.

Now the party will be starting.

But it look like a party had already started. Emma heard some swing music from an adjacent room. Emma, who had diligently been taking jitterbug lessons at the YWCA, followed the music. Father Grigory (who else!) who apparently was not imbibing yet, was playing some Big Band-sounding music. He looked intensely at her, and she nearly turned around. Emma clearly remember that well-worn line, "You must repent. . . but first you must sin!", he had used at Renie’s wedding, when he had been well under the "wodka". She hoped he wouldn’t try that again.

This time, a relatively sober-looking, clean Raz, aproached her and politely asked, "May I have thiz dance"

Emma, surprised, paused for a moment. He looked OK, his red tunic and trousers were definitely of the highest quality. She wondered how he would dance that type of music, but at least he was wearing regular men’s shoes instead of high boots. She said "Yes". He pressed a button of the remote control. Emma thought, "he’s caught up with the technology. Let’s hope he has the moves!".

The CD started again. Music filled the room.

Alarmed at what Claudia will say when she finds out, Ed tries (when Luke and Joseph are within his reach) to pluck them loose from the bell ropes--but they consider this a wonderful game and cling to the ropes, giggling, as they are hauled up and down, up and down . . .finally, however, the motion slows enough for him to work them loose and he leads them outside, over their protests.

Outside. Mary Anne and Colonel Brandon are in the open carriage. Everyone will now return to Delaford for the reception and wedding feast, but first, Brandon stands up in the carriage and unties the bag of coins.

The warm sunlight catches the glittering spray of gold sovereigns as they fly through the air, and there is a mad, laughing scramble to catch them and pick them up, for it is said that such a coin brings luck. There is the laughter of village children as they run about, picking up coins, and Brandon, turning to Mary Anne with a wink, drops a handful of coins into her lap to give to her friends crowded about the carriage . . .

Renie, first of all, who is right there beside Mary Anne, standing on tiptoe to reach into the carriage for a hug, and Mary Anne slips the sovereign into her hand. "Dearest, you're staying for the party, aren't you?"

Renie grins. "You know I wouldn't miss it for the world." The grin turns wicked. "In fact, I may have to stay long enough to see your face when you come downstairs tomorrow. I want to see how you wear the morning-after look!"

Mary Anne blushes pink, but teases right back. "What makes you think," she questions with a sly smile of her own, "that I will be coming downstairs tomorrow? Or the day after that . . ."

Renie is laughing by now. "Or the day after that! He may not let you out of the bedroom for weeks!"

The two women are giggling helplessly by now, but no one else can hear over the din of the crowd. Mary Anne sets a hand on Renie's arm and leans even closer to confide, "Dearest, I . . . I'm really nervous about this, you know."

Renie pats her hand reassuringly. "I know. That's normal. But you'll be fine." Renie turns wicked again. "Better than fine--you'll be exceptional . . ."

Mary Anne swats playfully at her, and Renie dodges easily, smirking. "Perhaps," coos Mary Anne very sweetly, "I should speak with Hans? I may need a man's point of view on this."

"All the man's point of view you need, you'll be getting, sooner or later," retorts Renie, chuckling. "Sooner, rather than later, I think. Christopher may carry you away from the reception early!"

And so it goes. Renie finally moves off to one side, for there are others to whom Mary Anne wishes to give coins: to Claudia and Ed, and one for each of the twins. To Andrea. To Hans, who had gallantly escorted Mrs. Jennings out of the church, since Renie was on the arm of Sir John. And yes, to Mrs. Jennings.

Hamlet. Doctor Mesmer. Commander Hudson.

Holmes and Watson. Holmes, with a nostalgic smile that Mary Anne does not understand, fingers the sovereign and proclaims, "I shall wear it on my watch chain . . ."

Edward. Elinor.

And Brandon continues to toss the gold coins, some of which land in the carriage. Mary Anne gathers these up, preparing to toss them herself, when someone bumps against her arm and she turns to see a man beside the carriage--but she cannot see his face, hidden as it is in the shadows of his wide-brim hat . . . a servant? A villager? Some labourer . . . hard labour, too, by the look of those worn leather gloves. Impulsively generous in her happiness, Mary Anne presses one of the sovereigns into the man's gloved hand . . . and he startles violently, stepping back from the carriage.

He pauses for a moment, clears his throat . . . and then Mary Anne hears a roughened voice, strangely penetrating in the gleeful riot, murmur, "Wish you joy, ma'am," before the stranger turns away and is lost in the crowd.

Mary Anne puzzles over this for no more than a few moments, for the bag of coins is empty, and the carriage is moving away from the church. Toward Delaford . . .