Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

The Imperial Palace—a private office:

"Well, Rupert?"

"Well, Your Majesty?"

The Empress gives him an exasperated look, from which Rupert does not flinch. It is that very quality that makes him valuable to her, surrounded as she is by the loyal protection of both the Palace Guard and her own personal Imperials: the very training that dedicates them to her leaves them unable, at times, to distinguish between what Her Majesty wishes to hear and what it would be best for her to hear. Rupert, on the other hand . . .

The Empress fixes him with a look. "I need your impressions. What did you think of The Interrogator?"

"Beyond the obvious, you mean?" Rupert leans back in his chair, thinking over the interview in the throne room.

"Include that in your summary. What seems obvious to you may not seem so to me."

"Very well." Rupert's eyes close briefly as he tallies his thoughts, then open again. "My summary of your discussion with HIM would consist of one word."

"And that word is . . . ?"

"Stalemate."

Too true. The Empress ponders for a moment, thinking back over the interview in the throne room.

HE had been, on the surface, quite charming. Intelligent. Witty. Even, to a degree, deferential—or would have seemed so, had it not been for that faint air of mockery that hung over every word, until the most polished courtesies had seemed little short of a slap or a curse. And she, in her turn, had been moderate, tolerant, and imperturbable, offering HIM every opportunity for a fair hearing –but there can be no hearing when HE will not speak. And speak he would not, beyond those polite formalities.

That smile. It had never reached HIS eyes . . .

The Empress rises from her desk to pace about the room. Observant of protocol, Rupert makes as if to stand with her but she waves him back to his seat. "The problem with stalemate is that no one wins. It's not enough that The Interrogator doesn't win and that I don't lose. If he can stall us and make us look powerless, that's a victory for HIM."

"We can imprison him."

"For how long?"

"For a very long time indeed, at Your Majesty's will and pleasure. After all, the man has treachery to his credit, and assault of loyal citizens of the Realm, and abduction and torture and . . . shall I go on?"

"All true, of course. But what led to so much trouble at the last attempt to try him is that so few of the charges were clear-cut and provable in court. And no capital crime among them. You did the research yourself, Rupert—HE has been exceptionally careful, in his—" A grimace of distaste. "--professional capacity, not to have people die at his hands. He leaves that to his underlings, to clean up after he's finished."

"There was that business of the murder of Dieter Schiller at Nakatomi."

The Empress waves that aside. "Never proven. We know that someone murdered that young man, but we'd never prove it was The Interrogator; the weapon was never found." A silence. "Justice is hard work, do you know?" A hint of a smile. "It is far easier to be merciful—or tyrannical."

Rupert shifts in his chair, eyeing The Empress with genuine affection. Her guards, yes, they are devoted to her—especially her elite Imperials, who would not hesitate to kneel down as she passes by and kiss the stones her foot had touched, if she willed it so. But though they never speak of it, Rupert knows that what exists between them is true friendship and that she is supported and heartened by his wise advice. Yes, Queen Elizabeth the First was surrounded by adorers as well—or those who professed to adore her, if it would mean their own advancement. Yet she still needed Cecil, one reliable counsellor in whom she could repose her absolute trust . . . It is his honour and privilege—and quite often, his pleasure—to play Cecil.

And, at times, Walsingham.

Rupert smiles. "Your Majesty is often the former and seldom the latter. Merciful rather than tyrannical, I mean. Perhaps it is time for a change of tactics."

She is intrigued and resumes her seat. "What would you suggest?" The smile on her face . . . well, his friendship is returned.

Rupert considers. "HIS attitude makes clear that he will not cooperate, and that he thinks to be entertained by you going to great lengths to offer him a chance at mercy." A dry laugh. "It's obvious that he prides himself on being inscrutable, but it was written all over his face; he scorns mercy and scorns you for considering it. And I believe HE is convinced you would not even contemplate the alternative."

"A long prison term does not strike me as particularly merciful, especially not to a man like HIM. And—" Her eyes meet his. "People escape from prisons."

Both of them avoid looking at the desk, which is strewn with papers from the Imperial dossier on The Interrogator. By now, Rupert can recognize every document and photo in that folder with just a casual glance, and he knows if he looked at the papers, he could select the only one among them written in The Interrogator's own hand: HIS confession about the machine and that Mary Anne was not to blame for HIS abduction from the Government House and all that had followed. It is the only confession they are ever likely to have from HIM, and they both know it.

It is another paper, however, that The Empress selects from among the pile on the desk. "And there's this to consider, as well."

Rupert nods. Fresh and crisp, that one—Doctor Mesmer's emergency dispatch, begging Her Majesty to deal gently with HIM, for Andrea's sake. "If HE knew of that, he could hold us at bay indefinitely. It would be the perfect lever for him, that Andrea often feels what he suffers. We must find some way around that."

"Yes, we must." She smiles a little. "Meanwhile . . . I shall indulge my tyrannical side. A little."

Rupert sits up straighter in mock-alarm. "How?"

The Empress rests her chin upon her hand as if lost in her own imaginings. "Perhaps . . . I shall arrange for The Interrogator to tour the old dungeons. I shall say that I thought it would interest him . . . " Her gaze sharpens. " . . . in his professional capacity, to see the, um, furnishings."

"Furnishings."

A mild, affirmative murmur. "And the, ah, instrumentation."

"Quite. I see." A derisive growl. "No disrespect, but surely you do not think HE will be intimidated by that?"

" You're quite right, and that's the beauty of it. If HE thinks we meant to intimidate him, he'll be feeling smug and superior—and be off-guard. And if he sees through this, he'll wonder what I truly intended by it . . . and be off-guard on that account. A little anxiety can be remarkably . . . persuasive."

Something glitters in her smile, and Rupert stirs uncomfortably in his chair. "There are occasions when you truly frighten me."

"All the better, then. You don't scare easily. If it works with you, it might work with The Interrogator."

Rupert adopts his court manners. "Your Majesty, by the love I bear you as your loyal subject—"

"Stop that; there's no one else here."

"Very well, then—keep this before you. If the only way to conquer The Interrogator is to become like HIM . . ."

And now, The Empress—without moving a muscle—has suddenly assumed her full dignity, is robed and crowned in it, and Rupert lowers his eyes as she speaks, her voice quiet and steady. "I may have to do that very thing, you know. Threaten and intimidate HIM, if such a thing can be done. Dispense with justice as most men would define it. Invoke Rights of the Victim, perhaps? The line of claimants would stretch out for miles. Execute HIM on a technicality. If it means I live with the blame, while my subjects live without the threat of HIM—"

The Empress allows her voice to trail off, and Rupert lifts his eyes and stares piercingly at her, then lets out a long breath of relief. "Do you know, you had me believing you, for a moment!"

Her eyes sparkle. "Good. Then let's hope HE will believe me—for more than a moment."

She rises from the desk and this time Rupert does stand with her, leaning briefly on his cane as they walk together to the door of the study, where he turns and looks down at her. "Do take care in this. I know this will sound trite, but no one is safe with HIM. None of us can let down our guard for an instant."

She nods, and he marvels at her regal bearing—how could The Interrogator have been taken in by her trick of disguising herself as one of the Palace Guards? Does not every line of her posture proclaim her The Empress?

To say nothing of every modulation of her voice: "Don't be afraid, Rupert. I mean to safeguard my honour and the honour of the Realm . . . even if I have to part with everything else to do it. HIS power shall be brought low, and justice shall be served."

Rupert bows his head in acquiescence, while thinking, Dear Majesty, you are not the first to make such a vow . . .

MA
Clods--sounds as if it was easier than one of HIS interrogations . . . =8-O, - Tuesday, February 29, 2000 at 20:55:48 (PST)

Time had passed for Claudia in a numb daze, ever since she had stepped out of the Tardis, and had been escorted to the house by a large group of guards. Far too large a group for one innocent woman. But you're not so innocent she'd reminded herself.

She'd been taken to a small bare room, with only a table and some chairs, and the Alliance Rose personnel had stood silently while she told her story. A tape recorder sat on the table, and the officer sitting opposite her nodded for her to begin, as she keyed on the recorder. There were also two other people taking shorthand notes as she spoke. No one interrupted her, not even with a prompt or question for clarification. She'd expected to be questioned, but it didn't happen. Her voice trailed to a faltering stop, and she finished telling how she escaped from the Brandon's bedroom. It was hard to cope with all the silence around her.

The officer nodded to the others in the room, and got up to leave. Two guards were posted inside the room, two outside, and Claudia was left sitting alone at the table. She felt dislocated from the time and place. She had no idea exactly what time it was, or how long she'd been talking.

"What's going to happen now?" she asked the guards, but they avoided eye contact and didn't talk to her. "Be like that then."

They had orders not to speak to her. Why? So they couldn't influence the decisions she would make, the story she would tell?

She sat, tapping her fingers nervously on the table, waiting. Would she have to face Colonel Brandon, or even Mary Anne? Or would they take her away from here as soon as possible? Did they consider her a threat? Did they still believe she was in league with the Interrogator?

The Interrogator. Where was HE now? In custody somewhere. Would she be expected to speak against HIM? I don't know if I can do it…Its hard enough when HE thinks you are with HIM, if I ever dare do anything that might hurt HIM… But she'd gone this far. She'd gone to the Interrogator to bring him to justice, and she had the opportunity now to finish the job. Once and for all. Why then was she suddenly thinking of being in his arms?
Claudia
I know, I know... When I get my brain to work, I promise to write here more often!, - Monday, February 28, 2000 at 17:23:42 (PST)

Thank you, Magda--yeah, these bad old characters have scared me on any number of occasions . . . but not enough to scare me away.

MA--*grin* (with chattering teeth)
And I loved how George was surprised--no one had ever been relieved to see him before! , - Sunday, February 27, 2000 at 20:26:57 (PST)

"Days the Forty-fifth to the Forty-eighth, in the month of December – In which Joya and I return to the lodge and Melisant arrives."

"I still cannot believe that praying was the best you could come up with." Joya sipped her wine. The firelight from the hearth flickered over her and drew sparks from her hair.

"I didn't notice you jumping forward with a better explanation." I stretched my legs and relaxed into the cushions on the great carved chair. Small flakes of wet snow fell down the chimney and fed the hungry maw of the flames.

We were sitting in the great hall this night. Since the servants had gone to bed it was safe to talk. Our new regime required us to exercise caution in our conversations. In the great bedroom upstairs our young guest lay sleeping and from now on nothing would be the same.

Of course it would be more accurate to say that everything changed that night at the Blue Boar. A killing was one thing but for it to happen on the night that Sir Walter of Krone staged his little exercise in repressive virtue was another. Relations with the authorities were, to put it mildly, strained at the implied incompetence of the executors. Krone's manner for the remainder of the night was cold and distant except when he was talking directly to Joya when he thawed somewhat. He was brisk with me and ignored Odo completely.

The maid's body was carefully wrapped and prepared for burial. At dawn it was sent to the chapel to be prayed over until her family could arrange for a burial. Joya counted out the coins to pay for all this but Adam refused to accept them, gently pushing them back into her hands and begging for the privilege of serving her in seeing to all the details. She was touched; I rolled my eyes.

After the authorities left with the body and the inn began to return to some semblance of normality, Joya and I had a hurried conference to make plans. At all costs, we had to avoid coming back to Barnesdale again for any reason. We could send servants to buy what supplies were needed, so that wasn't a problem, but other arrangements such as persuading a priest to come out to the lodge every week for Sunday mass took some negotiating. Finally everything was squared away and we were able to leave town.

We got back in good time to find that the servants had been worried by our absence. It led to an interesting experience when I dismounted and turned my horse over to the stableboy. I cannot remember a time when my appearance caused someone to look at me with relief.

Joya took Thomas aside and broke the news to him about her maid. I had forgot that she was his sister. He was stunned. Joya sent him off to get his baggage together for the trip back to town and gave permission for someone to go with him. It cast a pall over the entire household.

It didn't last long. The next morning, just after Thomas and a groom set off, a courier rode into the yard. His message was brief: Melisant and her escort were only a day's journey away. The servants raced around making last minute arrangements and repolishing every surface they could find.

I was glad of the news; it would give Joya something to occupy her mind. It seemed to me that she was unnaturally subdued and I didn't like it. And I really didn't like the fact that I couldn't think of anything I could do to snap her out of it beyond the obvious physical activities we both enjoyed. So I tried that. It worked for a time but she always slipped away from me again after it was over.

Melisant arrived this afternoon just before the dinner hour. I had just returned from my ride around the periphery of the lodge grounds and watched her from the stable doors. There were seven horses in all, two pack horses carrying baggage and five riders. Three of them were servants I recognised from Mauger's household; I was amazed they could sit in their saddles without being tied to them.

The fourth rider was an older woman who had "eldest-daughter-of-impoverished-noble-family-farmed-out-to-a-convent-at-an-early-age" written all over her. From the way she sat blinking in surprise at her surroundings, it might have been the first time she'd been over the wall since her induction. It took two of the servants to help her down from her mount.

I was most curious to see Melisant. Although I knew she was a stepdaughter and therefore no blood kin to Mauger, part of me wondered if there might be a resemblance. One glance satisfied me on that count: there certainly wasn't. Melisant is the ideal lady as presented to us in the songs of the troubadours. She is of medium height and willowy, with a long neck and delicately formed hands. Her hair is silvery blonde and her brows are so pale that she wears a look of perpetual surprise. Her eyes are blue but not the deep colour of Joya's. She didn't look any more comfortable on a horse than her companion did but she managed to dismount with only one servant to assist her.

Joya came out of the lodge to greet her with open arms. Melisant immediately fell to her knees on the hard earth, earning an admonitory squawk from the companion, and raised her hands prayerfully to Joya. "Oh, my lady! How grateful I am to be here finally! Your goodness in teaching me all I need to learn to become a lady is most appreciated, I do assure you. If this is the path God has chosen for me then I welcome it and look forward to the pains of the journey. I could kiss your hem in gratitude for my safe arrival." She reached out for Joya's gown.

Joya twitched the garment out of harm's way. "Well, thank you, my dear Melisant. We are so happy that you have arrived. Why don't you get up now and come into the house? Dinner is almost ready." Her eyes met mine over Melisant's head. I read the message in them correctly and came forward to deal with the servants. I couldn't wait until dinner; it promised to be an interesting night.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
There, there, did the bad old characters scare you? You're not alone anymore..., - Sunday, February 27, 2000 at 14:57:11 (PST)

Correction made.
Thank you for the translation!
D.o.C.

D.o.C., please: just this moment caught a mistake in the French in that last long post. The line should read:

Pour mon esprit ont les charmes

instead of "on." Thank you.
Encore une fois, MA
Talking to myself here in two different languages . . ., - Sunday, February 27, 2000 at 12:52:22 (PST)

Just by way of clarification: the poem is "L'Invitation au Voyage," one of Baudelaire's more cheerful works (well, relatively speaking). For the beautiful translation by Richard Wilbur, go here:

Baudelaire

MA--hoping link works . . .
- Saturday, February 26, 2000 at 20:33:18 (PST)

"He wore glasses?"

"Yes."

Mary Anne stares at the disk of ivory where it has fallen on the bed, picturing the face wearing glasses. It is easy. Much too easy.

Trying to think of something to say, she risks a sidelong glance at Brandon, who is also looking at the portrait and not at her. She takes a deep breath and attempts nonchalance, knowing that she will fail miserably. "Well, then . . ." Another gulp of air. "I guess that explains why you were so upset with Mister de Valera."

That actually surprises Brandon into something like a snort of laughter, most ungentlemanly and most unlike him, as he turns toward Mary Anne with a look she knows well: a shrewd gaze that penetrates all excuses and evasions, yet loves her anyway. "I suppose it does," he indulges her, "aside from the obvious reasons." A pause. "That reminds me: Miss Therese was up and about this afternoon—"

"Was she!" Mary Anne seizes on the new topic with relief, though she knows Brandon will not allow the diversion for more than a moment. "I'm so glad. Is she . . ." A delicate pause. "She will be all right, won't she?"

"I understand she will be—with rest and proper care." Tactfully, Brandon refrains from discussing the arrival of the new horse, and how Therese . . . well, that is a story for Mary Anne to hear another time. Perhaps Therese will tell of it herself, for Brandon has no doubt, now, that a talk with Mary Anne might be of great benefit for Miss Therese Gellert. Mary Anne was once quite heedless and impulsive, but she has learned some caution. If she could impart a little of that to Miss Therese . . .

Mary Anne's voice returns him to reality. "I suppose a great deal happened while I was . . . asleep. I should have been helping, too."

"Not so much as all that," placates Brandon, feeling no more than a tiny flick from his conscience at thus bending the truth. "The wounded had been cared for ; all was done that could be done."

"What are you grinning about, sir?"

Brandon had begun to smile, though it was no more than a curl at one corner of his lips, remembering. "There was an Alliance guard—her wounds were not serious, but she was uncomfortable while she was waiting for the doctors to attend to her. The Vicomte was assisting and was, ah, distracting her mind from her discomfort . . ."

"How?" Suspiciously. Mary Anne can hardly imagine Valmont as an angel of mercy, still less as a willing triage assistant in scenes of carnage that might soil his beautiful clothes.

"French poetry."

Brandon had caught no more than a phrase or two in passing, distracted as he had been by more urgent matters.

Aimer a loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble . . .

And then, moments later:

. . . pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mysterieux
De tes traitres yeux
Brillant a travers leurs larmes . . .

Mary Anne raises an eyebrow. "Traitres yeux, indeed. He would choose something like that!" A sigh. "It's a dangerous day for women: Valmont's discovered Baudelaire. But to move in on a wounded woman like that—I didn't think even he would sink that low."

Brandon is chuckling a little by now. "There is no saying what he may have done, had not Mister Sifuentes put in an abrupt appearance and convinced her of the virtues of Spanish poetry over French. He, ah, convinced the Vicomte as well."

"Good." Hardly a day and Valmont's ready to betray Lis and break her heart again. What is it with this man?

A brief silence, which Brandon spends in thinking of other events of the afternoon, things that it would be just as well not to discuss with Mary Anne at the moment. Therese, for one. Andrea, for another.

Claudia, for a third. Ringed with guards as soon as it had materialized on the lawn, the Tardis had simply stood, silent and impenetrable, through a good portion of the afternoon . . . but then, the doors had finally opened and Claudia had stepped out, surrendering herself to the surprised guards. Surprised, but not too surprised to do their duty; Claudia is at this moment in custody, and Brandon had not been able to learn anything of what her fate would be. Must she, too, be taken to the Empress? What shall become of her? Brandon is troubled by his own mixed feelings: memories of Claudia as his friend and Mary Anne's, matched against the flame of indignation in his heart at her betrayal . Indignation, yes, and embarrassment at his memories, and . . .

Brandon turns abruptly toward Mary Anne, who gives him an alarmed look; she knows his preoccupation had only been a brief reprieve. Neither of them wants to be the first to acknowledge the portrait, and Brandon is wondering now whether he should not have just left matters as they were.

But then Brandon sees that perhaps he has underestimated what Mary Anne is willing to do, for love of him.

"He . . . looks like The Interrogator. That's what you wanted me to see, isn't it?"

Brandon nods. He cannot speak.

Mary Anne's voice is steady, but Brandon can see the pulse beating in her throat, the tension along her jawline, the whitening of her knuckles as she grips the portrait.

"It explains a lot. I think I understand better now, sir, how you feel. About all sorts of things." A pause. "Is there any . . . relation?"

"None that I have ever been able to discover, and I have tried. So, we are left with accident. A trick of fate." Brandon's voice is tired and bitter. "One of the worst it has ever played me."

MA--two storylines: Brandon's dad in one and The Interrogator in the other . . .
*gulp* Someone keep me company, please! Don't leave me alone with THEM! =8-O, - Saturday, February 26, 2000 at 19:22:37 (PST)

The Brandons' chambers:

Brandon hands the bundle to Mary Anne. Their eyes meet.

Fingers trembling a little, not knowing what to expect, Mary Anne undoes the layers of stiff paper.

Not one item, but two. Oval, each of them, each wrapped in a length of soft cloth . . . she chooses one and pulls aside the wrapping.

The object is smooth and cool to the touch—a plaque of artists' ivory . . .

A picture. A portrait, rather, too large to be considered a miniature. And the face . . .

"Your mother was very beautiful, sir."

"Very." Brandon's voice is harsh with strain. "You will remember the large portrait of her in the gallery . . ."

Yes. Mary Anne does remember, especially the passing resemblance to Brandon about the eyes and mouth, though what is solemnity in the Colonel had struck Mary Anne as outright sadness in his mother. A lovely woman, but one who had known deep grief.

"Is it . . . a good likeness, sir?"

"Yes." Brandon's voice, deep and sombre once more. "Extremely good. She was younger when that was done, than when she sat for the gallery portrait. But it is how I remember her . . ." A long pause. " . . . when I was a boy."

Mary Anne sits gazing down at the small portrait cradled in her hands. "Every detail . . ." she breathes. And her breath catches in her throat, for she knows what the other portrait must be, and cannot bring herself to reveal it, or to touch it. Acutely aware of Brandon's warm presence there beside her--you have so much power with me--she can nevertheless feel her skin prickle with chills. That he could bring himself to show me this . . .

Brandon waits in silence. Mary Anne knows that he perceives her reluctance, yet he neither helps nor hinders her, but simply waits until she takes the second item in her stiff and shaking fingers and edges away the cloth.

What she sees makes her draw in her breath and instinctively move closer to Brandon, seeking the heat and solidity of his physical presence against . . . what, exactly? The portrait of a man who, as she would have expected, resembles Christopher Brandon. Strongly. No, the features do not answer point by point, not in the eerie manner of Samuel Brandon the highwayman, who follows Brandon so closely in feature that his portrait could be passed off as the Colonel masquerading in an outdated costume. The main difference there had been in expression; in the countenance of Brandon the highwayman there had been an arrogance and cynicism that Mary Anne cannot imagine in any look from her husband—not any look that he would turn upon her, at least.

And so, now, with this likeness of . . . Brandon's father.

Mary Anne studies it closely, or as closely as she can while fighting an inward shudder and the urge to swath the picture in its cloth, though she cannot at first imagine what troubles her so. The resemblance is powerful; the family connection is clear, but there are differences . . .

Mary Anne looks up at Brandon and he bears her scrutiny unflinchingly, until she turns back to the portrait.

Differences. Hair colour, for one: Brandon's father had darker hair, rather than his son's mixed shadings of wheat-gold and brown and copper. Features . . . the arc of the cheekbones. The shape of the eyes. And the look in them.

Yes, the artist had been exceptional. A Holbein or Hilliard of his era, for he had captured personality in colours and brushstrokes—and beyond that, the portrait speaks of what force this man must have been able to exert on those around him, by guile or violence or both.

She must look away. That face . . . "Is . . . this a good likeness as well?"

"An excellent likeness."

A fallen angel. Mary Anne risks another look, imagining as she does that she can feel the will of the elder Brandon reaching out for her, a man accustomed to being obeyed, whose wishes are not--WERE not, Mary Anne, were not--to be gainsaid or resisted or eluded. "I can see why it disturbs you, Christopher. There's something—" How to describe it? "—something extraordinary about the way he looks . . . he looks like you, but then again he doesn't." Thank God for the "doesn't."

Brandon's arm is around her, now, turning the picture toward the lamp. "Look again, Mary Anne."

She does.

Brandon. Very quietly. "Handsome?"

"I can't deny it. Your father was very handsome. But from what you told me, it's clearly a case of handsome is as handsome does—"

She is speaking quickly, chattering in her unease, and Brandon gently hushes her. "There was something left out of the portrait—my father, as you have seen, was very handsome, especially when he was young. And, I am told . . . quite vain." A pause. "Far too vain, when sitting for a portrait, to . . . wear his spectacles."

An instant. A look—first at Brandon, then back at the portrait,as Mary Anne feels her hands turn cold and numb, and the smooth ivory slips through them and falls onto the bed . . .

MA--thank you, gracious ladies. "Andrea is ready to submit." Hmmmm--don't tell HIM that!
And "what do you desire from me?" My, Doctor Mesmer, what interesting questions you ask . . . ;-), - Thursday, February 24, 2000 at 18:59:23 (PST)

Andrea observes the restoration of Mesmer's confidence. She watches his slumped body straighten and his concave chest expand.

From the beginning, their relationship has been a power struggle. Each of them demanding control.

Now, Andrea is ready to submit. She yearns for the safety of a strong man's protection. Is she too late to offer her compliance? "Have you given up on me?"

"No!" He answers almost too quickly.

It is the correct thing to say. But is it the truth?

Although Mesmer has no set plan for treating Andrea, he has NOT given up. How best to proceed? Perhaps his patient, if prodded, will suggest an activity. "What do you desire from me?"

One thought leaps into her mind. She is unsure how he may react to her request. But, she is certain that he would be displeased if she were to hold back. "Take me to HIM."

Andrea
Very nice, MA., - Thursday, February 24, 2000 at 16:18:36 (PST)

Delicious, dearest.
R
- Wednesday, February 23, 2000 at 09:32:16 (PST)

The Imperial Palace:

Slowly, The Interrogator advances, HIS eyes lowered as if in respect as they quickly scan the room, noting details. The long walk—well, that is for effect. Understandable.

A glance to one side. Ah, yes. Her Majesty's trusty assistant—Rupert, is that not his name?--seated at a low table with the recording devices, prepared to take down and weigh every word.

The throne itself . . . a quick raising of his eyes, a blink like the flicker of light off a knife blade. The throne. Not the winged Excelsior for this occasion, but the Solomon, the throne of wisdom and judgment, stark and colourless as if carved of ivory, mounted on a dais . . .

Of course. One must look up. More effect. HE very carefully does not smile.

The floor, paved with marble in alternating squares.

Black king against white queen . . .

But . . . drawing near, HE risks a direct look. It is she who is garbed in black, Her Majesty the Empress, waiting for HIM on her pale throne—the solemn robe of judgment, a black gown with a length draped like a cowl to shadow her face, the headpiece held steady by a delicate circlet of gold.

For the first time, HE quails inwardly. Subtle, that. HE could not have overawed by an ostentatious display of wealth, but that one thread of gold, the slim fillet of Imperial authority . . . she is confident, then. Daring. Intelligent.

The Interrogator lifts HIS head, boldly, and steps forward . . .

. . . to feel his arms caught on both sides by guards. A mutter of, "Not so fast, you," as they attempt to force him to his knees . . .

"Stop."

From the throne.

"That will not be necessary. Let him be, and take your places."

She is obeyed at once, and HE seizes that interval of seconds. Impressions. HE must admit to being disappointed in her voice—a little breathless. Not so authoritative as it should be, perhaps. HE frowns. Yet, she was promptly obeyed, as I would have been if I had given orders to any of my people. But that was not a voice of command—still, she commanded. Strange.

The interval is over. HE can feel her eyes on him and returns her gaze. Another detail. That black gown—the faint sheen of it. The Interrogator remembers Mary Anne's borasil body armour and must once more repress a smile, making a bet with himself that the design of the Empress' gown conceals much more than her face. And now HE must compose HIS own face once more . . .

"You are the man they call The Interrogator."

A slight nod. "There are some who call me that, yes."

"And what do you call yourself?"

HIS laugh would be undetectable even at three paces' distance, yet the guards feel the chill of it on their skin. "Il nome mio nessun sapra . . . Your Majesty." A pause. "I understand that is what they call you."

The guards would close in—but her lifted hand stays them. "There are some who call me that, yes."

HE is pleased. Perhaps she will prove a worthy foe after all. Still, she had not been as quick with that as he would have liked. Ah, well . . .

"But you are not one of them," she adds. Then, "You have been called here to face certain charges, and you will answer."

"Answer?" HE drawls. "I have not been . . . questioned."

Loaded. With a full charge. HE cannot see her eyes, but is certain they are narrowed. And . . .

"That can be . . . arranged."

Perfect. If HE were wearing his watch, he would be unable to resist the temptation to glance at it. The Interrogator smiles, deliberately putting into it the full effect of which HE is capable—a smile that haunts the nightmares of the Realm. "That will not be necessary."

"No," sharply, "but it might prove entertaining."

There now, that's better! Whatever else happens, I will not be bored to death, at least.

HE advances one pace and the guards allow it, though they watch closely. "Allow me to assure you," HE insinuates, "that it can be most entertaining indeed. However, it is a matter of record that you do not use such methods."

"That is quite correct. Every—" She leans forward. "--loyal citizen of the Realm is quite safe from them. But that is something you cannot call yourself. There are other names for you—outlaw, traitor, murderer—"

HE shrugs. "That has not been proven." Nor will it be . . .

"—black shadow of evil—"

HE laughs—and it is because HE cannot help it, not this time. "You make me sound such a figure of romance! Quite supernatural, indeed." HE spreads his arms, as far as the chains will allow. "When, as you can see, I am merely a man." A mocking smile. "Without supernatural powers. It is a question that, as I recall, was never asked at the old-time witch trials. Why would anyone with such powers as they were accused of having be caught and bound over for trial? Why would they not use their—" HIS voice, as he had so often used it against the sound-sensitive Mary Anne. A chill, cutting agony. "--powers to escape, or to destroy their enemies!"

"Why, indeed . . ."

Not from the throne.

Taken by surprise, HE whirls . . . to see the female guard has stepped from her place in the ranks and is walking toward the throne, while the black-robed figure there has risen and appears to be . . . wringing her hands.

"I . . . I am sorry; I—"

The guard pats her arm. "You gave me the time I needed—to observe and be unobserved. Well done. You may go, now."

The robed figure curtsies, then turns to leave the room.

There is a shifting in the ranks of the guards that circle The Interrogator: changing their formation, yes, but also concealing their amusement as HE stares, incredulous, watching the black-gowned woman move away down the length of the throne room, and then turning back to see the guard pull off her uniform cap—freeing a cascade of beautiful hair—and toss the cap carelessly onto Rupert's desk. "Did you get all of that?"

"Every word . . ." A glance at The Interrogator. " . . . Your Majesty."

She was not . . . and . . . SHE is . . . ?!

How long had it been, since HE had been so thoroughly deceived? It breaks coldly over him that it has not been so very long, nor such an infrequent thing: Mary Anne had managed it on more than one occasion, and Therese had attacked him and could have killed him. I'm sure she wishes she had. But this . . . HE realizes that the hot metallic taste in his mouth is rage, as is the pulse behind his eyes, and the stiffening of his body that pulls him to his full terrifying height, drawn up like a snake preparing to strike . . .

But that is impossible, for the moment.

Meanwhile, The Empress—the real one—is watching him with open interest. "She—" A nod in the direction of the door. "—has had to do that more than once."

"A decoy." HIS cool tone, no indicator of his blazing wrath.

"Security. You understand."

"Indeed I do."

"But enough of this." A wave of her hand. "Rupert, find him a chair, please."

Somehow—HE does not notice how—a chair is produced and HE is seated in it, still surrounded by guards but near the throne, as The Empress smiles at him as charmingly as if he were a friend invited in for tea and pronounces, "Now—let us discuss your case . . ."

MA--with a nod (and homage) to Queen Amidala.
Good idea, R, dearest--that female guard. *wink*, - Tuesday, February 22, 2000 at 20:14:35 (PST)

Standing regarding Hart covered with bubbles from her bath, Grace quickly recovered her composure as she dried herself off. As she put on golf clothes -- still too depressingly ugly for words -- she noticed a small, finely rendered watercolor on the wall, a man in a boat pulling a plump bass from the lake on the northern end of the Alisal property. Sunlight sparkled on the fish's scales, and lit a smile of quiet satisfaction on the face of the angler. But the sight of the hook reminded Grace of the hapless fish Colin had caught on the Santa Barbara pier. Colin again -- he popped into her thoughts at the oddest times.

Hart emerged in fresh golfing attire, looking pointedly at his watch. "If you want breakfast, you will have to hurry," he said, gruffly, running an appraising glance over her clothers. The golf course had a strict dress code and he knew Grace would be tempted to skirt it.

She caught his look, and his meaning, but knew she was perfectly compliant. Pale knit collared shirt. Pale double pleated trousers. "I look like a . . . Republican," she grumbled. Hart ignored the protest, and reminded her to bring a sweater in case the mild day turned colder. Smiling, she pulled out a sweater she had tossed in her bag at the last minute, an old favorite, a blue that matched the lake in the watercolor, with highly stylized embroidered fishes swimming around the v-neck and cuffs.

After a very quick breakfast of lox and bagels, Grace followed Hart to the first tee of Alisal's River Course. As she awkwardly pulled a thin leather glove over her left hand, she saw Hart greet a couple at the tee, a brown-haired man and a woman with dark hair sleeked back under a neat straw hat. The man and woman stood next to a golf cart already loaded with four sets of clubs, including hers and Hart's.

Grace walked cautiously toward the threesome waiting for her. Hart had said nothing about playing with others. He had confirmed last night that they were the only guests at the ranch; who then were these people? More to the point, she was not confident in her golf game and had no desire to publicly display her lack of skill. Hart turned and looked at her at her, his glance telling her to stop dawdling. Grace was confused. Hart had made sure this was an emphatically private vacation, but now he was including strangers, for no apparent reason and without a word of warning. Determined to be a good sport, she put on a cautious public smile and walked over to the tee, gritting her teeth to put up with whatever came next.

Hart introduced her first to the woman. "Roberta, but please call me Honey. Everyone else does," she said with a little laugh, a charming wide smile in a lovely, perfect oval face. A pleasing Southern accent, a warm, welcoming but slightly deferential manner, acknowledging Grace as the companion of the more powerful man. The other man smiled and murmured a name, but otherwise ignored her. He was as nondescript as his companion was beautiful. Ab, Grace thought he said his name was. There was a conspicuous absence of last names. Without further pleasantries, Hart handed Grace her driver. One of the many humiliations of golf, she knew, was that the least experienced golfer went first. Probably to avoid hitting anyone else, she thought grimly to herself.

Grace set the ball at the first tee and noticed that the ball would have to cross a bend in the river that ran through the course. She shrugged her shoulders and uncoiled a swing. The ball flew up, arched high over the river and fell back into the water with a resounding *plop* as it sunk out of sight.

Hart walked to her side and murmured that she would have to go to the river's edge and try to retrieve her ball. He and the others would tee off; she would have to catch up to them. Chagrined, she walked cautiously to the bank of the river, trying to remember where the ball had landed. There was no sign of it. What now, she thought to herself. Dive for it? Then out loud, she said, "What a stupid game!"

A splash nearby caught her attention. A fish arched out of the water, a gleaming white golf ball in its mouth. "Hey!" Grace shouted, "give that back!" The fish winked at her as it slid back into the water. It's only the first hole and I'm talking to a fish, she thought to herself, has golf already made me run mad? Then she heard faint, high-pitched laughter behind her. She turned and saw the same fish hovering near the surface, the golf ball held firmly to its side by a fin.

"Looking for this?" the fish asked. Startled, Grace slipped in the reeds and fell on her side, mud caking her freshly pressed trousers. She was eye to eye with the fish now. Get a grip, Grace, she told herself, fish don't talk. "Fish don't talk," she said aloud to the fish.

"Well, maybe we just don't have much to say," the fish replied, "but when you amateurs keep bonking me over the head, a fish has gotta stand up for itself." With a fin, the fish rubbed a sore spot over its eye as it continued, "there I was, minding my own business, closing in on lunch, when -- *bam* -- " the fish made a percussive noise that startled Grace "another duffer beans me. How would you like it?" The fish tilted its head and looked at her inquiringly.

"I suppose I wouldn't," she replied, then quickly caught herself. I'm talking to a fish. . . she looked around to make sure no one was watching. The fish was looking at her closely. "Say, that's a nice sweater," it said, "very . . . artistic. Can I have it?" Grace looked down at the fish on her sweater. "You're a pretty cheeky fish," she said, "what could you do with a sweater, anyway?" The fish looked at her enigmatically and suggested a trade: the golf ball for her sweater. She didn't have to think twice. "Done," she said, reaching out a hand to gently shake the proffered fin. She peeled off the sweater and hid it in the reeds, the blue wool melting into the blue of the water. The fish expertly batted her ball to her with the flick of a fin.

"Hey, you've got a pretty good stroke," Grace said, "for a fish," as she caught the ball and climbed to her feet. "And why not?" replied the fish, "I live on a golf course."

With that, the fish swam away in a gint of light as Grace walked back to the course. She had learned a valuable lesson, and not just in golf: some fish can be bargained with. You just have to have something to trade.

Leigh
loved everyone's fish stories! , - Monday, February 21, 2000 at 21:35:24 (PST)

Andrea's guest room . . .

After Brandon takes his leave, doctor and patient focus each on the other.

Remembering that Mesmer was not present when she awoke, Andrea ventures "Were you assisting with the casualties?"

Mesmer nods and struggles to stay in the moment. He'd rather not recall the carnage he has witnessed.

After a brief pause, Andrea recognizes the opportunity to pay a compliment. "The wounded were fortunate to have such a skilled healer attending to them."

Mesmer blinks. He had been feeling utterly incompetent in treating the woman before him. His every attempt to aid her recovery thwarted. But, this morning, as horrific as it was to be in the midst of overwhelming suffering, he was useful. He did help many patients.

Considering this patient, Mesmer is touched that she would reach out from the depths of her despair to reassure him.

Andrea
Happy Birthday Mr. Rickman., - Monday, February 21, 2000 at 19:17:45 (PST)

"Day the Forty-fifth, in the month of December – In which Sheriff Odo stays true to form in the service of his lord."

Silence filled the room as everyone stared at Joya. Her manner was still composed and dignified but I could see that she was grappling for an answer.

Krone leaned forward, hands on his hips. "I'm waiting, my lady. What really happened up there?" He was playing her like a salmon on a hook.

The time had come for me to take over. "We have no choice, my lady. Sir Walter will understand when we tell him the truth." Joya's head snapped around to stare at me. I sent her a silent message with my eyes, then faced Krone. "To speak truly, Lady Joya was in my room when the men came upstairs. She had been there for some time."

It was worth it to see the look on Joya's face. She froze into a statue and stared hard at me. Krone's scowl turned wary. He looked at Joya then at me. "And what were the two of you doing?"

I tried to remember what happened when I used to question people: their looks, their gestures, their manner. Some of it wasn't appropriate to this situation, of course; falling on the floor weeping and cowering in terror was definitely not on the cards. But perhaps something more restrained….a cross between bashful confusion and wide-eyed confession, with just a soupcon of moral rectitude. I considered. Yes, it would work.

Straightening up and clasping my hands behind my back, I turned my full attention on Krone. "We were praying."

"You were....what?" Krone gaped like a fish out of water.

"Praying. Ever since I came back from the Crusades, I've spent every evening in prayer." Piously lifting my gaze to the ceiling, I intoned, "It brings me comfort in this corrupt world. You can imagine the spiritual bliss I felt when I learned that the Lady Joya lived for some years in a convent and shares my feeling. It's a bond between us."

"Praying?" Krone was obviously having trouble with the image. "And that's all you were doing?"

"Of course that's all." I opened my eyes wide in dismay. "Why, what else could we have been doing?"

Krone narrowed his eyes at me. Imagination and experience were at war in his mind and it wasn't a sure victory for the right side. I decided to move things along in the proper direction. "Do not you, Sir Walter, find that after a hard day's work there is no relief quite like losing yourself in a few hours of communion with the divine?"

He took several moments to respond. "You are correct, Gervase. There is nothing like the power of prayer to take a man out of someplace he doesn't want to be. I have often experienced the same thing."

"I was sure you would understand." I gave him a big man-to-man smile.

"Rest assured I do understand." Krone nodded and folded his arms across his chest. "I understand very well indeed. But that still doesn't explain what happened to those men who have mysteriously vanished. No, that still requires an explanation."

"It certainly does." Joya was in control of herself again. "But perhaps you should discuss the matter with your men rather than with mine."

"I'm afraid, my dear Lady Joya, that my men have ensured that no one has left this establishment since we arrived. Right, men?" The question was greeted with a chorus of "yeas". Adam reluctantly nodded in agreement. "So you see -"

"Oh, Sir Walter!" Odo wriggled through the crowd to his master's side. He landed in our midst with a moist plop like a fish on a carving board. "You are so right, so correct in your statement! We have sealed this tavern shut. Everyone is present and accounted for and when those men return from the back room we will be able to prove it!"

The air throbbed with expectation for a moment. Krone blinked rapidly; he seemed to be having trouble swallowing. "What men, Odo?" He finally said in a tone of artificial calm.

"Why the men who wanted to go get their things before they had to leave. They stored them in the back room so they wouldn't get dirty when they were drinking." Odo rocked back on his heels, a smile of beneficent confidence on his face.

Krone took a deep breath. "Landlord! Get in here!"

The innkeeper scurried into the room, looking harassed and put-upon. Krone didn't waste more than a glance on him. "Where is this back room that the sheriff is talking about?"

"Er, well sir," The innkeeper tugged at the neck of his tunic. "It's more like a root cellar, not in a basement like but we keeps old barrels and the like there and I'm not against someone storing things away for the night afore they starts the heavy drinking. I have to live in this town and I believes that you gots to take care of-" He floundered to a miserable halt.

"Quiet!" Krone's voice snapped like a whip. "Is there a door in this back room to the street?"

"Er, not exactly sir." The innkeeper shuffled back a few steps. "To the back yard."

The silence in the room was almost audible. For several seconds Krone contented himself with glaring at the landlord. If looks could kill, the innkeeper would have been gutted like a trout.

Personally I could have enjoyed the sight indefinitely but Joya interjected at this point. "Sir Walter, we mustn't carp over details. These men have been allowed to depart through no fault of yours. We must deal with the facts at hand. And one of them is the body of my unfortunate maid upstairs."

I've got to hand it to him; he rebounded quickly. It can't have been easy standing there while your sheriff made you look like a fool in front of half the town and your own men. By the time he bent over Joya's hand, Krone was master of his emotions again. With a gesture for Joya to precede him, he headed for the stairs followed by two of his men.

And only I saw the cold stare he sent at me over their heads before he disappeared on the staircase.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
- Monday, February 21, 2000 at 18:09:45 (PST)

Two *snorfles* up, MA (because it's too hard to type and give two *thumbs* up at the same time)! Everyone does such an excellent job here. Keep up the great work!
Sandy
Oohh-a new sound file...and your recipe sounds lovely, Fausta!, - Monday, February 21, 2000 at 13:00:22 (PST)

Emma, who is entertaining a special guest, prepares a special recipe:

Step 1
1 1/2 lbs fresh or died salted codfish; cook until done & flake with fork (if using dried salted fish, soak in water at least for 2 hrs, drain, boil in fresh water for 1/2 hr, drain, and flake with fork)

Step 2
In a separate skillet, layer in the following order:
3 thinly-sliced raw potatoes (peeled or with skins, whichever you prefer)
the cooked flaked fish from step 1
2 chopped pieces of garlic
1 thinly-sliced medium onion
3 hard-boiled eggs, sliced
capers, as many (or as few) as you prefer
green olives stuffed with pimento, also as many as you prefer
1/4 c of raisins
1 small jar of thinly-sliced pimento
Drizzle with olive oil (the extra-virgin, dark green is best)
Add 1/2 cup of water and 1/2 c tomato sauce.

Step 3
Cover and simmer for 1/2 hr, until the potatoes are done. Can be done on top of the stove, or in a medium oven.

As the aroma from the kitchen filled the air, Emma checked her makeup for the last time, and opened a nicely chilled bottle of Faustino V wine. The doorbell rang.

She said, in her best voice, "Hello"
He smiled as he handed her his coat. His hands warmly held hers.
The door closed, and we draw a veil over the remaining of the evening . . .
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
My thanks to Lydia, - Monday, February 21, 2000 at 10:10:05 (PST)

Brandon hands the bundle to Mary Anne. Their eyes meet.

Slowly, reluctantly, Mary Anne undoes the paper, to reveal . . .

A pair of large rubber fish!

"CUT!!" booms The Director and stalks onto the set, fuming. "Who put these-these-fish in there--!"

By now, the crew is gurgling with laughter and Mary Anne has sunk back against the pillows, giggling so that she can hardly speak.

"I--" she finally gasps. "I did, sir. I just had a word with the properties master, and--" She tries to look The Director in the eye, but it is no use; one look at the glower and she is reduced to helpless *snorfles.*

Even Brandon is chuckling. The Director gives him one disgusted glance before turning back to Mary Anne and asking, "Whyever in the world--?"

"Why," Mary Anne finally gasps, wiping her eyes with a corner of the sheet and getting herself under control. "because it's your birthday, sir!"

"Because . . . it is . . . my birthday . . . ?"

"Of course! Born this time of year, you'd be a Pisces--"

"Probably working for scale!" calls one of the grips. (homage)

The Director is shaking his head. "When I get my hands on the props master--"

"He'll be herring from your lawyers, no doubt," deadpans Mary Anne.

The Director groans, sinking down onto the foot of the bed and burying his face in his hands, as the crew catches the mood.

"He's looking pretty eel, don't you think?"

"Yeah, better call in a sturgeon."

There is a strangled noise from The Director that makes it only too clear he is trying not to laugh. He lifts his head from his hands and turns toward Mary Anne, an unholy gleam in his eye.

"I suppose I should have expected something like this," he breathes, as she presses herself up against the headboard of the bed and pulls the covers up to her chin.

"Now, sir--" she laughs, making herself as small as she can and edging toward Brandon, "it was only to wish you a happy birthday; don't do anything hasty--"

"Of course not," agrees Brandon, a suspiciously placid look on his face. "Perhaps you should . . . mullet over for a bit, first."

Whoops of laughter from the crew and from Mary Anne. Even from The Director, who raises his hands in a gesture of defeat.

"Et tu, Brandon? Very well. I give up." A wry but gracious smile, and then he turns back to Mary Anne. "Mary Anne, love, there are these wonderful things called--greeting cards. Perhaps you've heard of them?"

"Well of course, but I wanted to do something different. Anybody can send a card." Flash of mischief. "But if you'll go to your office and look on your desk . . ."

"I am terrified," he intones, "to think of what I might discover."

"I hope you'll like it, sir." A bit crestfallen. "I thought you might . . . enjoy this, too. A break in the tension and all . . . ?"

The smile, this time, is luminous--and a bit teasing. "Caught me by surprise, but of course I do." The beady hazel stare, with a twinkle. "But you want to watch how you set someone up like this. After all--" The Director strides toward the door, then turns to conclude. "--one man's meat is another man's poisson."

This time it is Mary Anne who sinks back with a groan, clutching at her heart as though she has been stabbed, while The Director instructs the crew--over their chortles--to set up the bundle scene again, before he goes out to face a day that shall doubtless be bream-full of surprises . . .

Happy birthday to AR, and "best fishes,"
MA 8-), - Monday, February 21, 2000 at 07:50:14 (PST)

The Brandons' chambers:

A more convenient season.

Mary Anne, listening to the steady rise and fall of Brandon's breathing, suddenly notices that there has been a change in the sound and that he is awake. She knows it without looking and feels once again that tiny stir of response that has come to her several times in the few days of her marriage, as if her heart had spoken to her mind: Add that to my knowledge of this man.

That change in the sound of his breathing had been a deep sigh.

Is he still unhappy, regretful? Mary Anne turns to face him, determined to settle this once and for all, but the words die on her lips as Brandon releases her briefly from his arms, allowing her to settle herself comfortably before he gathers her close once again, stroking her hair, touching her face . . . apparently not from any intent to kindle desire but simply for the enjoyment of knowing she is there beside him.

Mary Anne watches as her hand, as if moved by its own power, rises and slips along the muscular slope of Brandon's bared shoulder and down his arm.

"Christopher?"

"My dearest."

"Will it always be like this?"

"What do you mean?"

Mary Anne lies back and thinks, though her fingers continue their . . . explorations. "Well . . . I suppose everyone expects when two people marry for love, like we did, that there's a short time when they can't keep their hands off of each other—"

She knows well enough what that change in his breathing means, as well as the slight tremor that passes through him, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "And their expectations would be fulfilled, in this case, I believe . . .?"

Only Brandon's quick reflexes prevent that investigative hand from retaliating with a poke in the ribcage.

Mary Anne allows her hand to remain caught in Brandon's and continues, grinning. "I suppose they would. But with some people . . ." The grin fades. "It seems to—continue. They are always as much 'in love,' I suppose you'd call it, as the day they married, if not more so. I've seen it. I mean, look at Renie and Hans—"

"That marriage is still young, yet. But I understand what you mean."

"Right. It's there between Dev and Therese, too. Even though they're not married, yet, but it's the same thing; put them together in one room and there's lightning! " A pause. "And . . ." Shyly.

She can feel Brandon looking at her. She has some idea, though it is far short of the reality, of how she looks lying there with her eyes closed, the deep curve of her lashes against her white skin . . .

Mary Anne opens her eyes. Her intuition had not betrayed her.

"And, Mary Anne?"

"And—I think it will be so with us. I hope so. You have so much power with me, sir—"

"And you, with me."

"Yes. But I'm not afraid, because there's love in it. I wanted to say this because you seemed so troubled about what had happened last night, and there's no need to be. That wasn't you, and there was no harm done. Please believe me. You feel things so deeply . . ."

Another sigh from Brandon, and this one is the breath of resolution. "It is not merely what happened, Mary Anne . . ."

"Well, what then?"

Without a word, Brandon rises from the bed and gathers his dressing gown about him, lights a lamp, then walks into his dressing room.

Mary Anne waits, and in a few moments he emerges, carrying with him a bundle wrapped in stiff paper . . .

MA--What is the dreadful secret of . . . the bundle? *musical sting*
And Christopher, WHAT are you bringing in here that needs a plain brown wrapper?! ;-), - Sunday, February 20, 2000 at 18:30:49 (PST)

HE is a very menacing figure, is HE not, MA?

Keep up the good work, everyone! I'm enjoying the stories here! :)
Neva
who's *shivering* at the moment, although the weather's quite warm! ;-), - Friday, February 18, 2000 at 14:42:04 (PST)

The Imperial Palace:

HE walks in chains.

To be precise—a set of wrist manacles, light but strong, not so very different from the type he had forced upon Therese, and when the guards had produced them, The Interrogator could not help wondering if that resemblance had been intentional.

HE had observed that the Empress' people are well-trained and most thorough in their care, leaving him with nothing that he could use to harm himself— even his glasses had been taken but returned after a short while. Once they had ascertained, no doubt, that the lenses are shatterproof and that I will not be slashing my wrists with them. A chilly smile. Nor anyone else's.

Under other circumstances HE might enjoy the walk to the Throne Room; even so hardened an enemy of Her Majesty and the Realm might be drawn with interest to all that can be glimpsed in a tour of the Imperial Palace: the art collection, for example, or the museum of antiquities, or the archive of exotic weapons. A devotee of music—which HE is, at times—might be lured by the acoustically perfect concert chamber with its display of rare instruments. Or the library . . . the equal of any since the ancient wonder of Alexandria. There I would find Mary Anne, if she were here . . .

The Interrogator has made a show of glancing at the corridors to these attractions as they pass by, as if he had no concern about his upcoming . . . interview. Yet HE knows very well that the guards are not distracted by this for a second, that now is not the time to strike. He studies their formation, spread about him in a wide circle, the lone woman among them placed slightly back and to the left. A bit of strategy, that. No doubt they know he is right-handed, and so they place their most vulnerable team member where he is weakest . . .

Almost as sharply as HE might with one of his victims, The Interrogator addresses this blunder in HIS thinking. Weakest? Assume nothing. You do not know that she is weak. If she serves the Empress, she will not be incompetent. And then he cuts off the thought, ruthlessly, knowing that to second-guess too much is to invite anxiety and indecision. Wait for what shall come to you. Then, act.

And now they are approaching the elaborate arched passageway to the Throne Room, flanked by yet more guards in the Imperial livery—though HE eyes with some disdain the ceremonial lances, disdain accompanied by the familiar cold smile at the thought of so many precautions for just one man. And some reaction, yes. Do HIS eyes deceive HIM, or is there a straightening in the posture of those guards? A coming to attention at HIS approach, a tighter grip on the shaft of their archaic weapons?

And then HE is through, still circled by guards, and advancing toward the throne at the far end of the room . . .

The throne, and the figure seated upon it.

MA--*ideas*, dearest.
" . . . who the sword of heaven will bear/Should be as holy as severe.", - Thursday, February 17, 2000 at 21:23:06 (PST)

Some time passed, and stories have been swapped between two couples.

Colin, The Doctor, Renie and Hans walked hesitantly into the control room, and saw Claudia and Ed standing, facing each other by the closed door to the outside world. He held her hands in his own, and they both looked intently at each other, their faces pale and eyes red rimmed and the pain clearly written in both faces.

"You must go on and forget me, no matter what happens," said Claudia, her fingers being crushed in Ed's grip. "No matter what I set out to do, I betrayed you in doing so. You deserve better than me. I've told you this before. I want you to be happy, and I can only make you miserable."

"You always think you can change the world by yourself. You take risks, and are impulsive, you won't accept help, you turn away love, and you madden me no end. You give up yourself to save your friends… and after all you have done, however misguided, I still can't help loving you."

She freed the fingers of one hand to brush them against his lips, stilling his voice. "And I'll always love you. But it can't be the same. I don't want you to come to my trial, or visit me. I want to be taken away from anyone who knew me, before. Forget about me now. Find someone new who deserves your heart."

"You're doing it again, Claudia. You can't make my decisions for me. I have my own mind."

"And I have made up my mind." Claudia looked up, acknowledging the others for the first time. "Doctor, could you please open the door. I'm ready."

The Doctor nodded, and pulled a lever on the control panel. A section of the wall, which was the doorway, opened outwards, and without another word, Claudia stepped away from Ed, and outside. She was momentarily shocked that it was evening again so soon. Blinked in the darkness and stepped into the surprised arms of the waiting guards.
Claudia
- Wednesday, February 16, 2000 at 16:40:54 (PST)

****************************

The Interrogator's Lament

Wave the flag
of righteousness
you planned the colours all yourself
Recall, recant, rehash the past
and never look inside yourself
at all

You can sit beside me for a while
And you can look inside me for a while

Turn me inside out
Run your hands along my pain
A blind man feels a train
wreck

Collar me or comfort me
You never see the you that's here in me
Will you see

You can sit beside me for a while
And you can look inside me for a while
Why don't you climb inside me for a while

Burn my insides out
Find the missing part of me
The whites, the black, the heart of me
Go back to the start of me
A blind man feels a train
wreck

R
- Wednesday, February 16, 2000 at 09:31:44 (PST)

Oh what may angels do and say?
Make war, though they do inward pray

You're welcome, dearest.
Ideas? *wicked grin* , - Wednesday, February 16, 2000 at 09:29:26 (PST)

The Brandons' chambers:

Brandon had unconsciously--WAS it unconsciously? wonders Mary Anne--made quite a ceremony of escorting her up the stairs, avoiding any resemblance to the previous night, in which he had swept her away so forcefully that it seemed her feet had hardly touched the floor. His manner, then and later, had been grave, tender, and careful: so careful that if it had been any other man, she would have suspected that he was teasing her. Maddening her.

She is still not entirely sure. If that had been his intention, he had concealed it well.

And he had succeeded. For she had permitted it all: the feather-light but lingering caresses, kisses falling upon her like droplets of water and trailing across her skin . . .

But still and always, that shadow between them. The heavy remembrance. Until finally she had informed him in her sweetest tone but in no uncertain terms that, despite her delicacy of appearance, she is constructed neither of crystal nor of eggshell porcelain and that he is driving her frantic and unless he does something about it immediately, if not sooner . . . here had followed a series of most unladylike and—judging from Brandon's lifted eyebrow—quite amusing threats, many of which would be difficult for her to accomplish and not a few of which are anatomical impossibilities. Brandon, however, is wise in the character of his wife and had refrained from pointing out these undeniable facts.

He had, however, refrained from little else.

He had been as gentle as ever, and she had been no less frantic—but with good humour restored, the shadow had lifted until a more convenient season . . .

MA--yes, Therese, hope you're back to stay for a good long while!
Both Dev and Scout chasing you down? A formidable woman, indeed . . . ;-), - Wednesday, February 16, 2000 at 05:40:00 (PST)

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