Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

11th February  99 - 28th February 99

As The Doctor pronounces "deep, refreshing sleep," McCoy's eyes fully close, then re-open. Hudson, moving as if her hand weighs a thousand pounds, deliberately pinches herself on the arm; Dev blinks furiously, scowling and shaking his head. Mary Anne feels her own eyelids flicker. So much for the idea that you can't hypnotize people against their will. She is aware that human techniques of hypnosis and mind manipulation--formidable as they might be, under the control of some practitioners--are in their infancy compared to the advanced methods at the command of the Timelords.

Meanwhile, The Doctor continues his instructions to Ed. " . . . and you will awaken . . ." A slight hesitation. " . . . when you have slept long enough."

Ed's response is clear; only the slow, heavy calm of his voice betrays how deeply he is ensnared. "How long . . . will that . . . be?"

"Your body will let you know," replies The Doctor gently. "You need to rest, or you'll make yourself ill. Then you would have to stay in bed for days, perhaps. You certainly couldn't help Claudia very well then, could you?"

"No," mourns Ed, and Mary Anne feels her eyes sting with tears. Poor thing . . .

The Doctor's tone alters, becomes brisk and decisive. "Off you go, then." He touches Ed's shoulder, and Ed stands up. "Go upstairs and sleep. We'll talk again when you're awake. You'll feel much better--and we may even have found Claudia by then; who knows?"

Ed starts toward the study door. Then, as if in one last assertion of his will, he turns and faces The Doctor. "If you have found her . . ." Ed's drowsy eyes narrow for a moment. "When I get my hands on her . . ."

Mary Anne, hearing the danger signal in Ed's voice, strives to shake off her lethargy. "Yes, Ed," she placates, "we all know what happens when you get your hands on Claudia!" She tries to laugh. "You'll be too busy hugging her and kissing her and--"

"Oh, yes," mumbles Ed after a moment--he is having some trouble shifting his focus from The Doctor to Mary Anne. "I'll be doing all of that. But . . . there are other things I'll do, too. Yes, I will. Scaring us all like this . . . go running off and getting herself captured by that-- that--" Ed draws a deep breath. "Good old Ed. Right. Good old goofy Ed, puts up with everything . . ."

Another minute or two and he'll be crying. Mary Anne holds her breath.

Ed opens the door. " . . . time I'm through with her, she won't be sitting down for at least a month . . ."

Dev has the good grace to look down at the floor, his embarrassment betrayed only by a slight flush along his cheekbones. The spark kindles in Brandon's eye at Ed's threat, but Mary Anne stays him with a light touch on the arm. She is inclined to take a different view of the matter; in the reduced inhibition of deep hypnosis, Ed is just blowing off steam, venting his fears about Claudia. The threat is not a serious one.

At least, she hopes it is not, for Claudia's sake. Beware the fury of a patient man . . .

And then, Ed is safely out of the study, on his way to his guestroom, and the sound of his grumbling dies away down the corridor . . .

Corrections: that's "Therese's enormous brown eyes" and "Dev, who appears almost normal . . ."

Obviously a little sleep-deprived myself . . . zzzzzzzz . . .

Brandon's study:

Mary Anne swallows uncomfortably, but if The Doctor had understood what was passing through her mind, he gives no sign of it, but returns his attention to Ed, whose gaze is now fixed on Commander Hudson.

"If there's going to be another search--" begins Ed.

"You will not be taking part in it," overrides Hudson, returning Ed a glance that would give pause to the most iron-willed man on earth . . . except, that is, a sleep- deprived man who is frantic with anxiety over the disappearance of the woman he adores.

Mary Anne, watching how Ed bristles at Hudson's tone of command, thinks that the effect should be comical--Ed, his hair standing on end in its characteristic tufts, his clothing a mixture of streetwear and pyjama, grass-stained and dirt-spotted . . .

It should be comical, but it isn't.

His fingers balled into fists, Ed tries to rise from the sofa. Looey and Sifuentes move alertly into place, and Hudson straightens as if to fend off an attack . . .

. . . and The Doctor's hand settles on Ed's shoulder.

The Timelord's voice is quiet. "Look at me."

Mary Anne, guessing what is to come, looks down at the floor, concentrating as hard as she can on the patterned rug.

Ed turns angrily toward The Doctor, looking into his eyes . . .

"You are now," The Doctor casually announces, "in a state of deep hypnosis."

"Oh, right," begins Ed sarcastically, "pull the--"

But "other one" is never spoken. Ed stops . . . and slowly sits down on the sofa.

"Better," says The Doctor. "And now . . ."

Mary Anne risks a glance around the room as The Doctor continues to speak; she knew what was going to happen and had a chance to brace against it, but feels the effects just the same, and distracts herself from the lulling murmur of The Doctor's voice by checking on the others.

There is, gathered in this study, a first-rate assembly of strong wills. Hudson, pale but alert, stares at the confrontation taking place on the sofa, fascinated--and clearly a little troubled as well--but unable to intervene. Looey and Sifuentes lean against the wall behind Hudson, the hands that were formerly ready to reach for firearms now hanging relaxed and loose at their sides.

McCoy's blue eyes have a drowsy shine to them, and her right hand occasionally lifts and gestures as if she were shooing away a bothersome fly.

Therese' enormous brown eyes are anything but drowsy--the opposite, in fact. Wide and resistant, and she gives her head a little shake as if something made her nose itch.

Mary Anne's eyes move to Dev, who appear almost normal to her--normal, that is, except for the rapid blinking of his eyes. There are, as Mary Anne has learned, far worse things to bet on than the strong will of Eamon de Valera. Takes one to know one, she says to herself with an ironic inward smile. Dev is almost fighting his way free of the hypnotic effect . . . and he didn't even know what was coming, the way I did, she thinks. A bad enemy, but a good man to have on your side. No wonder Therese loves him.

And the thought of love quite naturally turns Mary Anne toward Brandon, who, like Dev, appears very much like his normal self, save that his face is pale, with that marked line of concentration between his brows, and his hands are curled into fists.

"Christopher," whispers Mary Anne very softly. "It's all right. Look here. Look here. Think about something else."

Slowly, Brandon turns toward Mary Anne, and they sit and look at each other . . . but they can still clearly hear The Doctor. Even though the force of the Timelord's will is directed at Ed, no one in the room is entirely free of the web, as The Doctor gives Ed his instructions.

" . . . can't be of any help to her like this, you know. Now. Listen carefully. When I give the word, you are going to agree to go to your guestroom, and go to bed. It will be a deep, refreshing sleep . . ."

Renie - I meant to say, I refused the free champagne on the flight - and I flew first class? Lets keep this slightly plausible!

Now that Therese and Mary Anne (not to mention Renie) have proceeded on to the next day, this scene becomes a Flashback. . . .

When Mesmer enters Andrea's guestroom with a restocked food tray, Marian helps the patient sit up in bed and arranges the pillows to ease her discomfort as much as possible.

Andrea is ravenous and finds the chicken soup most appealing. A quick, nervous glance at Mesmer is the only acknowledgment she offers him as she digs in.

Mesmer is not offended. He senses her tension and understands that she is expending a great deal of energy in remaining just barely calm enough to eat. He does not attempt to engage her in conversation but silently positions a chair nearer the bed. He sits within the boundary of her emotional body and aids her relaxation with his powerful presence.

Marian observes the two while leaning against the intricately carved wood post at the foot of the bed. Although Andrea is aware of Mesmer, she does not look at him. She concentrates instead on consuming the food before her. Mesmer's focus is Andrea. His gaze is intense. Without commanding her attention, he steadies her mood.

When Andrea spoons up the last of her soup, Marian approaches her with a pill. Andrea mechanically takes the proffered antibiotic and swallows it with a sip of tea. No emotion or thought is involved. She simply does it.

Andrea grows visibly uncomfortable in her seated position. Marian removes the food tray, and Mesmer stands to rearrange the pillows as Andrea lies back on an incline. Her breathing and digestion are both accommodated in the new position.

Mesmer speaks softly to his patient. "Will you sleep now? Or, should we discuss your fears?" He is ready to get to work whenever she is.

She is not ready. "I am truly tired. But, there is something I need to tell you before I sleep."

Mesmer lowers himself into the chair and waits.

She stumbles on the words, but eventually makes her point. "When I asked you earlier ... to ... allow me to die, I -- Although I believed at the time that I wanted to die, I know now it's not true. I want to live."

"I know."

Andrea continues. "I am discouraged by my poor state of health and distraught over current events, but I do have hope still that my future holds some happiness, or, at least, contentment."

Good. She has hopes for her future. Mesmer and Marian are both relieved to hear her speak in this manner. Andrea hit bottom this morning and now appears to be on her way up.

There is a knock on the door, and Dot enters. She whispers with Marian for a moment and then greets Andrea. "I am here to keep you company tonight."

In her mind, Andrea translates Dot's statement into "I have been ordered to watch you tonight." No matter. The result will be the same. Dot will spend the night in Andrea's guestroom.

Marian wishes Andrea "Good night" and exits the room. She has a report to present to Commander Hudson.

Mesmer had stood when Dot entered. Now he takes the candle from the night table and hands it to her. Dot carries it to the desk. She has some paperwork to keep her occupied.

Mesmer asks Andrea if she would like him to stay too.

Although she is exhausted, Andrea is unsure if she can relax enough to nod off. "Please stay until I fall asleep."

"Of course." He places his hand on the top of her head.

Scene: Inside of a bleak room. A cell, if you wish.

On a table, a silver jug of water. A plate, nearly full, abandoned. A fork, left astride its rim. We sense that someone is there. Next to us. But we cannot see who it is.

Just out of reach.

A scribbling noise. The camera moves right. Another table. And then . . . a hand.

HIS hand.

Moving. Writing. Scratching the ink into the paper. A cough from the other side of the room.

HIS voice. "You aren't catching cold, I hope? I wouldn't want to return you as damaged goods you know."

"How long do I have to stay?" The young doctor. No, not yet gone. "I've finished my part in this."

"You are finished when I say you are finished." HE might have smiled at this--the doctor could not clearly see. "And not until you have learned what a 'chain of command' can really mean."

We do not hear the doctor speak again . . . but we hear the sound of a large, heavy chain.

Claudia entered the hotel room, pulled off her sunglasses, and quickly glanced around. She turned and locked the door behind her, and then threw her bag and the couple of packets of peanuts she'd saved from the plane onto the bed.

Now all she needed… she crossed the room and checked the fridge, aha! A six pack of lager, and into the bathroom, and grabbed a towel. She threw her items on the bed and thought to herself, now all I need is a passing space ship, and I'll wave my towel out the window and they'll stop and take me off this planet and out of this mess. She grinned to herself at her own pathetic joke, and hoped Mr I was watching and recognised what she was doing - or didn't - even better!

She picked up the six pack of lager and put it back in the fridge, then started to scan the room properly. A double bed - would she be staying? If so, how long? The usual hotel room stuff, a TV a fridge, a desk with hotel stationery and a pen. No note. Bedside cabinet with copy of the Gideon's bible in the top drawer. Nothing out of the ordinary. HE would be watching her, of course. Was it worth searching the room for bugs? Well, she had nothing better to do.

As she skimmed her fingers round picture frames and felt in light fittings, she tried to work out what she had got her self into. Second test, he'd said. What had the first been? Something in that room? Or may be just that she'd let HIM do whatever HE did. HE'd seemed pleased when HE'd briefed her about this trip. Pleased with what he'd found out while she was relaxed or by what HE'd been able to do to her while she was out?

And if this was the second test, how many more did he have planned for her until HE trusted her fully, or thought her competent enough to be HIS assistant? Perhaps the tests would go on and on, never ending, and she'd never be on solid ground long enough to bring HIM down. HE'd always keep her off balance, never knowing what to expect. Whether HE would kiss her or strike her. Love her or killer her. Teach her or torture her.

She hoped Ed would understand she was doing this for him, and her friends, not because her mind was seriously warped and all she wanted was to please HIM and to feel HIS kisses.

She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering HIS parting kiss. NO. Stop it, you're calm, you will know what to do when the note comes. Stop thinking - it will confuse you. Stay calm and you will know what to do.

**MARTHA'S VINEYARD .. THE BEACH HOUSE**

The ghostly figure shrieked out in fright and then spoke through clenched teeth. “What are you doing?!” it questioned.

Jamie couldn’t help but yell out. “Aaggh!” The hall light flipped on, enveloping the corridor in a bulbed brilliance. Charlie stood next to the light switch, looking at him as if he were the devil himself. Still taken aback by the surprise of only seconds ago, he gave her a fearful look and stepped back a few paces.

“What on earth are you DOING out here?!” she yelled as she stepped towards him with a frown and punched him in the shoulder. “You scared me half to death!”

“I scared YOU?” he asked loudly. “You scared ME! What are you doing sneaking around in the dark?” he demanded, pointing his finger at her accusingly.

Charlie rolled her eyes and headed for the kitchen without saying a word. She’d stepped away from her computer momentarily and there he’d been .. just lurking in the dark hall. “I was not sneaking around in the dark, Jamie,” she called over her shoulder with as much calm as she could muster, while disappearing around the corner into the small kitchen as he slowly caught his breath. “What’s the matter with you anyway?” Her voice trailed off in the darkness as he wiped the drops of wine from his moustache and attempted to survey his shirt for similar markings.

Scene: Some clouds. Below. About 30,000 feet up.

Claudia had been surprised that HE had allowed her to fly on a regularly-scheduled commercial flight. What if someone saw her? She had left Delaford without an explanation--well, without a real explanation, at any rate. They would look for her--but could they guess she where she had gone?

Poor Ed. The thought of his teddy-bear tattoo brought a soft smile to her lips.

She popped open the sealed foiled snack the flight attendant had offered her. It had taken a lot of will to turn down the free champagne. Munching the honey roasted peanuts, Claudia considered her options. She could abandon the whole thing. But then, why had she come this far? Return to Ed, and everyone, empty-handed. Without HIM. And without answers.

No. Not acceptable. Which meant it was in her own interests not to be spotted. She adjusted the dark sunglasses which had been provided in the pocket of her carry-on luggage.

No one around her looked like an Alliance Rose agent. Or any sort of agent at all. First class passengers, minding their own business. She was on her own.

Last night. No, better not think about what happened. Or whether it happened. It might cloud her mind. Whatever she drank from that glass, it left her free to think today.

Or--maybe I just *think* so. Never mind. Impossible to try and beat the Interrogator at mind games.

She left the plane last, grabbing two extra bags of snack peanuts on the way out.

The trip to the Del Capri was made in a black limousine. It had been waiting. The ride and hotel check-in were without incident. The Interrogator trusted her, but she knew HE was watching.

For some reason, though, Claudia not very nervous as she climbed the spiral stairs to her assigned room.

This should have been a warning sign.

It was late afternoon, when she slid the key into the hotel room door.

Inside his office, the Director took his seat and left Hart and Grace standing. He looked at them over steepled fingers and chose his words carefully. "I could speak to you of character development. I could speak to you of consulting your Director before trying yet another radical departure from the script while film is rolling. I could speak to you of respect for your fellow cast and crew members who work so hard to keep the entire production on time and on budget." Hart and Grace stood as still as statues. The Director's cold, patient tones were more frightening than any display of temper. Irrelevantly, Grace thought to herself that he was drawing on his film portrait of Eamon DeValera.

"But why do I think all that would be wasted on you two?" The Director leaned back in his chair, the weight of the world visibly on his shoulders. He trained his piercing eyes on Hart. "You. You know better than this. Your character would not put on such a display. Do you understand nothing of him--"

Hart rudely interrupted, "Then he'll never be anything but the boring wimped-out bastard he is now if you don't let him --"

"Enough." The Director's voice was quiet, but no less forceful for it. His eyes shifted to Grace. "Ms. Alexander. You are not to blame for starting this, but you are responsible for escalating an . . . irrational departure. But I wish to speak with Mr. Hart now." His gaze moved back to Hart. "A-lone." For once, Grace kept her mouth shut and slunk silently out of the office.

The two men locked eyes. The Director spoke first. "Let me get to the point, Hart. Ever since I agreed to let you revive your character, I have sensed a certain . . . resistance . . . to the script and to my direction. May I assume *creative differences* are to blame?

"It is difficult to have creative differences where there is no . . . creativity," Hart bit out the words.

Taken aback at the open hostility in Hart's tone, the Director decided to try another tack. "Then you'd better tell me how you see your character's arc. Assuming, of course, you are interested in continuing his storyline under such trying conditions." A flicker in Hart's eyes told the Director his implied threat to dismiss him had hit home.

Standing just outside the Director's office door, Grace heard a sudden silence fall in the office. Then she heard Hart's voice outline his ideas for his character. The Director listened without interruption. Grace could hear only parts of Hart's description, and almost none of the calmer discussion between the two men that went on until the second assistant assistant director tapped on the office door to tell the Director the house exterior was lit and ready. Hart followed the Director out of the office. Grace scuttled from her listening post and tried to look absorbed in her rolling wardrobe rack standing on the edge of the set. "I'm not saying we'll do it, Hart, but if you get Grace to rough out a couple of scenes. . ." Grace's ears perked up at the mention of her name. Hart interrupted the Director and said, quietly, "Grace doesn't know anything about this. In fact, it's imperative that she doesn't." The Director was immediately engulfed by a dozen crew members asking for his instructions. "Hmmm, what was that, Hart? Whatever, just do it, will you? And quickly." The Director walked on, his mind already on the next scene to be shot.

Scene: An examination room of an entirely different order

"Forgeeeeve me! Forgeeeve me!" Doctor Antonia DaMozzici, bursts into the examination room, out of breath, and smiles and holds out her hands. "I just delivered triplets, and my arms are killing me!"

"Don't get up!" she orders Renie, who is struggling to sit up a bit further on the examining bed. The doctor attacks the formidable Hans Anton Nietzche Delbrook Gruber without losing a beat, kissing him on the cheeks: left, right, then left again. Her warmth fills the room, and drives all out trace of anxiety. "I know how you hate to wait," she says pitiably of the impatience she had known in Hans, even when he was just a boy.

She does not wait for Hans to answer. She has no time for his stiffness with some things--her new patient is also waiting.

"It has been a long time, Hans. Now, will you introduce your wife to me?! Or she will think I'm trying to put 'the moves' on you!"

The remark could only haven been taken in jest, as she is not much younger than the elder Herr Gruber. But as Renie is introduced to the Italian doctor whom Hans had chosen for her, she can see the woman's eyes sparkle with life. Of what importance is age, when vitality and kindness sings out from a soul?

"I'm so pleased to meet you, Dr. DaMozzici." Renie's smile is geniune. The doctor slides her left hand under both of Renie's, and then pats them all with her right. Her hands are warm.

"Of course, of course. Now let's get down to women's talk. Herr Gruber, I will please ask you to w--" Renie begins to smile. "--To please bring your wife a bottle of that water from the refrigerator--the one which is two rooms down."

Hans as water boy. Renie would not have believed it. For some reason, she wishes she could tell Mary Anne about this. She will. She can see Mary Anne's face now, screwed up in laughing disbelief.

Hans touches Renie's left shoulder with his fingers. A motion meant both as good-bye, and as reassurance. It is a small motion, but very intimate. The doctor reads through Renie's file. Or pretends to.

"I'll be fine, " assures Renie. Hans nods and leaves.

"Now," begins the doctor, much more gently, but without losing the spirit in her voice. "I am Antonia to all my friends. And may I call you Renie? Dear, your medical history. It says here that--is this your first child?"

Renie's lips close together involuntarily; it is the type of movement that cannot be stopped, though it is not always noticed. "No. My first child was killed in an accident. There have been no others."

"Now, I'm sorry to have started on a sad note, dear. I find it is best to be direct about things--more harm comes from people beating up the bush." Renie smiles. "But all the rest of our talk will be happy. We do testing to determine whether the child will be born with any conditions which may be treatable, even in utero. It is not painful, but may be uncomfortable."

The doctor rolls a large machine over to the examination bed. Grabs a soft white plastic bottle, and rolls it in her had to heat it up. "The best way," she assures Renie. "While I get the ultrasound ready, why don't you think about some names for your child." She squirts a bit of clear gel out on the back of her hand, testing the temperature. Renie looks at the pinky ring on her right hand. The cameo top is closed.

"For now, better think of both kinds. What about Antonia?" The doctor smiles.

Correction: "from McCoy, as she draws a pad from her pocket . . ."

Is there a Doctor of Correctology in the house?

Brandon's study:

Ed sets down his cup and begins . . .

What follows, however, is not especially helpful-- hardly even coherent. Perhaps because Ed himself is not especially coherent, as he struggles to recall the few bits and pieces of her experiences that Claudia had passed along to him.

" . . . she began to remember some things, just a little here and there . . ."

During Ed's narrative, there is a remarkable range of facial expressions on display in the study. Therese, uncomprehending, and Dev, measuring and cautious, not wishing to dismiss any of what he hears, but scarcely able to believe it, either.

" . . . out of nowhere. The memory would just be there, and she told me . . ."

A murmur of "post traumatic" from McCoy as she makes a draws a pad from her pocket and makes a brief note. Her countenance, clinical but sympathetic.

" . . . thought everything would be fine, until--" Ed's voice trembles, and he rubs one hand over his eyes.

"Steady, my boy," encourages The Doctor, taking away Ed's teacup before it can crash to the floor.

Ed draws a long breath. "Then, the morning after Mary Anne and the Colonel's wedding . . ." Ed stops, as if doing some mental calculation. "I think that's when it was . . ."

Listening, Mary Anne reflects that Ed can hardly be blamed for losing track of time. Based on what he said earlier, she figures that Ed and The Doctor had spent the previous day and some of the previous night searching the grounds of Delaford and the immediate regions all the way to the village of Barton--without discovering one trace of Claudia. Searching . . .

" . . . because Claudia told me she had remembered a lot more about the kind of person she had been--and that some of it wasn't nice. And that now she had to--" Ed's voice quivers. "--go and be that person for a while. After what she had told me about The Doctor rescuing her, I thought he might be able to--put right whatever was the matter with her, so I went to find him." Ed's voice, now so flat and despairing that Mary Anne is chilled to the marrow. "And when I came back, Claudia was gone. I should never have left her."

Looey and Sifuentes, expressionless as well-trained agents of the AR must be at such a time. Hudson, trying to be kind--but there is no kind way to say it.

"Based on Miss Gellert's account--" A nod to Therese. "--we know that The Interrogator and Nottingham have been seen in this area, and we have no certain indication that they have left it. I've sent my people out to search . . ."

The Doctor looks up. "Ed and I have searched extensively and found no traces, but it could do no harm to look again." The Doctor refrains, out of kindness, from mentioning that his efforts to search were not at their best because of Ed's frantic worry for Claudia, which had led to Ed encountering such mishaps as nearly falling from a ridge at one point (though not a very high one) and coming within a step of catching his foot in a gamekeeper's rabbit trap. Still, Ed has good cause to be worried.

Hudson continues. " . . . but we must consider the possibility--" God, I would be happy to be wrong, this time. "--that Claudia may have been captured by The Interrogator."

It is just as well that all attention in the room is briefly centered on Ed--for he turns so pale at the Commander's pronouncement that Joanna McCoy is at his side in a moment, feeling for a pulse, and Ed tries to shake her off, snapping, "I'm all right!" To which McCoy replies that he is definitely not all right, but exhausted, and that if he does not cooperate she'll have him sedated . . .

Mary Anne might almost smile, for the words are familiar ones. But her attention is elsewhere.

Ed has not told all; she is certain of that.

Even Brandon has been momentarily distracted as McCoy attends Ed, and Mary Anne manages to keep her self- control . . . by digging her nails into the palms of her hands until red crescent marks appear.

As Ed had spoken of Claudia . . .

Mary Anne has had to learn, since her experience with THEIR machine, the fine art of managing another person's memories within her own brain.

HIS memories.

They have given her remarkably little trouble. As time has passed, certain patterns have established themselves: there is information she cannot recall, no matter how hard she tries. Certain entry and security codes, locations, procedures--though, oddly enough, she is quite certain that if someone showed her a false code and a valid one, written together, she could tell which was which. After some puzzlement over this, she has concluded (though there is no way to check her conclusions) that The Interrogator and HIS colleagues are conditioned to keep such information secret, perhaps to the point of hiding it even from themselves. They "forget" it until it is necessary, at which point they recall it. Such is the flexibility of the mind . . .

Another category would be the memory of events. Mary Anne has an unnervingly good memory under normal circumstances, and now has that same precise recall of many events of HIS life and experiences as well. Some benign. Some . . . less so.

By an effort of will, she is able to shift these memories aside and keep only her own in the foreground. Most of the time. But it is more than memory, more than the mental diary of, "On this day in this year I ate lunch at this restaurant." Much more.

Because of THEIR machine, she had been--for a short time--steeped in HIS tastes, HIS attitudes, inclinations, habits. Practices.

They had understood each other to the depths of the soul.

And just now, Mary Anne feels something stir beneath the surface . . . something related to Claudia.

A third category. A memory--or perhaps, an intuition or realization, about HIM--that suddenly appears, if she will allow it, like wreckage floating to the surface . . .

Wreckage? No. Not a lifeless object. A living thing.

A living nightmare.

Behemoth . . . Leviathan . . . the Kraken, released in the depths of the sea . . . Mary Anne is very still. And very cold. The voices in the study, far, far away.

Perhaps Claudia wasn't captured by The Interrogator . . . perhaps . . . she . . .

"Mary Anne?"

Brandon, seeing her pallor, takes Mary Anne's hands and chafes them gently between his own to warm them, then fetches her a fresh cup of tea. The Colonel draws his chair closer to her own, murmuring, "I know how distressing this is for you. Do you wish to leave? I am quite sure the Commander could speak with you privately, later . . ."

Mary Anne sips her gold-tipped Darjeeling, trying not to let the cup clatter too loudly against the saucer. "No, I'll be fine, sir," she whispers, aware of The Doctor's sudden sharp glance in her direction, and the memory of . . . what? Whatever was there is gone, the way some dreams vanish within a few moments of waking . . .

Um, Clods . . .

The "thermos" in the wardrobe room looks more like a collectible martini shaker to me.

Scene: The private offices of The Interrogator. For the private meeting going on . . .

A pursuivant enters with a piece of carry-on baggage.

Time to go.

"Things will happen very quickly now. They must, for necessity's sake. I will explain this only once, and only to the extent that you need to know it.

Claudia nods. As if she has a choice.

"Last night you were . . . relaxed with the help of the doctor. He has returned to his position, so you needn't worry about him. You have been put in touch with some of your . . . subliminal feelings, and thoughts which you keep from yourself."

"Brainwashed." She whispers it despite her attempts to keep absolutely quiet.

"Hypnotism is not brainwashing. And *I* should know the difference. You're being freed up--to chase your fears, remember?"

She remembers.

"Unless . . . you would rather have them chase you."

Not on your life. "I'm ready."

"Yes, well, we'll see." HE very gently brushes some stray crumbs from her blouse. Very gently. "Won't we?"

HE tips her face up towards his. "You will check into the Del Capri Hotel. A note will provide you with the details of your second task . . . and then, afterwards, you will return to the airport, and to me." HE pulls her closer. "Is that clear?"

At the sound of the words "second task" Claudia feels as if she might weaken. Second! Somehow, she knows that HE expects her to show fear--which includes a fear of questioning him. But she must not be too bold, either . . . but how can she think with his white shirt, this close . . .

"May I . . . ask a question? Did I . . . finish my drink last night? I remember a glass on a tray."

By way of answer, HE kisses her. Deeply.

She does not resist.

As HIS lips leave hers, she no longer requires an answer.

"Until . . . next time. Claudia."

**MARTHA’S VINEYARD, USA .. THE BEACH HOUSE**

An hour or so later, Jamie rose from his chair and ventured into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine. He debated as to whether he should ask Charlie if she wanted one as well .. but decided against it as he remembered her earlier mood. If he asked, she’d probably get upset and fire another pencil missile at him. He leaned against the countertop in the kitchen as he picked up the wine glass and took a sip, wondering what had inspired her to write a novel anyway. She’d never seemed like the writing type.

He pictured Kari jabbering away at the art gallery when they had met in New York. She, on the other hand, had enough words in that little head of hers that she’d never get around to saying them all. Even though she did talk all the time. Kari should be the one to write a novel, he thought with a grin. All that concentration might keep her quiet once in a while. He took another sip of wine, re-corked the bottle, and set it aside on the countertop in case Charlie decided to have a glass at a later time.

Shrugging off the notion of Kari becoming a novelist, he ventured back towards the front room of the beach house. It was growing dim as the dusk began to give way to the dark hours of evening. He reached to switch on the hall light, but stopped short. Did he dare? Charlie might find it disturbing. He sighed. What was one to do when someone in the house was trying to be the next Tolstoy?

Claudia--I love the Wardrobe page!Possible additions: the Abendstern sapphire; Renie's white scarf; Hans' cell phone/walkie-talkie (on that man, it's an accessory--to heaven knows what); some beautiful and extravagant (but tasteful!) gowns for MA . . .

And I can't believe you left out the Colonel's crop! ;-D

I've had a silly 5 minutes and set up this page Flights of Fancy Wardrobe Room

The timing of the knock meant that she had been monitored closely, HE had probably watched her bending over to tie her shoes.

Walking with her escort, she notices that the man has hair the colour of Ed's. He disappears. Alone again, she closes her eyes as she waits in HIS private office. She does not hear HIS footsteps.

"I trust you are feeling well this morning."

"I--feel fine," she hesitates, "although I can't remember what happened last night."

HIS arms are suddenly about her--and her body feels quite breathless, although she is quite sure she is able to breathe.

Will HE kiss her? Kill her?

"Why Claudia, are you worried that I might take advantage of you?" HE is joking; his mood is a breed of sinister playfulness. Whatever happened last night must have gone well.

From HIS perspective.

Sure that HE has her. . . attention, HE releases her.

"Hardly your style," HE says, observing her outfit.. "I prefer you in something with straps . . . but it will do nicely for where you are going." Breakfast is being brought in, as if she could eat anything. "You'd best eat now, airline food puts some of my methods to shame."

She stuffs a croissant into her mouth--mostly to keep from asking where she's "going."

HIS short laugh. "The anticipation. The suspense. And the . . . curiosity. To be close to evil. Even touch it. To see what it feeeeeeeeels like. But I am not evil." HE holds his hands out to her. She feels his draw, and chews more violently.

"I am a man. I have . . . priorities. Interests."

HE turns.

She swallows.

"Goals."

Scene: Claudia's room at the offices of The Interrogator. Exact location undisclosed.

"Don't be afraid."

On her dressing table lies a note. No envelope, as none is necessary.

"Good morning, Claudia. Please dress yourself in the clothes you find in the closet. Others will be packed for you. You will leave this morning, after a brief meeting with me in my private offices. Someone will come for you."

The closet is empty except for one lightweight top and a matching pair of drawstring pants.

By her bed, a pair of comfortable shoes. Her thigh high boots have disappeared.

Brandon's study:

Brandon pulls out a chair for Mary Anne, who seats herself and turns to Martha Hudson. "What's happened, Commander?"

"Mary Anne, it looks as if--"

Ed interrupts, pulling his hands through his hair and rumpling it still further. "Claudia's gone missing!"

A pause, and a lift of one eyebrow from Hudson. "Claudia is missing." Dryly. So much for breaking it gently. But Hudson cannot find it in her to be too hard on Ed, who is practically crazed with worry.

Mary Anne is pale, but manages to keep her voice steady. "Ed?" Ed looks up, and Mary Anne's heart turns over at the look in his eyes. She has always liked Ed, who is so unfailingly amusing and such cheerful company. But now . . . "Ed, what do you mean, Claudia has gone missing?" A pause. "Come on, tell us. You can't help her like this. What happened?" Gently. "Did you two quarrel about something?"

"No!" Slowly and with obvious effort, Ed calms himself enough to speak rationally--or, at least, to give a good appearance of it. "It's a long story."

Hudson speaks up. "We have time."

Ed clears his throat and coughs. "Could I have some water, please? This is going to take a while."

"Certainly," replies Brandon, who rings immediately for one of the servants.

Quiet talk in the room. Hudson conferring with McCoy and Looey. Mary Anne giving instructions to the maidservant who appears in response to Brandon's ring. The entrance of Therese, flanked by Lt. Sifuentes and Dev, who is glowering most protectively and doesn't care who notices it. For Mary Anne, however, Dev's dour expression relaxes into a brief smile, and Mary Anne cannot help smiling a little in response--and relief. Well, at least they haven't killed each other . . .

But Mary Anne keeps a watchful eye on Ed as well, and doesn't miss the glance he exchanges with The Doctor. Ed obviously has quite a story to tell, and is able to delay the telling of it as he sips his water. Then, following the example of the rest of the company as they select from the trays brought to the study, Ed follows his water with a slice of cake and a cup of strong tea. He is beginning to look sane and human once more, and has run out of excuses to stall . . . and so, with a heavy sigh, Ed sets down his cup and begins . . .

Flashback ..

**BOSTON, USA**

David finds himself a cup of coffee and returns to the hallway where Alexis is still standing eyeing the painting.

“Come with me,” said David seriously as he took her arm and pulled Alexis towards the sitting room at the end of the hall.

“David!” she said in an annoyed tone. “What are you doing?” Her tea sloshed about in the dainty porcelain cup as she was forced down the corridor. Upon reaching the sitting room, David sat himself in a large, plush chair and anxiously awaited the tale of Alexis’ mishaps while away from home.

“I want to hear about your trip,” he said again.

“What has gotten into you?!” she queried as she glared at him from the middle of the room while smoothing the arm of her sweater. He had messed it up when he grabbed her arm and shoved her down the hall. “You never want to hear about my business trips.”

“I want to hear about it now,” he said with arched eyebrows and an unusually low voice as he settled back into his comfortable chair. “Do tell.”

Alexis looked stunned. “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

David shrugged. “Why not? Do you have something to hide?” he asked, mocking her suspicion.

“Now why would I have anything to hide?” she responds, surprised by his tone.

“You tell me,” is his somber answer.

“I don’t have anything to hide,” she replied innocently and shook her head as she took a sip of her tea. Crazy husband. Yet, she immediately noticed the look in his eyes and realized, instinctively, what he was hinting at. “You’re sick, David,” she stated, her expression echoed the hurt in her voice. Blinking her eyes, she turned and looked towards the garden out back. “It was a business trip.”

So much for my idea of having the Doctor and Ed safely tucked away in a time vortex somewhere! ;^D

Oops, I wrote 'for the time beging,' which obviously should be 'for the time being.' That mistake is just a *little* too close to the word "begging" and with HIM around, we don't even want to THINK about that!

Therese's Guest Chamber--Delaford

Therese, as usual, had awoken with the sun. Leaving Eamon to sleep, she had proceeded to tidy up the room from the night before, wash her face, brush her hair and teeth, dress, and hover over her sleeping significant other in the hopes of inadvertantly waking him. He slept soundly. With a sigh, she retrieved her copy of "The Return of the Native" from her nightstand, and began to read.

The ferocious pounding on the door had her nearly leaping from the chair. Dev shot from the bed as if discharged, pulling Therese from her seat and behind him before he had fully regained consciousness.

"Dearest, it's only the door," Therese pointed out, once her heart had ceased hammering. "This is Delaford, not Dublin," she reminded him as he hesitated. "And you are quite nude."

Dev grinned slightly. "Quite so, perhaps you had better get that after all." He drew her to him for a quick kiss. "Good morning."

Therese returned his greeting, and indicated the window, where the sun shone brightly into the room. "Good afternoon, more like."

"You can take the girl from the farm, but you can't take the farm from the girl," he told her, as he had done so many times before. He reached for the trousers that were still folded neatly on the chair beside the bed, and quickly slipped into them. Seeing that he was once again decent, Therese went to the door.

She pulled it open to see a tall, well built man whom she did not recognize. "Miss Gellert?" he questioned.

Therese nodded. "Yes, I am," she replied. "May I help you?" Dev strode to the door behind her, his long legs covering the room in a few, quick strides.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded, pulling Therese behind him so that he stood between her and the stranger in the doorway.

"Mr. de Valera, I'm Lt. Sifuentes, AR Personnel. Colonel Brandon and Commander Hudson have requested your immediate presence in his study." He paused, and looked to Therese. "And you are to escort Miss Gellert there as well."

Therese swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. Lt. Sifuentes had perhaps couched his words in a request, but it certainly had the ring of an order to her ear.

"Tell them we shall be there immediately," Dev replied, shutting the door firmly in the other man's face.

He turned to Therese. "Pack your things, you are returning to Dublin."

Therese glared at him. I am returning to Dublin?" she demanded.

Dev sighed. He knew this was not going to be easy. "Therese, please, for once allow me to tell you what to do. I can assure you that the Alliance Rose would not be here unless the matter was quite serious, and we both know who has caused this stir. I thought I had impressed this upon you last night. I need you to be safe, but for the time beging, I must remain here to help Brandon."

Therese stepped toward Eamon, and taking his hand, placed it upon her cheek. "I will not go without you. Not yet, anyway," she told him, as she thought to herself, and not ever. "Please, let's hear what the Colonel has to say before we make any hasty decisions."

Dev nodded, his expression taught. "For now, that will suffice," he replied. Later, I will strap you down, wrap you in brown paper, and MAIL you home if need be. . ."

Opening the door to the room, he ushered Therese through it, before following after her, as they headed for the Colonel's study.

Er, that should be "closes the door gently," in that last. Not "closely."

Joining you in the slammer, dearest. Some things NEVER change . . . *wicked grin*

Delaford. Late morning.

A most eventful day, and it had begun early.

Very early, with a message that the Grubers were preparing to depart. Brandon, who customarily awakes at dawn or not long after, had given the news to Mary Anne . . . who had practically broken the land-speed record for tranforming oneself from early morning deshabille to Mistress of Delaford perfection.

Well, near-perfection. What does it matter, that long tendrils of her hair were escaping the pins, or that she had thrust her feet into her satin fur-lined slippers rather than bother with proper shoes?

In the hours that followed, she had preserved a modicum of composure--sharing breakfast with Renie and Hans and rejoicing that Renie had actually seemed to relish her food; though she had, however, turned a little pale at the scent of the coffee and hastily refilled her cup with ginger tea.

All had gone well, up to the very farewells to Renie. Mary Anne was quite proud of herself; she had not lost control . . . until Renie had turned to exchange farewells with Brandon, and Hans had stepped toward Mary Anne to say his goodbyes . . .

. . . and that, oddly enough, is when Mary Anne had felt her chin quiver and her lips tremble. In such situations, the gaze of Renie spares her, where that of Hans does not--but Hans bears her no malice; penetrating scrutiny is habitual with him, and Renie is accustomed to it. At times, he forgets to mitigate it. But his keen gaze had softened--slightly--toward Mary Anne, as she gave him her hands, and felt the quick brush of his beard against her cheek as he kissed her goodbye.

"Hans," she had whispered, seeing Brandon and Renie still in conversation, "I don't have to tell you to take good care of her. I know you will."

"The best," Hans had promised, and Mary Anne smiled. Ze bessssst. The accent comes out in moments of emotional stress. "As I know," Hans continued, "that Brandon will take care of you."

Mary Anne had cast about for another topic. "Is your father leaving, too?"

"Perhaps. But then again, he may stay for some days longer, if you do not mind--"

"No, of course not! Your father is a charming guest." Slight suggestion of an eye-roll from Hans--fathers and sons, the world over--and Mary Anne grinned. "It runs in the family, I suppose. He is welcome to stay if he wishes."

"In this case, I could wish for it as well. He seldom allows himself a respite from his work, and he has already spoken to me of how he enjoys Delaford; he finds it peaceful here . . ."

A pause, and a silent exchange between Mary Anne and Hans. Peaceful, indeed, with HIM about . . . Hans had continued. "It would be a good rest for him."

"Then say no more; he is a welcome visitor. I'm sure I speak for Christopher as well."

"I think your name is being taken in vain!" Renie, as Brandon had led her back to Mary Anne and Hans. Only enough time left for a final exchange of crushing hugs all around, echoes of earlier promises about writing and visits, and then the Mercedes was gone . . . and Mary Anne, though saddened by Renie's departure, had been unable to resist a small sigh of relief: it is not safe for Renie here, with HIM lurking about. Take her out of harm's way, Hans, and keep her safe. Keep her safe! The sigh of relief, plus the even more heartfelt sigh: Dearest, I miss you so much . . . already . . .

Brandon's comforting arm, resting on her shoulders as they had waved goodbye . . .

A quick trip back up to the bedchamber. A cool cloth for the eyes. Neatening of the hair. Real shoes.

And Mary Anne had descended the stairs, feeling as if she had had a busy day already.

But it is destined to be busier still, for Miss M had been waiting at the foot of the stairs. "Excuse me, ma'am . . ." The cultivated speech had vanished. "T' Colonel would hae ye coom t' th' study, ma'am."

That had brought Mary Anne to a standstill. "What's happened?" For Miss M to seem so worried . . .

"Ach, I dinna ken, summat to do wi' that Ed . . ."

And the housekeeper had found herself talking to air, as Mary Anne had rushed to the study door, and opened it . . .

. . . to find the room filled with AR personnel, among them Commander Hudson, the Lieutenant, and Joanna McCoy, but Mary Anne has eyes only for the two men seated near the window on the low sofa.

The Doctor. Looking distressed as he seldom does, and attempting--with awkward gestures and advice that goes unheard--to comfort the distraught Ed.

Ed, with his hair more wildly mussed than ever, and his eyes red-rimmed from anxiety and sleeplessness.

Her heart in her throat, Mary Anne turns to Brandon, who moves to her side, closely the door gently behind her, and murmurs, "Come and sit down, my dear. We have had some very bad news . . ."

Flashback ..

**BOSTON, USA**

Alexis dismissed David’s query as not worth answering. After all, he never asked about her business trips. Why did he care now? “Oh,” she said sweetly as she waved her hand in an effort to dismiss the subject. “You don’t want to hear about my tiny little trip.” She placed her thumb and forefinger around the fragile handle of her vintage teacup and, lifting it to her lips, took a sip of tea. The trip had been a complete disaster anyway. That damn little reporter from the Globe had all but refused her invitation to seduce David. She had requested that the woman call her within the next two weeks. However, Alexis did not expect to hear from her ever again.

David sat his small suitcase in the hallway as she turned and walked back to the painting. Her heels clacked on the hardwood floor and, as she walked, their spritely sound echoed across the wide corridor. “Did you see our new painting?” she asked excitedly. “It was just delivered from the Van Hafen gallery.” David followed her path towards the painting. Standing by her side, he looked at it without knowing what to make of it. “What do you think?” asked Alexis as she turned to face him with an expectant look on her face.

David thrust his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders as he gave his wife a grin. “What is it supposed to be?” he asked.

“Oh ha ha, darling,” she retorted in an irritated manner. “Don’t you recognize it? It’s our garden. Don’t you remember last summer when the artist came to paint it?” Suddenly David’s memory is jogged and he does recall Alexis talking about the nice artist who had come to visit last summer. David had been working and had never met the young man that she had so eloquently raved about. The artist spent each afternoon for two weeks working on creating the perfect representation of the Weinberg’s, large, English garden at the back of the estate. Peonies, daisies, delphinium, roses, cosmos .. all in shades of pink, purple, and deep blue. Alexis admired the work. “It looks a little like a Monet, doesn’t it?” she asked with a coquettish smile, obviously pleased by the work.

Hart left his car and came to collect Grace. Taking her hand, he led her toward the front door. A few feet away from the door, without a word and without visible effort, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Grace shrieked with surprise and pounded his back to let her down. Hart blithely ignored her and walked toward his front door, which was opened by Mrs. Brown. Hart greeted her affably, steadied Grace on his shoulder with one hand, then pivoted to calmly introduce the upside down Grace as he walked in the door.

"Grace, meet Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper. Mrs. Brown, Grace Alexander, our dinner guest." Grace fought to compose herself, struggling to keep her skirt from falling to her shoulders while holding out a hand to greet the unflappable Mrs. Brown. Turning her attention back to Hart, Mrs. Brown said, pitching her voice over Grace's renewed but more polite protests, "Drinks and hors d'oeuvres are ready downstairs, Mr. Hart."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown," he replied, also raising his voice over Grace's. He calmly ignored her and carried her downstairs to the same cozy room off the terrace they had used last night. He slid her off his shoulders and steadied her on her feet while he braced for a verbal assault.

Grace smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes. Then she smiled brightly at Hart, her face still red from being upended. He waited, almost visibly wincing, for her reaction. There was none. She surveyed the table that Mrs. Brown had set up, a gooey baked brie en croute in the center. "Cheese, Lukas?" she asked politely, as though she were presiding at a tea part with no less than an Empress in attendance. "Why yes, Grace, thank you," he answered, still waiting. Grace deftly sliced the brie, handing Hart a handsomely arranged plate. "Champagne, Lukas?" she asked, her face still as red as a reddleman's, drawing an uncorked bottle of Veuve Cliquot from its ice bucket. Hart picked up a Baccarat flute and held it out for her, marvelling at her sweet demeanor.

"You won't need the glass, my dear," Grace purred while stretching up on tiptoe. Before Hart knew what happened, she had tilted the bottle over his head just as Mrs. Brown walked into the room with supper on a tray. Hart stood, dripping and fuming, as Grace bent her head up to kiss him.

"1985, I believe, a very good year for the Veuve," Grace said, tasting the wine on Hart's lips. Watching them, Mrs. Brown's impassive lower lip began to tremble. Then her mouth widened into a grin, then into a hearty guffaw. She put down the tray and turned her back to the actors, convulsed in loud and heartfelt laughter.

"Cut, cut, cut!" yelled the Director as he stormed on to the three-walled set. He had let the actors go with their improvisation, but this was too far. And Mrs. Brown's breakdown had ruined the scene anyway. He walked into the center of the set, trying to get the attention of three actors helpless with laughter.

"Do any of you recognize that *none* of this was in character?" The actors ignored him, laughter and tears flowing with the sudden release of the tension all had felt trying to go with the impromptu scene Hart had started by picking up Grace like a sack of leggy potatoes. Their laughter quickly spread to the crew. "Improvisation is one thing, but can we at least *try* to make it consistent with our characters? The Director realized he was speaking only to himself. Frustrated more than infuriated, he flung himself into his black canvas director's chair. First miles of film stock gone in the Achilles-Kari scene on the St. Anne's set. Now this. He ran a hand through his hair and muttered to himself, "At what point exactly did I lose control of this asylum?" From his slump, with a hand half covering his face, he barked in a voice that silenced the snickering cast and crew. "Mrs. Br-o-w-w-w-n, that will be all. Mr. Hart and Ms. Alexander. My office. Immediately. The crew will relight the Bel Air house exterior, where will start *again* in one half hour." The Director gracefully launched himself off his chair and toward his office.

Therese's Guest Chamber--Delaford

Dev lay on his left side, his right arm draped over Therese's hip, her body spooned closely to his own as she slept soundly. She reminded him of a napping puppy, curled contentedly. . . no, certainly a kitten, instead. All feline grace, the way she stretched against him, her body lithe and feminine, as she purred to his attentions. He stroked her hair, relishing the silky softness of it as it slipped between his fingers.

She understood the danger she had been in this morning, at long last. He had not wanted to frighten her, and he could see the slight lines of worry creasing her brow, even in sleep. I would protect her from anything. . .from anyONE, or die trying, he thought to himself fiercely.

He was not a jealous man...had not thought he was a jealous man, but looking down upon her sleeping form, and her peaceful, trusting countenance, he felt a grim determination. He did not know why, and had no rational explanation, but he felt that Therese was in danger from The Interogator. The thought alternately made his heart pound with trepidation, then made him livid. That HE would dare to even think of harming this woman.

His woman.

He thought of returning to Dublin, or at least sending Therese there. She would be safe in County Limerick with his cousins. Seven strapping lads who would all lay down their lives for her, if he but asked. No, he could not bear to be parted from her, knew also that she would not go. And the Colonel needed his help at the moment, at least until HE was stopped. He owed Brandon that much. Probably more.

They would stay. And God forbid he would ever look back to regret his decision.

"I'm a doctor, not a witness."

At this rather joyless statement, the Interrogator does not display any particular visual emotion.

"You are what I say you are, doctor." HIS voice, like a splint of iron ore.

Claudia feels her hair, so nicely arranged, threaten to stand up and do the hokey pokey. What happened to my nerve?! Why am I yearning for Ed at this moment?!

If the Interrogator sees her brief flash of fear (and, of course he does, this is his business) HE does not acknowledge it.

"And I say you are ready to begin," HE continues. "Claudia, this man is here to relax your mind. It is a form of hypnosis. You are looking for yourself. For answers. I am a student of the mind and soul."

A terrorist of the mind, and torturer of the soul, corrects Claudia silently, her resolve and strength returning.

The doctor has remembered his proper place, and wipes all trace of disgust from his tone of voice. He turns now to the business at hand--to Claudia. "Under hypnosis, you will not do anything which, fundamentally, your inner self opposes strongly. There is no need to fight the words which you will hear. The fight will be within you. Don't be afraid."

That were the last words she could remember, when Claudia woke up the following morning.

She rose, and looked into the mirror in her room.

The words echoed in her head. "Don't be afraid."

There had been no way to dissuade Hans from his opinion that his wife must be examined and looked after by the best of doctors - - and that such care must begin immediately, if not sooner.

After all, boy or girl, the Gruber dynasty was not a matter to be taken lightly.

Besides, though she knew that any stomach queasiness might pass, Renie had felt less than herself in the post-wedding days at Delaford. Unable to march about the grounds, and sometimes too tired to even talk for long with Claudia or Andrea, Renie's usual energy--and her ability to socialize--had flagged. Mary Anne had never once let her feel that, of course, managing to hover and joke, and make her feel as if she could stay forever. And, perhaps, if she were not in her current condition, she may have been moved to induce Hans to at least let her stay on a bit more, while he went on ahead to attend to Hansbank business.

But, truthfully, Renie had to admit that she was not keen on leaving Mary Anne and Delaford at all, which meant that she should go sooner, rather than later. Not by any means did her reticence stem from any misgivings about Mary Anne's or Colonel Brandon's happiness. Not in the least. Their happiness, and lives, were well and truly matched; heaven had smiled on their wedding day.

A more selfish reason--akin to the loss of a sister--lurked below the surface, and Renie would not for the world have Mary Anne know how sad Renie was to take leave of two of her best friends, now joyously wed.

The parting had been full of tears and laughter.

Mary Anne, blinking, but smiling. "You promise to come and visit--" her voice was more an order than a request, "and never to wait for an invitation--otherwise I'll spend the next few weeks writing one for every day, if you stand on anything like ceremony."

"Dearest, I will visit, and when you've mastered being Mistress of Delaford--wait, is that "Madam" of Delaford?" Mary Anne ooooooh's a mock reproach. "--You can come and see us. In California or in Egdon."

"Egdon?" falters Mary Anne, surprised. Can she be so close?

"Hans is rebuilding the cottage which burned--the one you gave me for a wedding gift. The surviving upstairs rooms will be incorporated into a larger house. I'm afraid it won't be as small as the cottage, but the kitchen, and living room are being rebuilt in the same style. I loved that cottage."

Mary Anne appreciates Renie's smile.

"And you'll be able to get your check-ups at the new hospital," Mary Anne, beams back, already liking the news. "I've already thanked Hans for setting up that live monitor so we could see the completion of the main wing." She squeezes Renie. Gently. "It was a wondrous gift."

"The maternity wing may be ready in as little as a few weeks, the crews are working so very hard." Renie squeezes back. "I'll be thinking about you, dearest. I'm so happy for you, now that you are securely happy, and with friends who love you." A kiss on Mary Anne's cheek, and Renie dabs at her eye . . . .

As partings between these two go, it was relatively calm. And Hans had not minded that it took just less than four hours.

Now, however, four minutes seem like four hours. She dislikes tests, however medically necessary or advisable they are. Hans seems to like waiting even less than Renie, and he is about to jump out of his John Phillips suit, as a doctor finally re-enters the room.

Scene: The main welcoming offices of the Interrogator.

HE places the tray on a black table.

"You've met the doctor, then. Are we ready?"

"I'm sorry," apologizes the doctor, "I haven't relaxed her yet."

"You're ganging up on me," laughs Claudia in a mock warning. "Are you planning to break my body--"

"--to control your mind?" HE waves his hand, as if waving away all aspects of force. As if. "No. You are participating in all of this voluntarily. Yes?"

The Interrogator walks over and stands behind the chair. Claudia expects to feel his touch on her hair, but he does not touch her.

"Yes," she answers softly.

"Very well. You--" and here HE looks directly at the doctor "--are witness to the fact that whatever happens, it is done of her own free will."

Mary Anne remains quite still, gazing at Brandon for some time, bestowing with her eyes the caresses she denies to her fingers: down the broad sweep of Brandon's scarred shoulders and back to the narrowing at his waist . . . the indentation of sinew at one hip . . . the lean, hardened muscles along the thigh--no idle country squire, Brandon. No. An ex-military man and still in superb physical condition, the payoff of many hours spent in riding his estates, or walking about them--to that, add his continued practice with the sword . . .

An excellent body, indeed. Yet, even as her blood warms and her eyes sparkle at the sight, Mary Anne's thoughts linger on how Brandon has interposed that body between her and harm. For her, or because of her, the Colonel bears the marks of stripe and bullet wound and sabre cut . . .

That last, her own doing. Mary Anne lowers her head.

Brandon has forgiven her for that. Completely. She will not weep.

When at length she raises her head, Brandon has shifted his posture slightly, the body's unthinking adjustment during sleep to whatever position is most comfortable for the moment. He lies now more on his side than his stomach, his scarred shoulders concealed from her view but his face more fully visible than before, and Mary Anne looks long and hard into that face, at the small flickerings of the eyelids and that faint smile that seems to betoken such happy dreams . . .

Oh, I do hope so. Dearest Christopher, I hope so. Happy dreams for you, and a happy awakening. And here it seemed so sensible, to me, to lie here thinking of your faults . . . I'd do much better to be thinking of my own . . .

It is more than she can bear. Slowly, by tiny degrees, Mary Anne leans close and brushes her lips very lightly against Brandon's forehead, careful not to awaken him.

Brandon sleeps on.

Mary Anne settles back into her pillows and tries to compose herself. Christopher, when I was thinking on what faults you might have . . . Her eyes dim. It was only . . . so that I might be prepared. So that they wouldn't catch me by surprise. So that . . . I might be patient and tender with them--as you have always been so patient and tender with mine . . .

Mary Anne closes her eyes.

Some moments later she feels Brandon move again, and then all is still for a time.

Her eyelids grow heavier, and she yawns . . .

. . . and is abruptly startled out of her yawn by a sound from the other side of the bed.

Mary Anne sits upright and stares at Brandon for a few moments; then, with a smile of rueful amusement, she lies back down, settling herself into her pillows with a resigned sigh. She realizes, now, what must have first awakened her.

Brandon, snoring . . .

Flashback ..

**BOSTON, USA**

Returning home that afternoon from New Orleans, David entered through the front door of his estate to find Alexis in the hallway with a cup of tea. She was perusing a new painting that had just arrived from the Van Hafen gallery. He eyed her with interest. She hadn’t noticed he’d arrived. Her attentions were trained intently on the piece of artwork.

She turned suddenly at the unexpected sound of footsteps in the hallway. “David, darling!” she exclaimed enthusiastically as she walked towards him, perfectly balancing her teacup with one hand, as she gave him a light kiss him on the lips. She was dressed in an ivory pantsuit, elegantly topped off by a light ivory sweater that was draped softly over her shoulders. On her feet were a flat pair of ivory Manolo Blahniks which matched her clothes perfectly. David allowed his gaze to drift the length of her with interest. A new outfit? This was an nice, if not interesting, change. Could it be because of her night of passion with the Greek? Perhaps he had taken all of her dark-colored clothes? Covering up his curiosity, he smiled at her warmly and leaned towards her in order to kiss her back. On the cheek.

“How are you?” he asked with concern as he put down his bag and gathered her to him in a hug. Surprised by the unexpected affection, she tried not to spill her tea as David enveloped her in his arms. “You poor thing ..” he started to say.

“Poor thing?!” she asked quizzically as she broke the embrace. “Why do you say that?”

Hart ended his call to Beta as he made the turn west on to Sunset Boulevard toward the gates of Bel Air. He could see Grace's car ahead, weaving through traffic. She was in a hurry, he noted, a pulse of joy and wonder moving through him. Focus, he chided himself. He hit another speed dial button, this one a direct line to his housekeeper, Mrs. Brown. Hart took grim pride in his rigorous training of his support staff as Mrs. Brown also answered before the second ring. Hart rattled off his instructions.

In the kitchen of Hart's home, Mrs. Brown hung up, glad to be busy. She was too gifted a cook to be happy with the rare culinary demands Hart made on her. He seldom entertained formally, and when he ate at home, which was not often, he cooked for himself. Hart had even insisted that she make herself scarce during his dinner with Grace the night before. Mrs. Brown relished the chance to take over the kitchen, even if her employer impossibly demanded supper for two in less time than it took a Honda to negotiate the hills of Bel Air. High time, she thought to herself, as she tied on an apron and started to bustle around the kitchen, a satisfied gleam in her eye. A romantic supper for two was certainly more fun to prepare than Hart's last order, endless sandwiches and coffee in Hart's private study for an all night conference of shadowy men with hard faces and impossible-to-place accents. What Mr. Hart had to with such characters occupied Mrs. Brown for only a moment. She was discreet, of course, but more than that well trained in the way of Bel Air household employees to avoid knowing too much about their employers. Curiosity not only killed the cat, but got it a federal subpoena, Mrs. Brown was fond of telling her friends who worked on neighboring estates.

Hart caught up to Grace at the front gate to his home. She leaned out and punched in the security code. He quickly followed her through the gate. She waited for him to park in his garage, leaning against her car and admiring the winter night sky, which was clear for once as a chill Santa Ana wind racketed around the hill.

Therese's Guest Chamber--Delaford

Therese lay next to Dev, snuggled against his chest, basking in his warmth. She was utterly content, but for once, sleep eluded her.

"You're still awake?" Dev asked incredulously, as she turned to look up at him. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her even closer to his chest, and drawing the bedcovers over them both.

"I know. . ." she paused, "but I wanted to be with you yet tonight."

Dev raised a single brow. "It seems to me you have been. Several times."

Therese rolled her eyes, and slapped him lightly on the chest. "Eamon! Be serious. I missed you when we fought today. I didn't like the feeling of separation at all. I know that we'll have other rows." She smiled up at him. "With our temperments we'll definitely have other rows, but promise me that we won't allow them to come between us like this one did."

Dev took her left hand, and brought it to his lips. "I promise. Today got out out of hand, and we won't let it happen again. There's something else we need to speak of, about today, are you too tired?"

Therese looked at him, concern in her eyes. "I'm listening."

"Those men who attacked you this morning in the West Woods. There are some things you should know about them, to help you understand why we must be very careful until we are certain they are no longer a threat." He leaned forward, and kissed her softly on the forehead. "The dark haired man you described--"

"--The Commander said he was a sheriff of some sort."

"True, he is the Sheriff of Nottingham, though he feels himself above the law, and is not an enforcer of it as his title would indicate. He is a braggart and a buffoon, but he is also a rapist, and he has hurt another woman here very badly. He is wanted within the Realm, and must be brought forth to answer for his crimes. Even so, he is not our first concern. It is the other man. . ."

Therese grew concerned at Eamon's pause, and the fierce look upon his face. His eyes darkened with his anger. "What is it?" she asked, reaching to stroke his cheek. "Tell me."

"HE is called The Interrogator, and is by far and away the closest thing we have to evil in the Realm. Both Colonel Brandon and myself are very concerned that an attempt was made to abduct you. The only thing that keeps me from raging like a madman is that neither Brandon nor myself can understand what Mr. I could want with you. Perhaps you simply stumbled upon HIM. . . we may only hope it was a coincidence. HE is dangerous, Therese. HE is a terrorist, one who tortures victims to collect information for HIS purposes. HE does not have a soul, or a shred of morality to HIM, and uses people as pawns, with little or no thought to the matter. Do not underestimate HIM. This is why you MUST stay with me at all times, until HE has been apprehended. Can you understand the potential danger here? I do not say this merely to frighten you, but HE is worthy of your fear. People close to you bear the scars of their interactions with this creature, and I do not want you to be counted among that number. I do not mean to be overbearing in this matter, but I love you, and cannot bear the thought of what an animal like that could do to you."

Therese shuddered, and buried her head in Dev's shoulder. "I didn't know," she said, her voice soft. Her hands gripped his shoulders tightly. "I had no idea."

He held her body to his own with one hand, his other smoothing the hair from her eyes. "It will be all right," he assured her softly, "but you needed to know. . ."

Mary Anne looks at Brandon . . .

Then, moving as carefully as possible, she turns toward the Colonel, propping herself on one elbow and gazing her fill.

Brandon lies on his stomach, with his head pillowed on one arm, his face turned toward her--the usual reserve and composure of that face now relaxed in sleep, and Mary Anne marvels at the change: the crease between his eyebrows, smoothed away and barely discernible; likewise the crinkles around his eyes, that deepen when he laughs--or, more often, when he is trying to conceal his amusement. So bright is the moonlight in the room, Mary Anne can see the faint shadow cast by his eyelashes against his skin and even the colour of the lashes themselves--deep cinnamon- brown shading to dark gold at the very tips.

Mary Anne pulls back slightly, shaking her head and smiling at her own fascination. What was it Shakespeare said about the lover "making woeful ballad to his mistress' eyebrow"? And here I am, absolutely besotted over my husband's eyelashes . . .

As she detects faint movements of his eyes beneath their closed eyelids, Mary Anne is slightly alarmed, remembering one other occasion when she had watched Brandon sleep--and then tried to awaken him from a nightmare. But no . . . if the half-smile on his lips is any indication, Brandon's dreams are most pleasant. About me? wonders Mary Anne wistfully. I'd like to think so . . .

And another strange scruple, as her eyes move lower: Mary Anne feels as if it is not quite fair to proceed. Yes, Brandon has watched her sleep--had absolutely insisted on it, that day at the Manor House; he had gone without sleep for almost the entire night, to keep watch over her and let her pass an undisturbed night of badly-needed rest. Yet it is not the same. To see him like this . . . the sight is enough, more than enough, to kindle her desire, yet Mary Anne is also moved to the heart and, for once, has no difficulty keeping her impulses well in check. So powerful, earlier, in the way he had borne her irresistibly along with his passions, and now--the vulnerability of him. The way his cheek rests against his arm. The way those few strands of hair fall across his forehead; they will not stay put. Even as she watches, Brandon moves slightly, his brow wrinkling in irritation and disturbance--the strands have fallen partly into his eyes and he stirs in his sleep, blinking . . .

Quickly and gently, Mary Anne puts out her hand and lifts the offending hair away, smoothing it aside, and Brandon drops back into sleep almost immediately.

The moonlight. The same bright light that cast the shadow of Brandon's eyelashes on his skin . . . brings out in bright relief the healed marks on his back, the signature of The Interrogator's metal lash. Mary Anne knows the touch of them under her fingers, can feel the thin, fine seam of scar tissue, but she has never looked at them so closely, and her breath catches at the sight--yes, in an exclamation of sorrow that she will not release, lest she wake Brandon, but also in a kind of wonder, for in the transfiguring moonlight the silvered stripes resemble the natural markings of some animal's pelt, rather than the traces of wounds. Mary Anne recalls how the flicker of firelight, on their wedding night, had made Brandon resemble a tiger to her imaginative eyes. Now she is not sure, in her comparison, just what animal might be appropriate, but the markings seem . . . a part of him.

Mary Anne knows that it would be no great matter to remove them. Brandon has been aboard the Tardis; he knows what minor miracles The Doctor can perform with the anabolic protoplaser. If, at any time, Brandon had wished to be free of his scars, he might simply have asked and The Doctor would have been more than glad to perform this service for Brandon, of whom he highly approves.

Brandon has never said as much, but Mary Anne--in a flash of intuition--is quite certain of why Brandon has allowed the marks to remain.

He wears them for her.

Badges of honour, earned in service to his love.

Great, just great. I've managed to mess up the quotes once again. Sigh.

Shall I re-post the entire thing, correctly this time since the DoC is temporarily out of commission, which would just leave the initial post to be deleted, or just leave it be?

Look at the bright side. At least Dreambook seems to confine my stupidity to my post rather than have it run amok in everyone elses!

"Yes, Mr. Hart," Beta answered, crisply. He had not heard from Hart since the night before and wondered what was going on. Of course, Beta knew better than to ask, and waited for his instructions.

Hart started, "The six boxes in the center of my office. They must disappear." He described how he wanted Beta to remove the six boxes from his private office and store them in a different part of the Global Marketing offices not accessible from his rooms. "Duplicate the marks on the outside of the boxes. Exactly. Fill the boxes with copies of documents from six other boxes. We'll pass it off as a clerical error. It must be finished by sunrise. Do it yourself. No one else can be *trusted*." Hart leaned hard on the last word, twisting his mouth ironically as he remembered his discussion of trust with Grace just the day before. "Do you understand, Beta?"

"Yes, Mr. Hart," was Beta's only reply. The thought of slaving over a hot photocopy machine throughout the night to copy thousands of pages did not thrill Beta, but he also knew better than to complain.

**MARTHA’S VINEYARD, USA .. THE BEACH HOUSE**

Jamie arched his other eyebrow and looked behind him, half-expecting to see another man standing in the room. Insecure?! He leaned slightly towards her, and separated his words emphatically, feigning annoyance. “Ha. Ha. Ha.” She didn’t respond. Giving up, he then stepped over to a large, floral-covered armchair and seated himself comfortably in it. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re busy,” he said as he sat down with a satisfied look. “I have some paperwork to go over and I thought I’d sit here and do it while you get rolling on ..,” he waved his hand dismissively just as she had done moments ago. “ .. whatever it is you’re doing there.” He ruffled the papers in the manila folder loudly with the selfish hope of disturbing her.

She looked over her shoulder at him, this time arching an eyebrow of her own. “Whatever it is I’m doing here?”

He looked up from his folder with a blank expression on his face and shrugged his shoulders. “Yes,” he said impudently. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

In response, she picked up her pencil, pointed it like a dart, and threw it in his direction. Jamie raised his arms to avoid being hit, and, luckily for him, the pencil bounced harmlessly off of his forearm and dropped soundlessly to the floor. “I’m writing a novel,” she answered with slight disgust as she turned back towards the computer again, muttering something he couldn’t hear under her breath.

“What was that?” he asked teasingly, cupping a hand to his ear.

“Go away,” she said firmly, continuing to concentrate on her nearly blank screen. “If you keep talking, I’ll never be able to concentrate on this.” He nodded in mock seriousness yet, as he looked again at the folder, a slight grin could be seen on his face. A novel? Of all things! He smirked at the back of her curly head, wishing she’d turn around and smile at him some more.

Who did she think she was anyway?

It seemed one moment they were alone and the next a crowd had gathered. Dana was touch by the small gifts pressed into her hands: a hair comb, a book, a small bag of coffee, a tearstained hug and whispers of good wishes. Her feelings of worry were replaced by sadness at leaving this group who had become so closely bound by hardship and heartache, toil and triumph.

The Brandons' bedchamber:

At her recollection of Brandon's words, that he considers himself her servant and not her master, Mary Anne smiles, but it is a wry smile, at best. Not my master, indeed, she thinks, giving another and somewhat more protracted sigh at her remembrance of the earlier events of the evening.

Brandon had been as good as his word.

He had not stopped.

Of course, she had not begged, either. At least, not for him to stop . . .

Mary Anne knits her brows, wondering if what had taken place between them was as far out of the ordinary as it had seemed to her, or if it is merely her lack of experience in these matters. For Brandon had conducted himself more as she had thought he would on their wedding night: like a force of nature, the storm gathering by slow degrees until the very tempest of passion had broken over them, both of them . . .

Mary Anne's eyebrow lifts. Force of nature. "Storm," yet. And "tempest," forsooth! Mary Anne, you sound like that trashy paperback in your room . . . Yet it seems that no other terminology will suffice; she lacks the vocabulary to describe what she had felt--what Brandon had made her feel.

Try again.

The playful humour of the wedding night-- not gone, but altered beyond immediate recognition. Without frightening or hurting her in the least, Brandon had done exactly as he wished with her, his mastery so simple and self-evident that resistance--assuming she had wished to resist--was not merely futile: it was inconceivable. No such possibility could exist.

Mary Anne stretches a little, dreamily recalling one of the few coherent thoughts she had been able to form during that encounter, which was that she understands far better, now, the idea of an immortal soul dwelling in the human body. If there had been any apprehension, any shadow of fear, it had been only that her flesh would be too frail for her sensations. Now I know why the poets compare it with dying . . .

Mary Anne had refrained from turning toward Brandon when she awakened and began to think on his flaws, for she knew that if she looked at him she would not be able to continue. But her thoughts have wandered far from their original course, and Mary Anne turns . . .

. . . and sees immediately the wisdom of her earlier self-restraint.

For it seems that, somehow, the Colonel has managed to kick and shrug away most of his share of the bedcovers . . .

KATE!!! Huuuuuuggggggg . . . good to "see" you again! Does this mean your internet woes have been settled and you're back?

**MARTHA’S VINEYARD, USA .. THE BEACH HOUSE**

“Diane says hello,” Jamie’s voice appeared suddenly at the front door to the house as the screen door slammed behind him. He’d returned from his afternoon adventures. Adventures consisting of visits to various neighbors with a few of Charlie’s fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. His comment upon returning verified what she’d suspected all along. Diane. Diane was the woman who lived at the other end of Lambert’s Cove Road. Diane’s “beach house” was three times the size of Charlie’s. Diane wasn’t around very often but spent weekends out on the island with her husband, and, during the week, hosted a morning talk show on one of the New York based networks though, because she rarely watched television, Charlie could never remember which one. She didn’t respond.

“New computer?” asked Jamie curiously as he wandered into the front room followed by the slight scent of ocean salt. The screen door slammed frequently in a familiar manner against the house in the breeze. Neither of them noticed.

Charlie hadn’t expected him so soon. She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice but he didn’t appear to notice. “Mmff,” she mumbled as she looked at the screen in deep concentration. She had a new project she was working on, and had pulled her old laptop computer out of the cupboard, dusting it off in hopes that it still worked after all this time.

“Mmff?” he asked disdainfully as he eyed her in her chair at the desk. “That’s certainly a fine welcome.” Wasn’t she going to ask where he’d been all this time? He placed the plastic container which had at one time held cinnamon rolls on the entry table and, placing his folder behind his back, leaned towards her in an effort to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said absent-mindedly as she typed another word on the screen. Progress! Now she had not just one but two words written down.

‘Is that an objection?” he asked, forgetting about the kiss, as he took a step back from the chair and eyed her with narrowed eyes.

Charlie turned in his direction, resisting the urge to stand up and give him a welcoming hug. She simply had to stay focused. Instead she remained in her chair and a warm smile inadvertently curved upwards to display her trademark dimples yet again. “No!” she exclaimed as her eyes danced in the afternoon light. “An objection? Oh Jamie! No! You should know me better than that,” she scolded playfully.

He raised his eyebrow and a corner of his mouth followed suit as if jokingly questioning the authenticity of her statement.

Scene: The main welcoming offices of the Interrogator. Although they can hardly be called "welcoming" . . .

"Sit down, Claudia. How do you feel?"

She eyes the stranger with suspicion. "Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor. Call me, well, the doctor."

"Sorry, I know someone else by *that* name." She sinks into a black leather chair. Her hair is wrapped engagingly, with loose ends dangling for a ready-for-anything effect.

The doctor approaches her, holding out his hand in greeting. "Very well, then call me anything you like." Claudia shakes his hand. "I'm not permitted to tell you my name. HE won't allow it. But I'm here to see that you are relaxed. And I fail to do so at my peril."

Claudia does not comment, and does not rise from her chair. He looks normal, but . . . "

"Most people might say you do not need much relaxing, " he observes, as she continues to lounge in the leather chair. "But I don't think they know you very well."

"And I'm supposed to let you know me?"

"I already know most everything about you, HE has made sure of that."

"Then you work for him." She keeps her voice even.

"I do not. I have been . . . requisitioned. My employer owes him a favor, and I am it. I can return to my work in the real world, if I perform satisfactorily."

"And if you don't?"

"I have been made to understand that I will not return."

Before Claudia can ask anything further, HE enters the room, carrying a tray with a glass carafe and one glass. As there are three people in the room, she guesses she might be the lucky one.

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA**

A bottle of wine and several cajun-style crayfish later, David and Kari decided to call an end to their amiable lunch. David walked her back to the Saint Ann so she could catch a cab to the airport and, before leaving her, gave her his business card and asked for hers in return.

Stuffing his card in her purse, she found one of her own and handed it to him. He glanced at the company name along the top of the card. The Boston Globe. “Reporter?” he asked curiously as he tucked the card into the pocket of his suit jacket. She nodded in slight embarrassment as she realized that she might be relieved of her reporter duties the moment she set foot back in Boston. Her editors were not going to be happy to discover her inexcusable behavior while in New Orleans. Interestingly enough, neither she nor David had mentioned their occupations during their brief lunch. He commented that he read the Globe daily. Had he ever read any of her stories? She smiled and mentioned a few of the articles she had written in the past few months. He was immediately impressed when he realized that he’d seen her work. She had a definite talent. Kari smiled and blushingly thanked him for the compliments as well as for lunch. She had certainly enjoyed passing her time with another Bostonian.

Scene: Close-up of a set of controls. Gun-metal grey.

HE pauses, for a few moments, the fingers of his right hand hovering above the jog button of his monitor's controls. He was pleased that Claudia had shown admirable patience. And pleased, too, at her whiling away her time in isolation by styling and restyling her hair. There . . . that style there, suited her well . . . and her wet hair about her face . . . HE touches the controls again . . .

Wait--what was that--she had spoken something . . . HE rewinds. Turns up the volume to hear her words.

“But I’ll surprise you some more, before I’m finished."

The thin smile appears on HIS lips. In a fast-forward frenzy, HE watches, as, predictably, Claudia hunts for any watching or listening devices planted in her room. Of the two, she had found one. And here, the tape goes blank.

An actual laugh, or what might be taken as a laugh, from HIM, escapes him. To anyone else it is a sound which would induce unspeakable nightmares for a week. Or more.

Interesting. She was very dogged in her search, and had unearthed the device which had been more cunningly hidden.

The other, more obviously placed, had escaped her detection. This affirmed for HIM what HE had surmised about her. About her strengths, and . . . weaknesses.

You are playing a very dangerous game. He clicks off the monitor screen. MY game.

A knock on the door of HIS inner offices. HE presses a button to grant the minion entrance. "Sir, the doctor is here." HE does not move, and the minion stands at attention. Then, HIS eyes flick towards the door. Then back at minion. Lowering his head in obedience, the minion leaves.

HE rises, and the quiet menace of his VOICE breaks the silence. "Three tasks I will set for you, Claudia. I do hope that I shall be pleasantly surprised. I should not like to see such spirit . . .

The light clicks off to deathly BLACK.

" . . . wasted."

For the rest of the day, Hart and Grace worked companionably together, sorting through most of the boxes and grouping them together according to which Investor they concerned. It was almost 8 p.m. as Grace reached for the last group of six boxes, which included the box Hart had perused on his own earlier. He leaned over and stayed her hand.

"I'm starving, Grace. You must be, too. Why don't we call it a day?"

"Lukas, there are just these few left to sort." Grace was hungry, and exhausted, but not about to admit defeat with the end in sight.

"I have more interesting plans for this evening than sorting heavy boxes of paper," Hart's voice dropped to a low, seductive growl as he gently drew a hand along Grace's cheek. Her eyes closed involuntarily, but just for a second.

"What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Hart?" she asked, playfully, her eyes sparkling.

"Follow me home and find out, Ms. Alexander," Hart sparred back.

Grace looked back at the last set of boxes, torn between wanting to finish and Hart's invitation. Impulsively, she gathered up her jacket and bag. For once in her career, she would let the boxes wait. "I won't have to follow you. I know the way," she winked at him as she headed for the door.

Hart opened the outer door to the suite and let her pass. He waited until she was well past him before he let his face show the relief he felt.

He watched Grace pull out of the parking garage on to Santa Monica Boulevard, then head west toward Bel Air. Hart followed in his black Lexus. He reached for his cellular phone and hit a speed dial button. Beta answered before the second ring.

The Brandons' bedchamber.

Moonlight streams through the windows and pours across the bed, and Mary Anne passes from deep sleep to wakeful attention--uncertain, at first, of exactly what has awakened her. It is several moments before she realizes that she is awake, but then her mind focuses, her vision adjusts . . . and she smiles a little. The golden moonlight. Mary Anne's mind dwells briefly on the Greek myth of Danae, to whom the god Zeus manifested himself in a glittering shower of gold.

A touch of irony curls the smile at one corner of her lips. What shares the bed with her is certainly no god, yet he seems of another race than the general run of human male. Or so he would take up his place in her heart, if her sense of humour did not come to her rescue with admirable promptness.

Beware, Mary Anne. Turn into a doting, adoring little wife, and you'll make everybody around you ILL, not to mention boring Christopher out of his wits. He's a man, with a human's faults, and best you get used to that immediately and remember it.

Mary Anne's smile fades as she thinks: And what are his faults, exactly? There are times when it seems the Colonel has very few; she will not go so far as to say "none." And her heart has sensed already the hard task she has assigned herself and urges her to forget this matter and go to sleep. But for once in her life her mind overrules her heart. Make yourself aware of his faults, Mary Anne. He does have them. Prepare yourself for them by recognizing them now, so that you can deal patiently with them later. So, then . . .

Faults.

A tendency to take things hard. Yes. To assume faults that are not even his own, to take blame where any reasonable person would count him blameless--to say nothing of how he scourges himself in matters where some real blame might be attached to him. Thankfully, those occasions are few.

Mary Anne sighs in frustration. Yes, this is a fault, but isn't it a fault on the right side? Isn't better to be plagued by an over-sensitive conscience than to have none at all?

Mary Anne frowns and stirs impatiently on her side of the bed, settling the covers carefully about her. What else?

A temper. Oh, most definitely. But not like her own. She is capable of lasting wrath, cold and still and deadly, but her usual displays of anger are over in a few moments and consist of little more than sharp words. Brandon, however . . .

Mary Anne shivers. On those few occasions when she had seen Brandon lose his temper--or commit himself to the course of that deeper, colder wrath--she had realized, instantly, that his anger is of another order altogether from her own. For she has led a nurtured, cherished, protected life--unlike Brandon. No such sheltered existence has been his. His capabilities of anger have been forged to a Damascene edge that puts the blade of her Aurientine to shame.

Mary Anne swallows, recalling that she had not seen Dev since morning, when he had been about to meet with Brandon in the study. And while she wonders exactly what passed between them, she is fairly sure that she will not find out. Certainly not from Brandon. And she is even more sure that she might not wish to know.

Jealousy. Brandon has admitted as much, on several occasions. Mild, perhaps; well under control, but there. This morning in the study, now, when Brandon had said he didn't like her being left alone with a man like Dev: pure concern for her safety, with a man Brandon considers violent? Or the shadow of a green-eyed monster?

The tendency, at times, to be a little . . . Mary Anne is not sure how to name it. Dictatorial is a little strong. Authoritative, perhaps. Well, he can hardly be blamed for that. A former military man, and the master of Delaford. At least he has already reassured her that he does not consider himself her master. Mary Anne sighs, remembering how the Colonel had assured her that he was not her master, but her most devoted and humble servant . . .

Claudia slept late, and awoke to find another tray of food on her dressing table. She hadn’t heard the door open, or anyone come in. She shivered thinking of what could have happened to her in her sleep, and chided herself for sleeping so heavily. Be on your guard 24 hours a day in this place, she ordered herself.

She didn’t see anyone all day. No matter how long she stared at the door, it stayed locked, and no one came near her. No one even brought her lunch. She passed the time by having several showers, and sitting in front of the mirror trying different hairstyles.

All the time she was really thinking over what Mr I had said, about her chasing her fears. It sounded so right, she wondered why she’d never thought of it that way. And she thought about what was going to happen next, and when. HE was obviously making her wait, making her wonder, making sure she realised on whose terms she was here.