Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Andrea takes lunch in her guestroom with Dr. Dubois. If she naps this afternoon, she should be strong enough to join her hosts for dinner. "Unless you think my appearance will spoil everyone's appetite."

Marian laughs with Andrea. "Your absence may ruin more appetites than your presence would. People have noticed that you are missing, and they are concerned for you."

Andrea sneaks a peek at herself in the mirror. "Well ... I should at least cover these bruises with makeup."

Marian nods. "By all means, if it makes you feel better about yourself."

Something about the way Marian says this leads Andrea to wonder: "Do you have a psych background?"

It's not Marian's specialty, but she won't ask Andrea to wait for Mesmer's return. "Not exactly. But, I am a good listener if you need to talk."

Andrea is satisfied. "You don't even need to respond. I'm just going to think aloud and unjumble the mess in my mind."

Marian settles more deeply into her chair and waits.

Andrea finds a starting point. "Months ago I released the anger and hatred I felt toward The Sheriff. All the suffering, the battles, the deaths -- they were in the past. I had to let go, so I could move forward with my life."

Marian nods at appropriate intervals.

Andrea continues. "I was even willing to collaborate with him on common causes: Our attempt to rescue Mary Anne and Brandon from The Interrogator. Although it didn't turn out as we planned, we worked together well."

Early on the next Saturday morning, Grace was alone in Hart's private office at Global Marketing. At last, she thought to herself, as she hit shift-F7 on Hart's computer. As their summary of the sting documents started to print, Grace leaned back in Hart's chair and threaded her fingers behind her head. Their frantic weeks of hard work had paid off. The dozens of boxes of documents contained buried treasure, enough facts to frame a case against two more Investors. Hart had been brilliant, once again unravelling a trail of deception that the Investors had believed well hidden. And was well hidden from anyone lacking Hart's expertise and -- he told her frankly -- hands-on experience. Grace had taken several days to weave these disparate threads into a cohesive, and damning, document to turn over to the U.S. Attorney.

She stapled the printed report and sealed it in an envelope. Almost as an afterthought, she copied the file on to a floppy disk. She slipped the envelope and the disk into her laptop case if Hart wanted to make any changes at home later. Then she locked up Hart's office and put her laptop into the trunk of her car. This mammoth project finally done, Grace decided to reward herself. She had cancelled her spinning classes for most of the month, even though she hated to miss a single class. She headed west toward Santa Monica and her regular stationary bike class, feeling good to be back to her old routine.

Grace knew that you're not supposed to think about anything else while you're spinning. That's what she told her students. But on this morning, even her happiness to be back in the saddle could not crowd out the other thoughts that circled her mind as fast the wheels of her spinning bike. What would Hart say when she told him she was moving back to her house now that the report was done? Would he be disappointed, or relieved to have his privacy back? She rehearsed the scene in her mind: Lukas, I can't take advantage of your hospitality any more, you've been more than kind but I think it's better for us, etc., etc., etc. She had a feeling that Hart would strenuously oppose her leaving. They had grown even closer together over the last month of working and living together. She thought that, if anything, Hart tightly censored himself, letting slip only once in a while by a word or a gesture, the depth of his attachment to her.

Which was why Grace was more than a little surprised when she returned to Hart's home to find her suitcase and several other bags stacked neatly outside the front door.

Flashback ..

**BOSTON, USA**

She stood, without any clothes, in the center of the floor. Strewn around the room were skirts, dresses, shirts, jeans, jackets, silk undergarments, and shoes in every shape, size, and color a girl could dream of. Some of the clothing had been flung over chairs, other items lay askew on the bed, and some (like her multitude of socks and tights) hung from drawers that were chaotically situated half-in and half-out of the tall dresser. A string of pearls is uncharacteristically draped over the lampshade. A closet door hangs by a hinge. She curls her toes into the bone-colored rug she is standing on, rumples her brow, and fingers her chin.

This, she decides, is indecision at its worst.

What was one to wear anyway when having drinks? At the Ritz- Carlton? With David Weinberg?

"Take your hands off me or I'll scream."

"No you won't missy. You did want to get to Oregon didn't ya? I'd hate to see someone have a bad accident along the way...you be nice to me when I ask and I'll be sure you get there safe and sound."

"How dare you threaten me..." Dana struggled against the dirty hand clamped over her mouth. Brooks, the wagon master, had half dragged her behind a clump of willow growing along the riverbank. Her water buckets lay forlornly where she had dropped them in surprise.

Two women appeared over the rise, carrying their own water buckets and chatting as they moved toward the river. They came upon Dana's abandoned buckets and looked about with concern.

Throwing caution to the wind, Dana bit down hard on the fingers across her mouth and screamed the instant they loosened. She sagged in relief as they hurried in her direction.

A large, heavyset woman named Penelope sized up the situation quickly. Hands on hips she addressed Brooks like a errant schoolboy. "Jake Brooks, you sorry excuse for a gentleman. You let this poor girl alone."

Brooks released Dana and stepped back wordlessly. Without daring to look back, Dana rushed to the outstretched arms of her avenging angel.

"You have the fancy girls you want but I see you bother another decent woman again and I swear I'll be talking with your wife."

"You wouldn't..."

We hear . . . HIM. "The hair is all wrong."

The camera lingers on Claudia, hands planted indignantly on her hips, her blonde hair spilling over one shoulder and ending in a slight curl against her stomach . . . and the shot fades . . . .

. . . and re-focuses in Brandon's study.

Mary Anne remains a moment longer with her arms spread, allowing Therese that "good look" at a survivor of The Interrogator's attentions. But that bravado fades after a moment, and Mary Anne closes her arms, wrapping them about her as if she is cold. "Therese--before I tell you anything more, perhaps we should go back to the fire."

Therese is too stunned and off-balance to do anything except nod agreement, and the women return to the chairs placed before the hearth.

Mary Anne, aware of the scrutiny of the woman opposite her, gives her hair a nervous pat, thinking of how she had bidden farewell to Renie this morning: looking as if her clothes had been thrown at her, no proper shoes, tendrils and curls escaping from their pins. Now, all is neat and tidy. On the outside, at any rate.

"Therese, I'm sorry that I sprang it on you like that. It's quite a thing to be hit with unexpectedly."

A nervous glance from Therese, as if Mary Anne is wired with high explosives and might go off any second. "Yes--I'm, um, very sorry to hear that . . . well . . . " What does one say? What can possibly be said?

"Oh, relax." Mary Anne pulls her chair closer, and holds out her hand. "Here." Therese gathers that she is expected to take the hand that is extended to her, and does so, wondering what on earth will happen next. "There, see? Flesh and blood. Don't start walking on tiptoe around me, just because I survived HIM."

Therese, who does not enjoy being made to feel uncomfortable, replies in mingled relief and irritation as she releases Mary Anne's fingers. "You act like you want me to be frank. Well, I will. Since you've been through it, you tell me about HIM. A man who has Eamon walking on eggshells must be out of the ordinary, but I can't get anyone to tell me anything about him that's any use."

Therese, if you want to know about HIM, you've come to the right place. I know The Interrogator better than any other person on earth--God help me, I wish it were not so! But how much can I tell you? How long before I get to the parts that I just can't explain, or that have been classified by the Alliance? And some of it . . . it will sound like . . .

What can I say, to make HIM real to you?

Mary Anne stirs up the fire and adjusts the firescreen, then settles back into her chair, folding her hands tightly in her lap before she trusts herself to speak.

"All right." Quietly. "I'll tell you--some of what has happened with me and . . . HIM. Some of it I can't tell, for different reasons. But I hope it will be enough."

And what now?

As she has often had to do before, Mary Anne simply waits for the words, trusting that the necessary ones will come to her.

And they do.

A few at a time.

"Therese, in some ways, I have been lucky. The Interrogator has abducted me on several occasions, but I have come to little harm."

The hiss and crackle of the fire. It is there that Mary Anne looks--not at Therese.

Into the fire.

"That is to say . . . little physical harm."

Scene: The consulting offices of Antonia DaMozzici, OB/GYN.

The office is stone cold silent, as Hans begins to decipher the form of the words, and then their meaning.

"The tests indicate . . . "

The baby is fine. The baby is well. The baby . . .

". . . that you are not the father."

Incomprehensible words. Not the father.

"I retested the samples myself, to be sure. There was no error."

Not the father. Not the father.

Unaware that he holds the test reports in his hands, Hans releases his grip, and the pages drop to the floor. The pages scattering.

Antonia quickly gathers them together. She feels cowardly, about to run out--but this matter is far too personal for her involvement, however much she'd like to be of help. Besides, she is not sure how, exactly, she can help. One thought, however, occurs to her on her way out.

"I will give you some privacy. However . . . " A meaningful supportive glance at Renie. "I will be on the other side of the door, if either of you need me."

"Thank-you." The first words from Renie . . .

Startled at the sound of his wife's voice, Hans finally looks at her. There is a tightness, somewhere in him.

Antonia DaMozzici closes the door on Mr. and Mrs. Hans Gruber.

"Giles! Giles . . . !"

Giles dashes forward and parts the thicket.

Emilie. "Giles . . ." Half annoyance and half rueful amusement. "I'm caught." Emilie points to her right foot. There, looped neatly about her ankle, the silver wire of a rabbit snare.

Giles settles himself on the ground, smirking. "Serves you right. You can't run away now."

Emilie swings her left foot toward him in a mock-threatening arc, and Giles deflects it, grinning.

"All right then; let's see." Giles attempts to slip his fingers under the wire.

"Owwwwww . . ."

"Sorry." The ends of the tightly-twisted wire, catching at Emilie's stocking and scratching her ankle as the loop closes more tightly than ever. So it is designed to do; the more the prey struggles, the more firmly it is ensnared.

Giles shakes his head. "It's no good, trying to pull the wire. I'll have to dig out the peg. Keep still."

Giles sinks his fingers into the earth, and Emilie does keep still, biting her lip at another scratch or two from the sharp points of the wire . . .

. . . until Giles raises his hand in triumph, brandishing aloft a smoothly- whittled wooden peg tapering to a point at one end, with the wire secured at the other.

Having eased the tension of the trap, he has no trouble freeing Emilie now. Wincing slightly at the scratches on her ankle, Giles presses her foot gently between his hands, making certain that the strain of the wire has not cut off her circulation or done any worse damage. "Can you stand on it?"

Emilie tries.

Giles offers his arm. "It'll likely hurt a bit. Here, lean on me. We'd best find the others."

They move off. Slowly. Their heads close together as Emilie leans heavily on his arm. And watching their departure, a trio of . . .

. . . foxes. A female and two half-grown kits.

Curious, but wary, they edge themselves up to the disturbed earth, noses twitching at the man-scent, to sniff delicately at the uprooted peg and along the length of the silvery wire before vanishing like shadows into the West Wood.

No rabbits today.

Scene: The woodlands around the Delaford Estate of the Brandons.

Westerly. A pair of searchers have struck out--and so far, have struck out.

"We've been over this ground, Emilie--look, there's the North border of the West Wood." Giles points to the last remnants of trees before the ground dips slightly, and resumes an unbroken skein of grasses, yellowed and straw-colored, in preparation for winter.

Which, if the calendar were any indication, would be upon them soon and swiftly.

"You're right," she concedes, dropping herself to the ground with a light fluff of grass. "No sign of Claudia, and no sign of HIM."

Giles plops himself down next to her, and grabs a handy blade to chew on--before realizing the hopeless rusticity of this motion. "I still don't understand how he gets away with it." Giles balefully throws down the unchomped-on blade. "Really--with all her learning, and all her--well, I just don't see what Renie could have been thinking, marrying him."

A slight sense of guilt creeps across Emilie's face.

"--And I thought that French fool was bad enough!" he adds, crossly.

"If you ever tell her that I told you . . . I'll make ribbons of your leather saddles!" she promises.

Giles considers it only for a moment. "Then you'll likely feel the heat of the ribbons yourself, missy."

"You'll never catch, me, silly!" And, as if to make it all come to pass, in an instant, she is up, and running as hard as she can. Her feet so fast, and Giles, so surprised, that she is gone even quicker than the wind, which blows the dark curls back from his huge green eyes.

He scans the trees. A thicket over there. And there, a trio of--

"Giles! Come quickly! Ohhh--Giles!"

Emilie's voice, from the thicket. He cannot see her as she cries out, and his heartbeat drives his own feet, pounding over the woodland, the half-stripped trees a soft blur.

The Interrogator sauntered down the characterless corridors, one hand in the pocket of his black trousers, a smile playing on his lips. This would be fun, a distraction from his normal work. HE was beginning to think HE would rather enjoy having Claudia around. She may have sought HIM out with an ulterior motive, but given enough time, HE could easily make sure she wouldn't want to leave. She was making it easy for HIM. Trying to prove herself by doing everything HE asked of her, without question. It was almost as much fun as if she had fought HIM all the way.

HE had been planning events all day. Mapping out pathways. If HE made this happen, then events would turn down that path. If HE decided on another action, events would turn a different way. If something unexpected happened, then events would follow a side road. HIS head was full of these complex maps, to do with the people of the Realm and their actions. Claudia's friends. HIS exwife…Mary Anne.

HE reached Claudia's door, and as soon as he put the key in the lock and turned it, HE emptied HIS mind of the day's work.

The door swung open and HE saw her bare back. She had her back to HIM! She was dressing, her hair swept forward over her shoulder, and her hands reaching round, trying to do up the long zip.

"Don't just stand there," she said without turning round and looking at HIM, "help me with this thing."

She was proving her trust in HIM. Interesting. HE stepped forward, rested one hand on her hip, and with the other took the zip and drew it upwards. Then the hand on her hip slide round on the smooth silk and rested on her stomach, pulling her back and close to HIM. HIS breath was warm on her neck. "You've been working on your abs," HE said stroking her stomach.

"You've been watching me," she stated.

Both HIS hands slid down over her thighs. HE could feel the suspenders. "You're wearing the stockings."

"Yes, go great with my comfortable shoes."

HE pivoted her round and pushed her away, taking a good look. Her hair fell down over her shoulder, and ended in a slight curl on her stomach.

"Will I do?" she asked, holding out her arms and giving a twirl.

It took almost a month for Hart and Grace to look through all the boxes of documents the U.S. Attorney had sent to Hart's office. Grace had been briefly puzzled by the contents of the last six boxes, which contained duplicates of documents in other boxes they had already seen. A clerical error, perhaps, Hart suggested. That seemed as good an explanation as anything else. Nothing to worry MacGregor about, Hart muttered, shrugging his shoulders, when they had so much other information to review. Grace narrowed her eyes at the six boxes, then repeated Hart's shrug. There was too much else to do to worry about some screwup at the U.S. Attorney's copy service.

As she and Hart worked through the last few boxes, Grace realized how very tired she was. She had spent late nights working with Hart on the sting documents while keeping up with a heavy caseload at her own office. Every spare waking -- and sleeping -- moment, Hart had claimed for himself. To help her keep up with the punishing schedule, Hart had offered her a guest suite at his home. She had warily declined at first, but eventually succumbed to the convenience of Mrs. Brown's cooking and Hart's cossetting. Each time she so much as suggested she needed to go home to at least pick up clean clothes, she would find a new Jil Sander suit fresh from Saks in the closet of her guest suite. She protested at first, but Hart seemed so crushed at her refusal of his gifts that she couldn't bear to disappoint him any longer. He seemed to want her with him constantly. Whenever she returned to his house, he was waiting by the door to cover her with kisses as though she had been gone on a long trip. This is all temporary, she kept telling herself, just until we get through the last of the sting documents. But before the month was over, her guest suite was used chiefly as a closet as she spent most of her brief time at the house in Hart's own rooms.

More than once, as Hart was explaining the finer points of money laundering to her, she shivered to think he had once been on the wrong side of these transactions. How astute the government was to enlist Hart in their efforts to expose the Investors. Just once, she put this thought into words. "So it's true, Lukas, it takes a thief to catch a thief?" Grace had meant the words as a compliment, but quailed as Hart's eyebrows quickly came together and a dark look clouded his face. But just as quickly, Hart made his face a bland mask and laughed. Relieved, Grace laughed with him, glad he could -- almost -- laugh at himself.

Returning to Hart's home one evening through the winding streets of Bel Air, Grace paused at the driveway of a gracious estate to let a large black Mercedes pass through an iron gate and onto the narrow road. As the car flashed by, Grace caught a glimpse of a man and a woman in the back seat. In the light of her headlights, she saw the man had tawny hair, a tidy beard, and a resolute, remote expression. She idly wondered what Hart would look like in a beard. She hardly noticed the raven-haired woman sitting next to the bearded man. Just another set of Hart's wealthy and reclusive neighbors, she thought to herself. By the time she got to Hart's home, she had forgotten all about the enigmatic couple.

Scene: Nakatomi Plaza. The Hansbank, monolith of power.

"No. Leave that information for the CEO to review. Now is not the time."

"I had great time at the Brandon's wedding, thanks for asking," comes Colin's reply. Welcome back, Colin, he thinks to himself.

The overly respectful (and unnecessary) reference to Hans as Chief Executive Officer cuffs him. *Never* the time, for what *I* have to report, is it, old man.

Colin stares at this man who has earned his stripes, if any were to be worn at the Hansbank, through dedicated service. Dead-icated service. A man who has executed . . . many orders. Which means he is more than equal to a simple staring match from an add-on like Colin Molyneux.

The two men have uneasily shared Hans' outer office in the penthouse of Nakatomi Plaza. To be sure, they have their own offices, but this is the pulse point of the Hansbank enterprise. The power flows from the top. In his absence, Hans trusts these men. Very different from each other, they have warily circled each other for some time--each trusting the other about an equal amount. Which is to say, as little as possible.

Colin, long-time reporter, but newly-minted associate. And the old guard, a man who few people have access to, since he has access to the very top. The old guard mistrusts the new, and the new is critical of the old. Und so wieter.

Colin is not a man easily rebuffed. "Hans should see this sort of activity. It just seems strange to me. Maybe he'll know what to make of it."

"Leave it. I will see that he gets it--at the proper time." Cold, cold, cold.

"Ummm-right." Colin winks at the man, and smiles. Inside, Colin's teeth grit tightly enough to trap Zerzuran sand. Then you won't mind that I've made a copy of this, will you, old man?

Acting against the strict Hansbank policy forbidding a second copy of such internal documents, Colin risks more than censure. Termination, perhaps, might be an apt word.

But Colin, too, has looked risk full in the face. Not many men have walked away when Hans Gruber pointed a gun in their direction--twice.

Colin picks an offhand tone--one calculated to annoy the old guard. "You really shouldn't have given your congratulatory wishes to Hans--even on a 'secured' phone. Renie's condition is not widely known, it hasn't been announced." This, of course, the man is well aware of, since Hans has reiterated clearly that no public announcement is to be made until he has given the word. Information is power. News must be managed. The man resents--more deeply than he should--this lecture from Colin, of all people. And resents even more that Colin is right.

"Sorry," lies Colin, "if I can monitor a call, then someone else can, too."

"Thank-you, Mr. Molyneux," replies the old guard, through clenched hair. "I'm sure that the CEO, and Mrs. Gruber appreciate your hacking." Colin does not miss the emphasis on "Mrs." Gruber. How much does this man know about the Gruber honeymoon?

Scooping up the report, the chastened man leaves the office, with a glare that stays plastered on his face even as the penthouse elevator hits the first floor.

Colin settles into a soft leather couch and puts his feet up, in gleeful laughter. And, with his pointer finger, chalks up an imaginary point on the chalkboard of air.

Claudia--re: "even if it is so full . . ." When, when did you come to the USA and peek into my closet?!

Much later, as the fire died down and the bottle of Veuve Cliquot stood upended in its bucket of melting ice, Hart and Grace sat close together on the sofa. Her head rested on his shoulder as she watched the dying embers. They had been silent for several minutes, each lost in their separate thoughts. Hart got up to stir the fire, his face remote, his back to her.

"Lukas, I've been thinking about the documents," Grace began, cautiously.

"Then that's a waste of a fair bottle of champagne if it can't make you forget about work," Hart replied in an easy joshing tone. He walked back to her and pulled her to her feet. His left hand snaked around her waist, his right took hers as he began to dance with her, slow, close and without music. She closed her eyes and swayed with him.

"Those documents you were looking at early in the day, Lukas. Duplicates, you said?"

"Ummmhmmm," breathed Hart into her ear.

"From which bank?" Grace persisted.

"The Netherlands Antilles. Mostly records from 1996 and early 1997. They weren't useful the first time we saw them either," Hart said easily, nuzzling her neck.

"Oh," was all the reply Grace could manage as she felt herself melt into his arms. She fought to keep herself focused on the question she wanted to ask. "Then why. . . "

She never finished the sentence. Hart kissed her, taking her breath away.

Clods: "Discreetly glamourous . . . High-necked. Elegant. Subtly forbidding." Hmmmm, sounds familiar . . . ;-)

She dropped the lid on the bed, and carefully lifted out the orchid, and placed it in the lid of the box. Then she peeled back the layers of tissue paper inside the box. A smile as she got through the first layer. Underwear. Black underwear, with plenty of… straps. But black - she thought HE knew her better than that. They were the right size, though, so it was deliberate. She might prefer red, but HE obviously liked black. And it was what HE liked that counted, wasn't it?

She peeled back the last bit of tissue, revealing heavy black silk. She lifted the dress out of the box and held it up to herself, turning to look in the mirror. A simple black gown. Simple, but discreetly glamorous, cut to perfection in a heavy silk that draped itself about the wearer as if it had been grown, not tailored. High-necked. Elegant. Subtly forbidding.

Claudia was lying on the floor of her room, doing crunches when she heard the key turn in the lock. Like a cat she sprang to her feet in one fluid movement and watched the handle turn in anticipation. HE had kept her waiting all day, wondering what HIS idea of celebration was. Wondering if she was really up to what could happen tonight. She knew she was capable to carrying out any order HE gave her, to win his trust, but would she, could she… She remembered how it had been before, but that had been drug induced. This time, it was up to her, and how convincing she could be, without any extra help.

The door swung open, and she let out a breath, which she realised she had been holding. It wasn't HIM. One of HIS men entered, carrying a large box, which he handed to her, turned and left, relocking the door, without saying a word.

In Brandon's study:

"Therese, there are a few things that you should know about Mr. I."

"Such as?" replies Therese warily. She can see that some change has come over Mary Anne, and is once again surprised by the difference of expression--not a change for the better in this case. But Therese is certain she has seen that expression before, and after a moment, she realizes that she has seen that look on Eamon's face at times: closed, guarded, tightly-controlled. The look that had earned him the nickname of The Monster for his supposed lack of emotion, though he is capable of hiding within him a violent storm.

And now, Mary Anne's face: a shade paler, but no least flicker of animation, no play of smiles and sparkling eyes. The stillness of unsounded depths.

Mary Anne's voice. Soft, gentle, and low. "Before I tell you anything, what do you know of . . ." A pause. " . . . HIM? Someone must have warned you."

"Eamon told me a little." Therese collects her thoughts. "That some people call him Mister I, and some The Interrogator. That--" Therese swallows. "--he's evil. He's a torturer. Eamon said that HE uses people for his own purposes, and doesn't care who he hurts." That is enough for a beginning. Therese keeps Dev's other words close to her heart, that he couldn't bear it if The Interrogator were to hurt her, that he couldn't stand the thought of what an animal like that might do.

"He was right," says Mary Anne softly, "as far as that goes. But I think Mister de Valera gave you the condensed version." Mary Anne draws her chair nearer to Therese. "Have you ever met one of HIS . . . victims? Ever talked to anyone who has been a captive of The Interrogator?"

Therese is taken aback by this abrupt shift of topic, and doesn't quite know what to say. "I don't think so," she falters. "That is . . . if I have, I didn't know it at the time."

Mary Anne looks directly into Therese's eyes and smiles at her, and Therese is strongly tempted to run for the door and seek the protection of Lt. Sifuentes, for that smile is yet another demonstration of how quickly a human face can alter. As if, for a brief moment, someone else looked out.

The moment passes. The smile is sardonic, but no longer frightening, as Mary Anne spreads her arms to display herself.

"Take a good look, Therese. You have, now."

Scene: The wood-panelled hallway, where Hans waits . . .

As his cell phone quietly buzzes, Hans pockets the foil wrapper.

"Jah." The stress of waiting.

"Sir--at Delaford. The search is for a woman named Claudia. Missing without explanation."

Hans' right eyebrow raises itself. Abducted? Claudia? Not likely . . . "Jah."

"I'll have more soon," the Hansganger promises, but Hans spies the door to Dr. DaMozzici's office opening.

"Nien. Nicht jetzt. I will call when I'm ready to hear more." *Click* And then a second click. The phone screen glows neon white, the blackness. Powered down.

Doctor DaMozzici does not even need to call out to Hans, who--with one lion's step--is at the doorway. The doctor meets him. "I've told Renie the news. Now I'd like to speak with you both, together. Although Renie has asked to see you alone, I believe this to be a wiser course."

She has nearly said "safer course."

Antonia is holding the door partly closed, so that Hans cannot see Renie. Her professional voice is quiet but commanding. "You can speak alone with Renie in my office in a few moments." She releases the door so Hans may enter. Renie stands at the window of the office, her long brown hair trailing down her back, which is all Hans can see. At her husband's footstep, Renie turns, and brushes aside the long strands which have fallen against her face.

As Hans approaches her, she looks up into his eyes.

Her eyes are red from crying.

Wordlessly, she takes Hans by the hand, and leads him over to the pair of chairs.

Hans allows himself to be led.

"As I said, the results were unanticipated. The tests show no detectable physical abnormalities and no signs of high risk factors. We have every indication of a physically healthy baby, and I expect no surprises during the full term of pregnancy."

"Then--" begins Hans.

"The baby is fine, Hans," assures the doctor.

Renie has not uttered a word.

Hans looks at Renie, then back at Antonia. We are close on Hans' face, as we hear Antonia speak.

"Hans--the tests indicate--that you are not the father."

(Hands on hips) Look you lot - be patient! I'm trying to do some deletions and to do that I have to turn FOF upside down... I'm sure you'll all cope.

*back of hand to forehead* Golly, I feel as if "my world has turned upside down."

What's happened? Why are the newest posts at the bottom instead of the top all of a sudden?!

Delaford--Sequestered in Brandon's Study

Mary Anne watched as Therese rose from her chair after her discourse on Valmont. Her guest crossed over to the setee, perched on the edge for a brief moment, crossed to a chair, straddled it, sat, popped up once more, and headed to the row of books on the far shelf, where she ran her fingers over the spines absently. "I don't know if Eamon would have managed such restraint," she admitted. "He is rather overbearing at times where I am concerned."

"Yes, well, Christopher is certainly not immune to that failing in the least," Mary Anne admitted. "Had not Lis been in the picture. . .well, let's just say that I'm glad things turned out as they did." She paused as Therese once again crossed the room, this time hovering over the colonel's desk, and flipping around his fountain pen several times, before moving over to the window and peering out to the grounds. She went from there back to the bookcase, where she pulled out several volumes, without looking at any of them, and hastily returned them back to the shelf, her fingers tapping idely.

"Therese, they've only just left," Mary Anne told her, not unsympathetically. "We still have quite a while. Do you sew, or knit, or anything of that nature?"

Therese looked at her host, her face splitting into a wide grin. "ME?? Domestic? I told Eamon he'd likely starve to death if he married me, given my lack of wifely skills. I'm afraid I have absolutely no talants which are condusive to. . .waiting. You'll likely wish to throttle me before the men return."

Mary Anne smiled in response, and crossed the room to sit at a round table in one corner of the room. "And what was Dev's response when you told him you feared he would waste away?"

Therese chuckled and coloured slightly. "I believe he was fairly certain of the wifely skills which he considered important--and cooking was not one of them."

Mary Anne extended her hand to the seat across from her. "Please, why don't you sit down? I know you're not happy with remaining behind, and please allow me to assure you that it is not an easy task for myself, either. But truly, we are safest here. This man they seek," Mary Anne's face lost some of its colour, and her expression grew troubled, "he is no ordinary person, Dev was correct to have you remain."

Therese crossed to the indicated seat, and glaring at it briefly, finally sat down. "Why does everyone keep making such a fuss over this Mr. I person? He is human, correct? I could be out there helping!" she glanced about her at the confines of the small study, "instead of being babysat and guarded in here. Truly, I am very glad of this opportunity to become better acquainted with you,Mary Anne, it is not that. . .it is just having to remain--while everyone else is out there!" She waved her arms, indicating the grounds surrounding the estate.

Therese had not noticed that during her minor outburst, her hostess had grown very still and quiet. Mary Anne pursed her lips tightly, quelling the inner rage that Therese's words had wrought. She does not know, Mary Anne reminded herself, her callous disregard is not intentional. "Therese, there are a few things that you should know about Mr. I," Mary Anne began, her tone very soft. . .

Attention all personnel:

Possible timestream split in progress--locale, Colonel Brandon's study, Delaford, UK. Converge on this point immediately.

The Chief

"You're very quiet today."

Dana's eyes remained fixed over the heads of the oxen in front of her, "Am I?"

Seeing the futility of this conversation, PL urged his horse forward. "I'll be back shortly. You ok with the team?"

Brandon's study, once again.

Lt. Sifuentes stands outside the half-open door, the very model of Alliance watchfulness, poised at attention, his alert eyes scanning the corridor. However, he cannot help smiling to himself-- just a little--as the sounds of conversation filter through the doorway: The mistress of Delaford, getting to know her guest a little better.

"Now, before we were so rudely interrupted in the kitchens--"

The camera shifts to the study, where Mary Anne and Therese have pulled a couple of the most comfortable chairs, along with footstools, close to the fireplace. The unseasonable warmth has continued, but the rooms would be chilly without fires, and Therese stretches her feet gratefully toward the blaze, while pausing to nibble at the remains of a napkin-wrapped scone that she has brought from the kitchen. "These are really delicious."

Mary Anne grins. "I intend to have her teach me how she makes them. And in return, I suppose I'll have to teach her to make spaghetti."

Therese giggles at the idea of spaghetti making an appearance on the elegant Royal Doulton chinaware of Delaford, then resumes for Mary Anne her tale of her sojourn in Ireland and how she had met Eamon de Valera.

"--and we were never apart after that, really.I've been with him everywhere, ever since."

Mary Anne nods. "Yes, you did look a little bewildered at the wedding." Therese laughs and lays aside her napkin, carefully folded to hold the loose crumbs. "I was there when Eamon got his invitation. He was a little surprised to be invited; he said he hadn't seen you or the Colonel in so long, but he really considered it an honour. He promised me I'd like his friends." A warm smile. "He was right about that."

"All of them?" teases Mary Anne. "I'm sorry about Father Grigori--he acts that way when he's had too much to drink. Someone should have kept an eye on him and gotten him out of there before he could make trouble."

Therese shrugs. "Well, Eamon took care of him! But I was sure when you and the Colonel came over that we were going to be thrown right out of here." A frown. "Actually, the one who ought to be thrown out is that French guy--"

"Monsieur," Mary Anne enunciates dramatically, "le Vicomte de Valmont. Seducer, philanderer, and . . ." Well- timed pause. " . . . ratbag extraordinaire."

"That's him, all right."

Mary Anne studies Therese for a moment, as if debating whether to say what's on her mind. Well, better safe than sorry. "Um, Therese, may I offer a bit of advice?"

Brown eyes look into blue. "Of course."

"Stay clear of Valmont. Don't spend any time around him. If he comes into a room with you, leave the room, if you two would be alone there. Don't take him up when he annoys you."

Therese shifts uncomfortably, and Mary Anne's eyes narrow slightly. Is this on my account, on just the aftereffects of Dev, um . . . taking a *hand* in matters?

"I'm sorry if I'm out of line, Mary Anne, but from the way Valmont was looking at you, I'd say you were the one who needed to be careful." Mary Anne shakes her head. "No. The Vicomte wouldn't dare touch me, for several very good reasons."

"May I ask what they are?"

Like Brandon, Therese is taken by surprise at how one smile can alter the countenance. Mrs. Brandon is the very model of placid respectability, gracefully poised in her chair and clad in a simple day gown of dark twilight blue, with a black velvet collar and trim at the wrists to emphasize the porcelain skin of her face and slender hands-- those hands quietly folded in her lap, and her face . . . well, moments ago, tranquil and tender and innocently appealing. But that smile . . . as if a mask had been removed. A gleam in the eyes: intelligence. Irony. Mischief. A sense of fun, as yet another person reacts to the change brought about by that smile. Having an innocent face can be very . . . entertaining. I'm bad; I really am. It'll catch up with me, someday!

"Valmont will not touch me, because . . ." Mary Anne lifts one slim hand and ticks off reasons on her fingers. "The Colonel would kill him. Or I would kill him. Or Lis would kill him!"

A pause, and Mary Anne sighs. "Lis is the only reason he's here, really. She's very attached to him, and he keeps breaking her heart, over and over again. But she never gives up. We all keep hoping she might be able to make something worthwhile out of him, someday, but . . ."

Therese scowls. "Reformed rake, is that it? Bad man saved by the love of a good woman? Sorry, but that's only in stories."

A different smile from Mary Anne this time. Thoughtful. "Unless you count Hans Gruber, of course." But even that is only up to a point . . . give Hans a reason, and . . . No, best not to think of it. Hans, too, would cheerfully kill Valmont if he got half a chance.

Therese straightens in her chair. "Well, then, he's the exception that proves the rule. But why do you think this French scum is so dangerous to me? I don't have any interest in him."

"Okay, but what I'm about to say . . ." Mary Anne leans forward in her chair. "No offense?"

"None." Therese leans forward a little herself. My, this is getting interesting!

"All right, then." Mary Anne pauses to gather her thoughts. "You really love Mister de Valera, don't you? I mean, sincerely, no matter what."

Therese flushes a little at that "no matter what," especially at Mary Anne's emphasis on the what, but she bravely meets the other woman's searching gaze. "Yes. I do. No matter what."

"Very well. One of Valmont's favourite sports is to prey on women--but he especially singles out good, decent women who are devotedly attached to other men . . . usually men as good and decent and loving as they are themselves. It's as if he tries to prove that no woman is safe from him, no matter what incentives she might have to keep away." Mary Anne eyes Therese. "He really annoyed you in the kitchen, didn't he?"

Therese squirms a bit. As much as she might hate to admit it, it had irritated her when Valmont had condescendingly announced that she was not worthy of his attentions. I'd like to show him a thing or two about "worthy," that--that-- Therese shakes her head. One of the few French words she knows is escargot, and calling Valmont a snail hardly seems an apt description.

"Well," she grudges to Mary Anne, "maybe a little."

"Nothing to be ashamed of; he has that effect." Mary Anne stares at the fire for a moment. "The Vicomte is a ruthless, amoral, predatory devil in an elegant suit . . . but he also happens to be handsome, witty, and accomplished. And he can be very charming when he chooses." A pause. "It's happened over and over. He's a challenge, you see; a woman thinks, Oh, I can associate with him and be safe; there's no danger to ME. She wants to prove that she is the one woman he can't affect. And one way he gets close to you is by annoying and irritating you. You want to pay him back in kind. First thing you know, you're seeking him out, trading barbs with him, all the time telling yourself you hate him and can't imagine how any woman could succumb . . . until you find yourself in his bed, wondering how you got there."

Therese taps her fingers on the arm of the chair for a moment. "No offense?"

Mary Anne smiles. "No offense."

"You've not found this out by experience, I hope?"

Mary Anne shakes her head. "Not by experience, thank God. By observation. But I've had a close call or two with the Vicomte. Christopher fought a duel with him, on my account."

Therese's deep chocolate-coloured eyes widen to the size of Royal Doulton dinner plates. "Pistols?"

"Swords."

"The Colonel won, of course? And he spared that--?"

Mary Anne raises a hand to halt the indignation. "It was on account of Lis. It would have broken her heart, and I wasn't anxious to have blood spilled over me, either. But you can see how it is. It sounds melodramatic to say that 'no woman is safe' around Valmont, but in his case, I think it's true. So it would be best for you to stay clear of him." Not to mention that if he tried anything, we could add Dev to the list of people who'd like to kill the Vicomte . . .

I'm gonna soon honest! I stayed up late last night to write it, but got side tracked by David Bowie... he's very persuasive too.

Scene: The other offices. No walls of books. No periodicals.

No pictures.

"Thank-you for your full cooperation, doctor. Our methods may seem harsh to those unaccustomed to the rigorous training and demands of science, but as a man who understands such matters, I hope your superior will not quibble with your treatment here. You are free to go--that is, to return. Have you any requirements of us?"

"No, arrangements have been made for my return." The young doctor hands the Interrogator a written report.

"I will see that your superior understands your contribution here as fully as I. Please . . . " With the report in HIS hand, HE motions towards the door. The doctor will be allowed to leave.

The doctor is just about out the door without further ado, when he pauses, hand on the doorknob. The Interrogator is looking at the doctor--right through the doctor--and the doctor hides an imperceptible shiver. "Please, do give my regards to the Master."

As the door to HIS offices closes, The Interrogator turns HIS attention to the woman who waits in her room. Waiting for HIM.

Scene: The other side of the door of the consulting offices of Dr. Antonia DaMozzici . . .

Hans, with his sleek cell phone, standing in the wood-panelled halls of the medical clinic. A bit further down the hallway, a janitor sets down a white plastic bag of trash. The examination rooms and labs have been swept clean since early this morning, scrubbed and sterilized. But bags of trash go out every day at 10:00 a.m., down this hallway and through the back. The truck arrives at 10:30.

Connection made. "Yes, sir?" Ach, yes. Many of Hans' trusted men are tied up in Egdon--overseeing the hospital's progress. The Brandon's wedding gift had been duly reported to the world press by Colin, and had stirred such approval and interest as to require an additional "response" crew on site. To answer questions, field inquiries, and the like. It had turned out to be an excellent public relations event, and, though that had not been any part of the intent, the Hansbank was benefitting once again from the Gruber marriage.

"Clear my calendar for the day. I will have to see the President of the Diet on my next trip to Japan. And the Chancellor can have lunch with me . . . "

"Next Tuesday."

"Exactly. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. One of the Wessex workcrew heard a rumour that there is a search on at the Delaford estate. I'm working on details."

"Yes. Advise me, if . . . " Hans' voice trails off. The Interrogator? Another resurfacing? Thank God. At least I have Renie safe, here with me . . . away from HIM. "If there's anything to report."

The janitor closes the door to the storage room, and picks up the trash. The door, he sees, has not closed all the way, and once again he sets down the white plastic bag, which, as bags sometimes do, loses it twist tie at the top. He unlocks and closes the door again, firmly. The *whoosh* of air blows the vulnerable top of the plastic garbage bag open, and a small piece of silver foil blows out.

"Yes, sir. And--congratulations, sir. To you and Mrs. Gruber."

"Yes." *Click*

With no sign of a grumble, the janitor easily knots the top of the plastic bag, and hauls off the trash, leaving it out back, minus one tiny silver wrapper, which escapes his aged eye.

Not so the eye of Hans Gruber. A meticulous man, of meticulous habits. Pacing outside--yes, he is pacing, there is no other word for it--he looks at the offending piece of silver foil. Then, at his Baume & Mercier. Ten minutes. Almost.

With growing concern, he keeps his mind from guessing at what is being discussed inside the office. The concern threatens to bloom into annoyance, and he becomes fixated on the small piece of debris which has escaped its proper place. The hallway of a medical facility is no place for trash of any sort, of any size.

His watch again. One minute later.

There is no one else in the hall to pick it up.

As we feel the seconds tick off, Hans walks down the hallway. He leans one hand against the wood panelling, and with the other, leans over to reach the small silvery wrapper. Although the edge of the foil is torn away, the letters are clearly visible.

"Honey-Roasted Peanuts. Compliments of Transworld Airlines."

Delaford--Those Left Behind

Mary Anne sighed. She had just been getting Therese to the point where she had begun to relax, and they were truly enjoying one another's company when the Vicomte made his entrance. And his arrival could only be considered an entrance, strategically planned with his dramatic reponse, and carrying tones.

Mary Anne rose to meet her guest, and looked at him sharply. "A luncheon, sir, shall be provided in the East Parlour quite soon. Should you wish to retire there, food will be arriving presently." Mary Anne paused. "Though I might say I am surprised to see you remain here."

Valmont turned to face his hostess, his face taking on the glint of an animal seeking prey. Therese moved to stand beside Mary Anne. She had not met this man, but already did not like him. "Perhaps he remains behind because the call was for 'able bodied' men," Therese commented dryly.

Valmont raised his head a fraction of an inch, and looked down upon Therese with a haughty air. He touched a finger to her jaw lightly, "Were you worthy of my. . .attentions, you should find me very. . .able, indeed."

"Remove your hand!" Therese snapped, brushing his arm away angrily. "And rest assured that I have never considered myself as desperate a woman to consider the likes of you."

Mary Anne stepped between the Vicomte and Therese, sensing the ease with which this discussion could ignite, and taking him by the arm, led him to the kitchen door. "Perhaps you should go now? I shall see that foodstuffs are set out immediately."

Valmont turned back toward the kitchen area, but this time found himself in the much firmer grasp of Lt. Sifuentes of the AR. "Allow me to escort you, sir," he intoned, leaving no room for arguement.

"Unhand me, you cretin!" Valmont stormed.

"Certainly, sir, as soon as you leave the kitchen area."

The vicomte bowed to the two women before him, and intoned, "I anticipate our next encounter," before returning to the main section of the house.

Mary Anne looked toward her remaining guest. "Therese, shall we retire to Colonel Brandon's study? I believe we would be quite comfortable there until it is time for tea. . .I believe that we have much to. . .discuss. Lt. Sifuentes, as I am sure that you have been ordered to keep a close watch on the two of us, please inform whomever is in charge that Miss Gellert and myself shall attempt to behave ourselves by remaining in the master's study."

"Yes ma'am," Sifuentes said with a shy smile, "as I have been given that very task you mention, I appreciate your cooperation." Directing his gaze toward Mary Anne, he replied, "I believe that one gentleman said I was to stay within sight or hearing of you at each and every moment." He turned his focus now toward Therese, "and the other stated that I am to guard you as if my very life depended upon it, and from the look in his eyes, I believe he very much thought it did."

Therese rolled her eyes heavenward. Eamon, I should throttle you with your overbearing ways. . . Yet there was that lump again, large as ever.

Delaford--Those Left Behind

Mary Anne and Therese entered the kitchen in pursuit of refreshment, their presence startling the inhabitants already gathered there. Miss MacCleod rose to her feet quickly, as Hayes the groom sprang from his seat, yanking his hat from his head, and several other maids and servants ceased their conversations. An uneasy silence reigned.

Mary Anne smiled tentatively, and turned toward her housekeeper. "No reason to stop everything, Miss Gellert and myself have merely come to find something for our lunch. Please, don't mind us."

At the word "lunch" Miss MacLeod and two of the other female servants were launched into action. "Aye ma'am, an' wha' is 't ye woul' like me ta serve ye fer the noon day meal?"

"You needn't go to any trouble on our account," Therese spoke up, wondering if she wasn't overstepping her place, yet still feeling the need to do so. "In fact it would occupy Mrs. Brandon and myself to throw something together ourselves."

"Occupy, eh?" Miss MacCleod drew her self up to her full and impressive height, and annunciated the word very precisely in Therese's American accent before turning to her mistress. "If'n ye and your guest woul' like to 'ave a seat in ta little parlour off a ta East wing, I'll 'ave one o' me girls bring in ta noon luncheon. Di' ye 'ave an'athin' special ye woul' like me ta sairve? And will ye be havin' an' o'her guests joinin' ye?"

Mary Anne smiled at her housekeeper's shocked sense of propriety at the very thought of serving the mistress and guest in her kitchen. Miss MacLeod would have to accustom herself to the mistress being about, and cooking, for that matter, but it would be another issue for another time. "The East Parlour would be fine, thank you. And as there are many AR agents around, as well as some guests who remain, I think that it would be best to have some breads, meats, and cheeses on hand at all times for those who require it. Therese, did you have anything particular you would wish?"

Therese looked up at Miss MacLeod sheepishly. "Could you put out some of your scones, ma'am? Those ones with the bits of fruit in them? And some of that lovely jam and clotted cream?"

The older woman's face softened slightly. I' tis no easy time for the woman folk aroun' 'ere this day, per'aps a few formalities coul' be overlooked, this once. Walking over to the oven, she opened the large iron door, and grabbing a mit from the counter, withdrew a fresh tin of scones from the warmer. "I thou' t'were goin' through me scones a' an exceptional rate 'ere of late," she teased with a twinkle in her eye.

"Hayes! Lad, make yoursel' useful, and go an get ta agents still i' ta main 'ouse. We're 'avin' tea a bit early today i' seems."

Hayes jumped from his position at the housekeeper's bidding, and Mary Anne gave the older woman a warm smile of approval as she and Therese quickly drew stools up to the wooden counter. A comfortable reverie ensued as the warm biscuits were reached for, opened, and spread liberally with the thick cream and jam, the scent of sweet fresh baked goods permeating the room. Several AR agents appeared (bring us food, and we shall follow, being the unofficial AR motto) as if scent hounds hot on the trail. The conversation was light hearted, or as light as the situation permitted, the food ambrosia, and Therese and Mary Anne spoke together quietly, as the mistress began the process of coming to know her guest.

The reverie was abruptly shattered by the slamming open of the kitchen door. "What does one have to do to be served?" Valmont demanded, entering the room. "Fraterinize with servants!?"

"Hello Missy. Goin' to Oregon are ya?"

Dana recoiled from the foul smelling man standing far too close. "Yes." she replied, turning back to the bolts of fabric stacked high on a table. She sensed him move even closer and realized they were effectively hidden by the piles of merchandise on either side of the aisle.

"Now that's not a very friendly way to be. You did want to be allowed to join my wagon train. I may be yer last chance to cross this year. I could turn you away if you were to continue to be so mean to me." His fetid breath hissed in her ear as his hands moved around her waist and squeezed.

"Take your hands off me," she ground out between clenched teeth.

Brooks pressed his body against hers suggestively before releasing her. "You'll be nice to me before this trip is over, Missy. Count on it."

Dana sagged against the bolts of denim, gasping for breath.

"There you are. Finished your shopping?"

She straightened quickly, forcing a smile. "Almost, maybe you can help me decide on fabric." She must keep PL close throughout this journey and he must not know why...

Brandon's Study--Delaford

"Lunch?" Therese repeated Mary Anne's question half heartedly. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandon, that would be very nice." Though how I'll ever be able to get anything beyond this boulder sized lump in my throat. . .

Mary Anne took Therese gently by the arm and led her to a comfortable setee along one wall. "Please, sit for a moment." Therese did as she was bid, and Mary Anne lowered herself along side of her. "Okay, we need to get a few things straight, as it appears we are to have a long day ahead of us. First off all, my name is Mary Anne. No more Mrs. Brandon to you, understood?" At Therese's nod, Mary Anne coninued. "Good. Now, would you rather be served in here, or shall we remove to the kitchen where we could probably find something with which to occupy ourselves?"

"Is there anything that we could do to be of use in the kitchens? Give me an occupation or I shall run mad (homage), Mary Anne. Patience is not one of my finer qualities, I'm afraid I do not wait well."

So I've been told. Though looking at your expression now, it would not have been difficult to guess. . . "Come then, we'll find something. At the very least, Miss MacLeod will scold us for being underfoot, which should provide some entertainment."

Mary Anne lead Therese from the study, and as they passed through the main foyer toward the kitchens, through the large picture windows they could clearly see the forms of both Colonel Brandon and Eamon de Valera, as well as many of the other hastily assembled men, both on horseback, and on foot. Both women stopped for a moment, transfixed.

The Colonel sat proudly upon the elegant Menelaus, as if he had been born to the saddle. He was every inch the commanding officer as he signaled the men around him, obviously grouping and ordering the mission. Dev stood next to a large dapple grey, several men clustered around him as he indicated a map in one hand. He spoke for a brief momement, tucked the map into his shirt, pocket, and mounted his horse effortlessly. Therese sighed as she watched his effortless grace of motion.

"You two have made up, haven't you?" Therese started as Mary Anne's voice brought her back from the scene outside.

Therese coloured slightly, and nodded. "Yes, we have." She paused for a moment, as if considering, and then continued. "We're to be married this June. You are the very first to know."

Mary Anne smiled at her guest, a warm, happy look that lit up her entire countenance. "I am so pleased for you both, and am honoured to be the first to wish you happy. Now we simply must head to the kitchens," she added, watching as the last of the men departed from sight around the fence surrounding the front lawns, "and find a way to celebrate!"

"Oregon Territory is it?" the short, grizzled man spit in the dust. His foul odor caused PL's already rebellious stomach to churn dangerously.

Turning his head very slightly to the side he answered, "That's right."

"What's the reason for breakin' off? Rest of yer train's for the gold fields and truth be ya look fitted more for pannin' than plowin'."

PL's eyes narrowed slightly, he had no patience for such an exchange today. Questions were the last thing he'd expected but he must not alienate this man, time was of the essence in continuing their westward progress. "Listen Mr...."

"Brooks, Jake Brooks."

"Mr. Brooks. My wife and I have decided that the lure of gold is not fur us. We wish to find some land in the Oregon Territory and farm it quietly. We need to get there first, and that's where you come in."

Secret--Colonel Brandon had been so long away from his home, it seemed a shame to send him away from it again so quickly. He and Mary Anne are "honeymooning" just fine there at Delaford, don't you think? ;-)

R, dearest--my nerves are curling up at the tips. =8-O And for once, I don't think the Colonel has anything to do with it!

Scene: The consulting offices of Antonia DaMozzici, OB/GYN.

Nothing of the examination room in here. An office chair, desk, walls of books, medical periodicals. Picture frames, full of relatives back in Italy.

Two chairs.

But no one is sitting.

The hands of Hans Gruber are locked behind his back. His spine, straight, his head upright.

"The results are . . . unanticipated. I would like to speak with Renie alone."

"If there is a problem, I must know it."

No amount of medical experience can keep Antonia from a slight tremble at the tone of Hans' voice. The couple had insisted on coming together, when she wouldn't speak on the phone about it. Now, the doctor stands behind her desk, and forces herself to look at him, directly, as she knows she should. You will know it, Hans, soon enough. Her heart goes out to Renie, to them both. Hers is not the place to judge, but to provide care.

"And you will. However, I believe it is in your wife's best medical interests if I speak to her first."

Hans does not remove his eyes from the obstetrician for a few very long seconds. Then, he moves his wife, kisses her hands gently, and leaves the office, closing the door behind him. Now, it is up to her to explain the test results to her patient.

"Please sit down, Renie."

Renie complies; her tall figure still does not show any trace of the life within her.

Summoning her courage, Renie lifts her eyes from her lap, and meets the anxious gaze of Antonia. Summoningher own courage, Antonia moves out from behind her desk, pulling the other chair next to Renie's.

"Please," begs Renie quietly, "tell me there's nothing wrong."

In Flashback:

Scene: HIS offices. And the Interrogator, offering up a congratulatory glass to Claudia . . .

. . . who finds herself pushing the glass away from her.

"Not so fast." She halts the proceedings, to the surprise of the young doctor. As for the Interrogator, HIS thin smile snakes onto HIS lips.

HE waits.

"Yes, I knew what I was doing. And I've figured out what you intend to happen. But you don't think it's going to work, do you?"

"Don't you?" HE queries, the glass giving off an unusual smell. "At any rate, you've shown that you can perform a task that is challenging--morally and technically. Tonight, we will only toast, because, it's late. Tomorrow, we will really celebrate in style."

HE hands Claudia the glass, and this time, she takes it.

"As proof of my belief in your growing loyalty, I'll tell you what your first task was--" HE picks up HIS own glass. "--this. You drank this." HE turns to the doctor, who raises his glass. HE turns back to Claudia, and taps his glass against hers with a *clink*.

He and the doctor both drink, and Claudia, who has carefully watched them pour all three glasses from the same carafe, obligingly drinks hers down. It tastes good.

Refreshing.

HIS voice. "The pause that refreshes." HE sets down his empty glass.

Claudia feels a slight dizziness, which passes in an instant. She remembers everything, and realizes she had not forgotten very much. Last night, the doctor had spoken with her, about how sad the loss of a child is, about how we all deserve a second chance. And then Mr. I had asked her if she could go to L.A. and set things straight.

She had said yes.

Nothing else had happened, except that she had drunk some of this.

She looks into her glass, and then looks at the Interrogator. Leaning back against the monitor table, HE enjoys HIS knowledge and authority over her--and her slow realization that HE had not taken the liberties she had assumed . . .

"There now. I see you're 'all here.' The doctor arranged--through the only truly manipulative suggestion of last evening--that upon drinking *this* again you'd be 'yourself' again. Now you can wrestle with your conscience, if you wish. But remember--although you were exposed to a form of hypnosis, you would not have done anything which was truly counter to your nature or beliefs."

The doctor rises, knowing his involvement for the evening is over.

"And before you go, doctor, please tell Claudia what was in her drinks."

The doctor wipes his mouth with a white napkin. "Melissa officinalis in its liquid form."

Claudia looks to the Interrogator, whose thin sylvatic smile lengthens, as he mouths, "Lem-on-ade. Mint lemonade."

Incredulous, not knowing whether to believe HIM, her voice is uncharacteristically soft. "No chemical, no drugs?"

He shakes his head, and watches her closely. He never tires of this moment--the moment of revelation, the disbelief on a subject's face.

And Claudia is no ordinary subject.

As HE takes the empty glass from her hand, he whispers, "Never use persuasion when suggestion is sufficient. And never underestimate the power of suggestion."

Claudia, back in full control of her senses, feels momentarily ambushed. She had been his emissary, and had not been drugged or brainwashed into doing it. She could only hope that the result of her actions could be forgiven, as soon as they were brought to light . . .

And we are in . . .

Real time.

Claudia slept late, and awoke to find another tray of food on her dressing table. She hadnŐt 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 didnŐt 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 the powers of suggestion and the powers of persuasion. It sounded so right, she wondered why sheŐd 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 realized on whose terms she was here.

She felt a curious form of deja vu. As if this day, or something like it, had happened already. Or was happening again.

A note arrived. She was to come to dinner. Before her third task, they would . . . celebrate. HE would be up shortly.

To help her dress.

Brandon's study:

The camera pulls back from the reflection in Dev's eyes as he rises to meet Therese and Colonel Brandon. Mister de Valera's countenance is inscrutable, bearing no trace of his conversation with Mary Anne, and he smoothly draws Therese off to one side, leaving Mary Anne to speak with Colonel Brandon.

And Brandon deals swiftly with what is before him. The Colonel is not demonstrative in company; nevertheless, he does not set about this task without taking thought for his wife's concern.

His hands rest gently on her shoulders, as he looks down into her face--a little pale, but composed, the wide blue eyes turned up to his. I will, for once, allow poets all of their comparisons with stars . . .

And aloud: "You need not tell me to take care, my dearest. You know that I shall."

"Of course. And I shall look after . . . things . . . here, for you, until this evening."

"Very well." Brandon's smile is tender, but hesitant, calling for a certain response that he is not at all sure he shall have from her. "And there is no need, then, for me to command you to remain here?"

Mary Anne swallows, the upper hallway of Safehouse #7 vividly before her in one flash of memory. She shakes her head. "I hope I have a little more sense now." Hint of a grin. "Just a little."

Brandon's fingertips brush her cheek. "You will recall, my dearest, that I once told you . . . I do not wish for too much obedience from you."

Brandon is amazed by how one smile can change a woman's face. In repose, Mary Anne's features are sweet, calm, angelically innocent. That one particular smile, however: it brings a spark to her eyes--and, not coincidentally, lights a fire in his blood. "Never fear, sir. I shall, as you seem to wish it, disobey you upon occasion--" Her eyes twinkle up at him. "--just to keep your life interesting!"

"Then choose your occasions carefully." Brandon lifts her hand to his lips. "In all seriousness: keep to the main part of the house. You and Therese will be company for each other--and if you see anything out of the way, no matter how trifling, seek help at once. Mister de Valera--"

Dev, who has been deep in conversation with Therese, now turns away. "Yes, Colonel."

"--let us be about it. We should return this evening, if all goes well."

Brandon and Dev exit without a backward glance. Mary Anne crosses to The Doctor to cover the awkwardness of the moment, for Therese obviously needs a few minutes to steady herself. Ah, well, if Dev was speaking with her as Christopher just spoke to me, no wonder.

"Doctor, wake up!"

"I am not asleep." The Doctor's eyes gleam slyly beneath the brim of his hat. "I suppose I should go and check the Tardis equipment--"

"Just one thing, first."

The Doctor frowns. "What thing?"

Mary Anne lowers her voice. Therese, who seems rather preoccupied with her own thoughts, takes no notice, and Mary Anne continues. "Doctor, do you remember, back at Safehouse #3, when you adjusted my brainwave pattern?" At the Timelord's puzzled look, Mary Anne adds, "You know, you said that the transfer with HIM didn't quite take, and you had to adjust the resonance . . ."

"Oh, yes," The Doctor exclaims. "Now I remember. What of it?" A look of concern. "No symptoms, I hope? No residual linkages with HIM, or anything of that sort? No problems with that subconscious of yours?"

"Well, not that I'm aware of." Isn't that just the problem, though? I wouldn't be aware, would I? "What I'm thinking about is . . ." Mary Anne hesitates. "You said that HE might have some trouble from it as well." Her voice has dropped almost to a whisper; Therese does NOT need to know of this. It would scare the poor woman to death. "You said that HE might become unstable--"

"Mary Anne, The Interrogator has never been exactly what I would call stable--"

"Well, Doctor, some would say the same of you."

"Touche. And so?"

"I was just wondering if . . . if HE were going to have any trouble with it, has it been long enough for him to feel the effects, yet? You said that since HE had known me, just as I had known him, that . . . his conscience might begin to trouble him. Or that he would start to behave erratically, perhaps. I was only wondering if we could take advantage of that, somehow. If this applies to him at all. "

The Doctor's voice is unusually gentle. "I also said one or two other things, as you will recall. That it might have only affected you, because your brain structure is unusual. Can hardly help being that, with my DNA mixed in! And--" This next idea disturbs The Doctor more than he cares to admit. "--I also told you, remember, that if he feels any distubance of conscience, he may revolt against those feelings and end by being worse than ever. Mary Anne--" The Doctor shakes his head. "We have been companions for many years, now. As your friend--and I am your friend--"

Mary Anne pats his arm. "I'd be a fool if I didn't know it."

"Good, then as your friend I advise you not to pin your hopes on some such development as The Interrogator succumbing to an attack of ethics, or being struck down by his own conscience, as appealing as the idea might be. I am afraid you would be disappointed, at best. And possibly far worse than disappointed."

"Perhaps. But you taught me long ago, Doctor, that knowledge is power. That information is valuable . . ." Grimly. "And when it comes to HIM, I want all the power I can get."

"Quite so." The Doctor rises from the sofa. "Sad thing, about a fellow like that. He carries his punishment about within him--" A dry smile from the Timelord. "Though I doubt that his victims would agree with me."

"No. They would not."

"Well, I must be off. Perhaps I shall see you again, when the search parties return. Now . . ." The Doctor exits the study, murmuring something about whether the Tardis replicators can concoct puppy biscuits for Sir John's hounds.

Mary Anne and Therese are left in the study.

Suddenly noticing the silence, Therese emerges from her reverie to find Mary Anne standing before her and smiling.

The two women study each other for a moment, and Mary Anne finally ventures, "I know. I don't like it any better than you do."

Then, before Therese can answer, Mary Anne crosses to the bellpull. "I don't know about you, but I'm starved; tea didn't go very far. Will you have some lunch with me?"

Scene: Dawn, or just past dawn. The house of Hans Gruber.

Yes, he has many houses. Not many of them are--or at least have been--ever used to any great degree. Here and there. Now and then.

This one, he hopes, will become a home.

At this moment, however, Hans is dreaming. Or so he believes. Married to the woman who had evaded him for so long. And now--about to . . .

Hans dreams of their honeymoon. The Greek villa. The soft sand. Warm kisses.

Almost a year ago. Almost too much to hope for. Too much to bear. He turns over. He can almost feel her kisses . . . there . . . against the early morning whiskers of his cheek . . .

He does not want to end this dream. But, he reflects, for one divine thought--and that is that his life, now, does not merely match his dream--it transcends it. She is real, Renie is real: flesh and blood, and his.

And sitting, on the edge of the bed, next to him.

Nearer to him, now. A soft tickling in his ear, then, more insistent . . . rousing him from sleep and dreams . . . but perhaps he can hold out . . . but no . . . the tickling in his ear becoming almost unbearable--its combination working upon him, driving him to . . .

"Hans, how can you sleep when I'm wide awake?"

His eyes, still closed. "Because I'm dreaming," he rumbles.

She settles herself back a bit, to see him engagingly entangled in the white sheets. "Do you think it's too early to call the doctor?"

Hans opens a sleepy, honey-colored eye. "Antonia will call us, there's no need to worry, my love." The "just-about-to-become-a-pout" plays upon Renie's lips. "If you want some company, why don't you call Mary Anne in Delaford? The telephone set-up I've left there is at your disposal."

Renie sighs. ""She's made me her friend for whatever life remains to me (homage) but she's going to think me a silly fool, for wanting to chat with her already--with barely any time since we've left! Besides, it's really for emergencies. I know that."

A number of comments occur to Hans, even in his sleepy state--that together, they are the epitome of silliness, that Mary Anne is likely, for whatever reason, to be feeling the same urge to "chat" as Renie. And some thoughts not nearly so, generous--for he knows how the pair can, and have, gotten up to their necks in effortless trouble at the drop of the hat.

Or less.

But he contents himself with only a nod and a smile, as Renie continues.

"And besides--I've no news for her. Nothing to disturb that picture of happiness and serenity that has--no doubt--already settled over Delaford." Thoughts of Brandon and Mary Anne, surrounded by friends, in a laconic, peaceful world. "Wasn't it a beautiful wedding?"

"Sceond only to one in my memory," answers Hans, correctly.

"Nothing to mar it," she says, remembering her difficult decision to keep the Interrogator's visit a secret until after the wedding night. A secret, even from Hans.

Even now.

At the sound of Hans' telephone, Renie moves quickly--not a trace of a "woman in her condition."

R, dearest--re: Your remark about Mary Anne looking out for Therese. Don't you think she's learned anything since Hilltop? (Innocent look)

Dana watched PL's retreat, shaking her head with a slight smile. Yes, he's punishing himself more thoroughly than I could ever manage.

"Doctor, look, our Claudia has returned. The prodigal daughter."

Claudia sinks into the chair--the one she had sat in, before her trip to L.A.

The doctor carries with a tray. Still here?! The same carafe. Last night. Wait--was it only last night? With three glasses this time.

Not again.

Crossing her legs, she surrenders to whatever HE will reveal to her. Come what may.

"This may sound patronizing, but bear with me. I know you *will*."

The doctor sets down the tray.

"You know what you did, is that right?"

I should have known it would be like this. She nods.

"And you feel comfortable with it."

Claudia. A little more hesitant here. "Yes." Why DO I feel comfortable with it? Should I not?

"It's time for you to know why you did what you did . . . But first, would you like to tell me?"

Her eagerness to please HIM--the successful assistant-in-training--is obvious. But something is pulling at her--from the back of her throat. Or maybe it's lower. From her heart.

"I did it to right the wrong which was done to you, long ago. To restore what should have been yours."

"Matters of high conscience and justice, surely?"

She nods. What is missing from this equation? Something is wrong with this picture. WHAT IS IT?!!

HE seats himself, across from her. As if it were some sort of late night cocktail party, instead of a debriefing. "Clearing the conscience--making suggestions to you about how to look at the world--and the people in it."

The doctor picks up the carafe, and pours out one glass.

"You were relaxed. The mix of things, separated, clearly. Illuminated. You see, in a relaxed state, one can see the matters without the normal jumble that keeps us from acting promptly and decisively."

The doctor pours a second glass.

"Hamlet--and the generations who worship the ground he brooded on--were wrong in this. It is not thinking too precisely on the event which makes cowards of us all. It is the jumble inside of us. When we hear the question, with clarity, the jumble is removed."

It seems a jumble to Claudia.

"It's not so grand, really. It happens every day, with everyone. In the smallest things. Say you are in the middle of the block when you see your bus at the corner stop across the street. You want that bus. You know you should not run through the middle of the street; you should cross in the crosswalk. Even a child knows this. The middle is against the law. It's unsafe. But you are not a child. You can make decisions for yourself. How much do you want that bus? Which is more important to you--safety and the law? Or what you want?"

HE rises from his black chair. He will pour the third glass.

"You could accomplish so much if you make this bus--the transgression is a small one. The benefits are great."

HE lifts the carafe.

" . . . Now, of course, the humanitarian aspects are rather lacking in this example. They add a certain spice to it. One which is very tasty. The idea of doing what is called 'good.'"

HE pours.

"You knew of my loss. I suspect you have always believed that, perhaps, if I had not been so cruelly treated by life, I might have been . . . let us say, a somewhat different man. You love your friend, Renie, and--truly--have known how deep this loss was to her as well. These were simply put you. I asked you if you could correct the situation. You said you could--and would."

Nothing drips from the spout.

"And so, you switched the contents of the specimens for Renie's tests. You knew what you were doing. And you did it voluntarily."

Holding the glass, HE walks to Claudia, who sits very still. HE presses the glass into her hand.

"I believe this calls for a toast, don't you?"

*Sigh* Synchronicity. But no danger of a timestream split.

Simply read Mary Anne's post first, then Renie's, and disaster is averted once more.

Regards,

The Chief

The camera lingers on The Interrogator.

The Sheriff had, indeed, turned out to be quite useless. In what could pass as nostalgic reverie, HIS mind dwells briefly on the Mansion party: Hans Gruber, delivering Mary Anne into HIS hands for questioning--and what a strange and interesting session that had been; it had hardly been necessary to touch her, even . . . and George, waiting his turn at whatever was left.

The Interrogator's expression hardens into a sneer of disgust. With any luck, the Sheriff will still be snoring away--and at that thought, HIS sneer curls into a thin smile. George should really have known better than to accept a drink from that silver thermos. Ah, well, a Delaford search party may find him. And if they do, then off with his head. So much for Nottingham. (Backhanded homage)

Other thoughts. HIS fingers drum idly on his desk.

Mary Anne. The happy bride . . .

The fingers curl into a fist, and release. One day HE will understand HIS obsession with her--he cannot call it love. HIS affections do not that way tend. But there is something . . .

The Interrogator can feel his stomach tighten as he recalls the wedding. That terrible fear, there in the church, the sense of impending doom, the weight of a judgment the more terrible because it has been so long held in check . . .

Be all my sins remembered? Am I to be judged?

Renie . . .

With a stifled oath, HE rises and paces about the office. He will NOT . . . that way madness lies.

The Interrogator halts HIS restless walking and stands for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. There is the business at hand to attend to. With Claudia. One task at a time . . .

But Mary Anne, we shall meet again, and you know it--dread it though you may. HE neglects to admit that something in HIM dreads it as well . . .

Andrea, we have much to discuss. Strange how a kind of feeling comes over him at the thought of Andrea--not tenderness, precisely, but a curiosity far more benign than his usual sort. He feels calmed in her presence, for some reason, though HE will make it a point to learn from her how she knows so much of him. He has not forgotten how she touched his chest and her own simultaneously, aware of his healing wounds.

And there remains the matter of the woman on the horse.

HE smiles.

Yes, well, that shall be a personal indulgence, but everyone requires a bit of indulging, now and then. HE is no exception.

Close, tight shot of HIS eyes, dark with speculation and inexorable intent behind their steel- rimmed glasses, and the shot slowly dissolves . . .

. . . and re-forms in Brandon's study, to reveal the eyes of Eamon de Valera behind their spectacles. The camera lingers, and we see captured in those eyes the reflection of Therese, in the company of Colonel Brandon, as she moves toward Dev and Mary Anne.

Scene: The offices of the Interrogator.

Thoughts of the Sheriff aside, though, the prospect of Andrea is one area which is . . . more than interesting. But HE can do nothing for her, or with her, now. Andrea will only be useful if she recovers. And if she does not--then she is not as strong as HE has pegged her to be.

And HE is rarely wrong.

The young doctor knocks, and enters, wearing a long white lab coat. No visible signs of abuse, physical or . . . otherwise.

He moves to a table, and mixes something in a tall glass carafe. "Claudia is back."

"Join us when I buzz for you. Then you can return to your other work immediately."

"Yes, sir." The chain of command lesson, well learned.

Straightening his collar, the Interrogator exits to his inner private office, to find his assistant-in-training.

She is there.

Still in her the light blue blouse, the drawstring pants. The I.D. tag, of course, long removed.

"Did you bring back the rubber gloves?" HE asks, in a strange rather business-like way. HIS voice brings her pleasure, she cannot deny it. She draw them from the pocket of her slacks. Lays them on the main monitor table. She does not sit, as HE speaks.

"As far as we know, you were not detected in any way. You've been successful at this second task. Congratulations, Clauuuuuuudia. How do you feel?"

At this invitation to speak, she finds her tongue. "As if I've done everyone a favor. Especially you." She pauses, feeling her way like a blind man in a dark tunnel. The dark does not make it darker, only . . . colder. Scarier. "I can't understand why do I feel so good about it. I mean, what was so difficult about doing this for you?"

HE buzzes for the young doctor.

" . . . And . . . why did I need to drink whatever it was?" she continues. "Don't I deserve some answers, now?" she insists, finally sitting down--as if she knows that whatever she may hear might be better . . . sitting down.

"Well, I have a confession to make," HE begins.

As the young doctor enters, Claudia feels all pretense of defense slip away, as if she had had any left when she'd arrived.

Secure in the knowledge that Claudia is on her way "home," HE allows HIS thoughts to focus on that incompetent Sheriff of Nottingham.

It had been an easy matter to leave Nottingham behind at Delaford when HE returned to Headquarters. The Sheriff slept soundly and snored loudly while The Interrogator departed.

Yes. HE had joined forces with Nottingham for a short while, but The Sheriff had proved a poor partner in crime. His childish tantrums grew tiresome and eroded their combined effectiveness.

A much better match for HIM had been Hans Gruber, who delivered Mary Anne into HIS hands. A model of efficiency, intelligence, and grace under fire, Gruber had been a great asset to HIM, when they fought on the same side.

The final straw was Nottingham's boasting of how Andrea had "succumbed to his charms." The more details The Sheriff revealed, the more disgusted The Interrogator became. Too much like work. Battering, shackles, death threats? Who would not "succumb" to preserve her life?

Corrections: " . . . makes me a very fortunate man" and "grievous tactical error."

Hope we were speaking in very low voices, and that Therese and the Colonel didn't overhear any of this conversation! 8-)

Brandon's study--flashback to a few moments earlier:

Mary Anne gives a start of surprise as Dev settles himself into the chair beside her and asks to have a word with her, but she recovers quickly and forestalls Dev by lifting her hand. "Don't tell me, let me guess." She smiles. "You want Therese to stay here, out of harm's way. Am I right?"

Dev's answering smile is a little strained. "You are most perceptive." A glance over at the desk, where some earnest exchange is taking place between Therese and Brandon. "Though I believe the Colonel has that matter well in hand-- but if you could add your voice to his, I would appreciate it."

Mary Anne studies him for a moment. "I do not know Therese so well as I would like," she says quietly, "but she seems to be a woman of sense . . ." Mary Anne stops, caught by some flicker in Dev's expression, but he hastily pulls his face straight, and she continues. " . . . and I would think that what happened yesterday would be enough to frighten anyone. Do you not feel you can trust her to be properly cautious?"

Dev thinks for a moment. As a skilled politician, he knows loaded questions when he hears them, and though Mary Anne's expression is perfectly composed, he cannot escape the feeling that he is being needled. Properly cautious? Yes, an assault attempt followed by a sound thrashing would be enough to instill caution in most . . . well, Mary Anne, I shall question you later when you know Therese better, and hear your thoughts on the matter then.

"Therese is a woman of sense," comes Dev's measured reply. "She is also, however, a woman of considerable . . . energy, and loyalty, and courage . . ."

"Are these such bad qualities, then?"

"No." Immediately. "That a woman in possession of such qualities should bestow these--along with her love--upon me, make me a very fortunate man."

"Indeed." Eamon de Valera, you silver-tongued devil, you. But it isn't just blarney, is it? You mean every word. No wonder you're back in her good graces so quickly.

"However," Dev continues, "Therese has a quality that is, I think, very common among people of energy and courage. A quality that can get them into a great deal of trouble."

"And that quality is--?"

Dev's eyes are shadowed and full of pain. "The quality--the failing--of thinking that energy and courage are enough. That they can, of themselves, overcome all obstacles." Dev shakes his head. "And that is not the way the world works. Courageous men--" The steel- rimmed spectacles flash briefly at her. "--and women, are as mortal as those who are not so brave. And die the more easily, because they do not flee from trouble, but often go to meet it." Dev leans toward her, his expression taut and troubled. "You understand, I have no fault to find with Therese's good sense in general, but it will be very hard for her, to know we are carrying out an enterprise of some danger . . . while she must wait. Waiting is not something she does well." A thin smile. "Nor do you, I imagine."

Mary Anne's eyebrow lifts. "You are most perceptive." And they both smile, at the echo of Dev's own words. "I was beginning to wonder," Mary Anne laughs quietly, "if you were planning to hold me up to Therese as some model of wifely docility, an example for her to follow. That, my dear Mister de Valera, would have been a grievous tacitcal error."

"I would never do anything so stupid--"

Mary Anne grins. Dev swallows as he sees the trap close around him, and attempts to backtrack. "That is--I do not imply any fault with your behaviour as a wife--I simply meant--"

Finally, Mary Anne takes pity. "I know what you meant." Dev, if I can trip you up that easily . . . either this whole undertaking really has you on edge, or else Therese grilled you over a slow fire last night. Or both. Hmmmmmm . . . I wonder . . . But she keeps this speculations to herself. "I would simply prefer not to be presented to Therese as 'the perfect wife.' I am very far from that, and she would resent me for it if you did such a thing. I would much prefer to be her friend, if I can."

"Exactly what I meant." Dev takes a private breath of relief. "I had thought that, while we are out on the search, it would be good for her to speak with you--because you would understand how she feels." Dev's gaze sharpens, but his voice is low and gentle. "Because just as she would worry about me, you will be worried for the Colonel, will you not?"

He has her there. "Yes, I will." Quietly. "My husband is trained for war, a skilled fighter, and an intelligent man. But it will be very hard to remain here, knowing that--" A small shiver. "--The Interrogator could be out there, still, or The Sheriff. Or both. I will be very glad when everyone is safe here at Delaford again. Especially if you bring back Claudia." A gleam in Mary Anne's eye, and a mischievous grin. "Though I certainly wouldn't wish to be Claudia, once Ed wakes up. Don't you agree, Mister de Valera?"

After what he has been through, Dev is not about to venture anywhere near that topic. "Indeed," he answers, hastily and non-committally. "You will help, then, to occupy Therese until we return from the search this evening?"

"Occupy" her, yet. As if she were a child, and you have to keep her away from the cookie jar! Aloud, however, she replies, "Yes, of course. And be careful out there, will you? I take it you will ride with the search?"

"To be sure. I am not so skilled an equestrian as Therese, but I can manage a horse-- and your stables here are magnificent." At the sight of Mary Anne's grin, Dev remarks rather sharply, "Yes, Mrs. Brandon, I am quite sure you have a ready fund of witticisms concerning the circumstances of my last visit to your stables! But I would be obliged if you would spare me, this once."

Mary Anne does not trouble herself about Dev's abrupt tone; his irritation is a certain sign of his contrition over his behaviour to Therese. "Of course," is her mild reply. And then, "Here they come," as Colonel Brandon leaves the desk and moves toward them, accompanied by Therese.

After Andrea eats a hearty breakfast in bed and swallows another of Marian's pills, Mesmer encourages her to get out of bed and take a short walk with him. (Dot has long since retired after watching over her through the night.)

Andrea leans heavily on Mesmer's arm as they slowly walk laps up and down the hall outside her guestroom. "Do many of the wedding guests remain at Delaford?"

"I believe that only a few have left. The Grubers took their leave this morning. Did you know that Renie is with child?"

Andrea experiences her usual reaction of feeling happy for the good fortune of others while wondering at her inability to get on with her own life. "Hans will take good care of her ... and their baby."

Mesmer nods in agreement. "There are people who would take good care of you -- if you would let them."

"Do you mean Hamlet?"

"For one. Also, you have not placed much trust in me as of late. Tell me what happened between you and Hamlet the night of the wedding."

She doesn't see the need. "But, didn't Hamlet ... ?"

He interrupts. "Hamlet did. But, I want to hear your point of view. Together we will discover why you ran away."

Before Andrea can respond, Colonel Brandon enters the hall from the staircase and strides toward them. "Excuse me, Miss Andrea. Doctor Mesmer, if you can entrust the care of your patient to Dr. Dubois, I require your assistance on a matter of some urgency."

Later ...

Hamlet conducts his solitary search for The Sheriff, avoiding the AR teams (and able-bodied men) sent out for the same purpose. The prince is determined to confront Nottingham alone and to exact his own form of justice.

Hamlet knows that if Nottingham is recaptured by AR forces then Andrea will be called upon to testify at his trial -- will have to retell and relive the horror of what he did to her.

Scene: The car.

Claudia clicks on the radio--and nothing happens. With her foot still firmly on the gas pedal, she gives it a *whack* with her right hand.

Still nothing--but then, without any static at all, a VOICE, through the radio speaker, seems to step into the car.

"You've done well, Claudia, in the driver's seat." A pause. "Now come home."

HIS voice. At the chilling words, "Come home" Claudia blankly and abruptly forgets all about eating--all about most everything except that which she has been programmed to do.

Her thoughts, her own. Her actions, well . . . for that, we must not jump ahead . . .

"Home." The red lights of the control tower of the airport flash their beacon warnings in her eyes.

A few hours later, Claudia arrives . . . back at the offices of the Interrogator.

At Delaford, although she has been missed, she has not been found.

Brandon's Study--Delaford

Therese studied the map in front of her carefully, and looking at it intently, requested a pen. She quickly added the hedgerow and the low stone wall where she had jumped Menelaus. "Here," she pointed, indicating the spot east of the stone wall. "There was a large oak tree there," she stated, jotting that down as well, "and that was where. . ." she tried to repress an involuntary shudder, and felt Brandon's hands rest lightly upon her shoulders.

"I know it's difficult for you, take your time. You'll be safe here now."

Therese looked up at Brandon, and smiled softly. "I know. It was just rather frightening at the time. The large oak tree, this one I've drawn here," she pointed to the map, "was where the sherriff pulled me from the horse, and Mr. I was there as well. Other than Claudia, that would have been the last time any of us had seen them."

Colonel Brandon and Commander Hudson straightened, and the colonel sighed. "A trail probably long since cold, but it is a starting point." He turned to the taller woman beside him. "Commander, if you would collect your people, I shall see about the hounds from Sir John, and gather the able bodied men amonst us here at Delaford."

"Colonel, I could see to gathering the men at Delaford if you would like to give me a list of names; that would leave you free to travel to Barton Park." Therese spoke up, receiving a startled look from Hudson, who had effectively forgotten her presence in the intensity of her focus on the job at hand.

Brandon gave Therese a sharp look, his eyebrow raised. Put you to work? So I could have that fight with Eamon after all? He sighed. Therese would require a delicate touch, but she must be kept out of trouble. "Commander, if you would be so kind as to excuse myself and Miss Gellert? We would be loathe to keep you from your duties at any rate."

Therese studied the colonel's face as Commander Hudson stepped smartly from the table and went to see about her duties. "This is going to involve a lecture, isn't it, sir?" Therese asked him, before Brandon could get a word in edgewise.

Brandon gave her one of his famous--or was that infamous-- looks, and began to understand, though certainly not to justify, Dev's previous action. "No, Miss Therese, it is not going to involve a lecture. I do, however, have a request to make of you." He paused. "I am accustomed to command, and would very much like to make this an order, but you are not an enlisted man, and I am not your commanding officer, so I will please ask you to listen, and then ask you to grant me this one request. May I ask this of you?" He regarded her solemly with his large, expressive hazel eyes.

*That* is not fair, Christopher Brandon, Therese thought to herself, as she felt the potency of his gaze, and a delicate shiver traversed her spine. "You may ask, sir, though I cannot answer until I hear the question."

"I need you to remain here, within the main house of Delaford, while we search for Miss Claudia. We are dealing with a dangerous man, and though I respect your desire to help, the main concern is that you stay here with the other women of the household. Can you do this for me?" Brandon paused, and pulled his trump card. "May I have your word that you will remain here?"

Therese literally squirmed. She knew, and Brandon knew, that she would not break her word, and indeed would half kill herself in order to avoid doing so, just as they both understood how difficult it would be for her to remain behind, especially without Dev.

"It would be a great comfort to my wife if you were to remain with her during this time. In this manner you could be of great help."

Therese sighed. Never try to beat a miliary man at a game of diversionary tactics. . . "I will remain in your home, and stay with your wife, Colonel, you have my word." Therese gave him a bittersweet grin. "And might I add that Eamon would be wise to utilize your silver tongue in the role of ambassador some day?"

"Thank you, Miss Therese, for your cooperation." Colonel Brandon inclined his head, gracefully accepting her backhanded compliment. He could stand a bit of a tweaking if it meant that he had one less woman to worry about getting herself into trouble. Taking Therese gently by the arm, he led her toward Mary Anne, who he could see was discussing something with Mr. de Valera. . .

Flashback ..

**BOSTON, USA**

After breaking the ice, Kari and David talked briefly for a few minutes before he announced the reason for his call. Would she like to have a drink tomorrow night? With him? In town?

Kari, having no quick and ready-made excuse, agreed. After all, he had been very kind to her in New Orleans. Perhaps he wanted to discuss her repayment of him for all of his trouble in getting her clothed and getting her home. She nodded and asked the address of the place he had suggested. Writing it down on the small pad by the phone, she thanked him and, after expressing enthusiasm at the thought of seeing him again, hung up.

" . . . decisively flattening it with his hand .