Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Therese felt strong hands guide her gently to the stool Mr. I had pulled out from beneath the small counter in Therese's trailer, and she handed HIM the hairbrush over her shoulder. HIS fingers deftly undid her customary ponytail, and long, sure brushstrokes gently straightened the long blonde locks. Therese found HIS attentions almost hypnotic.

"Now, just what are you so nervous about regarding our scenes? The violence, the nudity, the overall intensity?" HIS voice was deep and quiet in her ear, and Therese straigtened quickly, almost slipping off of her perch.

ACK!! What about 'D--all of the above?? She admonished herself, she hadn't even realized how relaxed she'd become under his ministrations, and his question startled her. She couldn't even begin to find the words to answer his query.

HIS hands left her head for a brief moment, steadying Therese on the stool, before returnig to their work. "I'll tell you one final time, relax. Or else." HIS hands began to work at their task, quickly and neatly plaiting her hair into a long, tapered braid. "Hairband," he requested, and Therese handed it to him silently.

Mr. I stepped around to face Therese, placing HIS hand under her chin and raising her head to inspect HIS work. HE nodded his approval. "Fine, are you ready then?"

"Or else what?"

Mr. I tipped his head sideways, contmeplating the young actress.

"You said 'Relax, or else,' and I want to know or else what?"

Mr. I smiled. Should he get into character, and give his co-star a taste of what she'd have to learn to deal with? Or should he proceed on his plan to allow her to know him as a person before the intensity of their coming scenes together? Hmmm. . .an interesting queation, that.

"Christopher, I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Mary Anne presses closer against Brandon. The sweet relief of it, to end this silly quarrel and to be sure that the man who holds her so closely will not fling her apology back at her, or taunt her with it, or bring up this incident in other disagreements yet to come, though she hates to think that there will be any others. Mary Anne reflects thankfully that he is not a man to hold a grudge--not against her, at any rate--and that however serious his response to this might be, there will be no recriminations afterwards. Once it is over, it is over . . .

Her thoughts are interrupted by Brandon, murmuring, "And I was wrong as well. I should never have even thought that, far less spoken it--"

"What, sir?"

Now it is the Colonel's turn to look ashamed of himself. "What I had said about . . . enjoying power. That it was not like you, but . . ." Brandon falters. " . . . more like . . ."

"The Interrogator?" finishes Mary Anne, quietly.

"Yes. That was abominable. I had no right at all--"

Mary Anne is beginning to recover her spirits a little. "Well, don't make a habit of it." A tiny smile, which Brandon hesitantly returns. "But it's hardly surprising that you would be thinking of HIM, not after the day you've had. You've been through enough to try the patience of a saint--"

Which I most certainly am NOT, muses the Colonel, and remains lost in thought until he realizes Mary Anne is grinning at him.

"--never forget the sight of you and Dev, coming around the corner of the Wood, galloping for all you were worth . . ."

Brandon cups Mary Anne's face is one hand, drawing a finger along her cheek. "I was afraid," he says. "When I believed HE might still be about, I couldn't bear to think of it: that I had left you here for safety . . ."

He receives a caress in return. "Yes, I know."

Brandon smiles gently. "And how did Miss Therese bear up with being confined to the house?"

Mary Anne shakes her head, laughing a little. "I thought she was going to tear the place apart."

Thinking back on her conversation with Therese, Mary Anne turns herself a little in Brandon's arms and gazes at the fire; so much the better if he cannot see her expression and inquire as to how she and Therese had occupied themselves. That conversation about The Interrogator, for instance. Or Valmont. Or . . .

Mary Anne leans forward a little and holds out her hands as if warming them at the blaze. When Therese had explained--more or less--how she had shown Dev the error of his ways, not to mention her suggestion about something to try with Brandon . . . I can always say it's the fire that's turned my face so red . . .

"Mary Anne."

"Yes, sir?"

"About what has just happened . . ."

"Yes?" Here it comes. Mary Anne closes her eyes.

That VOICE, at her ear. So gentle. "I am sorry to have hurt you."

I've stopped crying; please don't make me start again. "I'm sorry to have been so hateful to you, Christopher--and you're taking more than your share of the blame for this."

"One thing." A hesitant inquiry, the message clear: that she need not allow him to pursue this, if she does not wish.

Mary Anne opens her eyes.

"Ask."

Secret -- sorry, nothing very exciting about a bubble! MA is correct, it's a common name for a hair band or ponytail holder in the UK. I'll try to throw in something a bit more tantalizing soon. . .

For several moments after Brandon wraps the robe about Mary Anne, not one word is exchanged. The fire crackles. The very last glimmer of the late afternoon fades from the sky and the room grows dim; Brandon moves quietly about the chamber, seeing to the lamps, as Mary Anne sits, tight-lipped, staring at the fireplace. She watches a glowing log, etched with the red inroads of the fire . . . crumbling at the edges. Burning.

Soon, the log will fall apart. Into small pieces. And burn to ash.

If she speaks, she will weep.

Weep, then. Does it matter so much? He will understand.

There is some time, yet, for them to rest before dinner. To talk with each other about everything and nothing, before they must dress and go downstairs.

Some time.

But if I start crying now--well, it's so hard for me to stop, and my eyes will be all red . . .

Brandon is standing behind her. She does not need to see his face. She knows the expression she would see if she turned to look at him: tender and patient . . . but determined, as well. Mary Anne quivers slightly, both at the thought of that look and at the effort to control herself. Brandon will not leave matters as they are; if she does not speak, then he will. A memory of Hilltop flashes past, there and gone--the poignant sting of it, still potent after all these months. But she is deserving of rebuke, is she not?

And shame on you, Mary Anne, for worrying about your red eyes. Which is more important: your looks, or your love? Say something. Don't leave it too long. And don't leave all the hard part for him--do your share.

She can hear him. As clearly as if he were speaking again, when he had wrapped her in warmth and escorted her from the bath.

You need not speak to me, if you do not wish . . .

Brandon is moving. Shifting some of the cushions about, as he seats himself on the floor behind her, setting his back against a low blanket-chest that stands at the foot of the bed . . . then drawing her into his arms, pulling her back to lean against him.

Come in here where it is warm . . .

She does not resist.

Pride will be the death of you, Mary Anne! Say it.

But Brandon is there first. "My dearest, please, try not to be so angry with me."

Startled, Mary Anne turns to look up into his face. "Me, angry with you--?" she says. Or tries to say, but her words release the pent-up weeping, and there is nothing she can do except bury her face against Brandon's shoulder, and as he leans down to turn her face up to his and press a kiss against her wet eyes, she finally manages to speak. Clearly.

"Christopher, I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Where is Mister I taking you to dinner, Therese? I understand there's a great little restaurant near the Tower of London . . . *grin*

And Leigh, you naughty lady, you! Hans, sans towel . . . swwwooooon, THUD. These hot baths and saunas--fanning madly. A definite "steam theme" these days!

"Do nothing publicly. Smoke him -- or them -- out and resolve the matter privately. But before the stock offering next month, by all means. Assure the public that the Hansbank is stable, or the price of the new shares we're about to offer will plummet. If that happens, we won't raise enough money for the Asian expansion you've planned." Colin was aware that he wasn't telling Hans anything new.

"Why would a Hansbank insider do something like this?" Was Hans asking a rhetorical question, Colin wondered. The answer was painfully obvious: to make tens of millions of dollars by selling Hansbank stock short. The real question was more subtle, and more personal: why would a Hansbank insider betray the company? Left unsaid between them was that Hans himself had been suspected of manipulating Hansbank stock, of throwing in with Lukas Hart and the Investors over a year ago. It wasn't true; Hans had only pretended to go along with the scheme in order to expose it at the last minute. But even the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission had suspected Hans, until he explained his reasons in detail. Hans did not seem to expect Colin to answer, but rather sat silently looking out the window.

"How would you go about smoking them out?" Hans asked. Colin pondered for a moment, then answered, "A specialist in market manipulation, stock fraud, may be able to identify the people behind the trades. Maybe our own securities lawyers."

Hans waved away Colin's suggestion. "No. This inquiry must not go through regular channels. If the problem is here inside the Hansbank, we must go outside. Find someone else."

"I'll find the best," Colin said, "but I'm leery of giving this information to an outsider." Hans was right to be concerned about leaks, but the risk of going outside his trusted circle of advisors was equally staggering.

"Then don't." Hans pronounced these two words carefully, letting them hang in the air. Then Colin caught his meaning and nodded. As with any delicate matter, there are many different ways of asking the same question, and retrieving the same information. "I understand," Colin replied, equally carefully.

Hans was silent a long time. "Very well. I'll take the report when we go back downstairs." Colin was glad now that he had taken the extreme risk of breaking Hansbank protocol to make a copy for himself. Hans rose to leave the sauna, and Colin followed. As Colin adjusted his towel for the walk to the locker room, he noticed Hans had left his towel on the wooden bench where he had been sitting. Shrugging, Colin did the same.

Therese collapsed against the wall of the closet, her hand slipping off of the knob after having pulled the door shut behind her. The heat radiating from her face had probably driven up the temperature in the small area a good twenty degrees.

"I take it then, that you didn't receive my note?" she heard Mr. I's deep voice carry through the thin, wooden door that stood between them.

"Note?"

"Well, it's of no mind, I said I'd be over to your trailer by sixish--but I gather you've figured that out by this time." He paused briefly. "Look, I'm rather unaccustomed to conferring with a door. . ."

"Umm, I'm not exactly what you could call decent at the moment," she returned.

"You're wearing far more now than you will be in our second scene together--" Mr. I was interrupted by a CRASH! which eminated from within Therese's closet. He strode purposely to the door, and pulled it open, to see Therese in a heap on the floor.

"Anything I can help with?" he requested dryly, stepping to her side and extending a hand.

"You could refrain from mentioning that nude scene again lest my knees give out a second time." She accepted the offered hand as he easily lifted her to her feet.

"In all likelihood, you're currently wearing just as much now as you would be if we were going to a beach rather than to dinner, you needn't be embarassed. Modesty is a rather unusual trait for an actress, you must admit."

Therese grabbed the first article of clothing within reach once she had regained her feet, and ended up with the little black dress that had been her costume for the Delaford wedding scene. Perfect she thought to herself with a sigh of relief as she slipped it over her head and wiggled it down her hips.

"I grew up in a rural area of the Midwest, sir, and am simply a product of my environment, modesty included. I will do the scenes, will have faith in you, my acting partner, and will be just a bit mortified about the whole thing. However, my personal feelings won't be an issue, and certainly won't effect my work.

Mr. I raised his hand as if to fend off her defense. "I'm your co-star, you're not auditioning for me or applying for a job. Relaxxxxx. (homage) We're here to unwind,discuss techniques, and drink some good wine before I take you out to one of the best dinners London has to offer. That doesn't sound so bad now, does it?" Therese raised an eyebrow at the man before her. "That doesn't sound bad at all," she agreed, flashing him a quick smile. "Just let me do something with my hair--"

It was HIS turn to smile. "Get your hairbrush, a bubble, and your script, then leave the rest to me."

Assorted shrieks and a brief sputter of, "Christopher, are you crazy--!"

And then silence for a few moments, as Mary Anne subsides, fuming, against her side of the tub--staring about the room, at the doorway to her bedchamber, at the neatly stacked towels on a low table near the head of the bath . . . but most emphatically not at Brandon.

Brandon, however, does look at Mary Anne; he cannot help himself. He had not realized that the warm water would render Mary Anne's white dressing gown virtually transparent, or that the soft, fine cotton would cling so provocatively to every curve. Brandon suffers a brief and most uncomfortable memory of Mary Anne, clothed in the black of her evil self--that dark material that had fit her like her own skin. Covering her completely, yes, but to him the effect had been more naked than nakedness itself. And so with this, only worse, for she is now far less covered in body, but her soul is as remote from him . . .

Stop. Brandon, stop immediately. Do not make more of this than it is. The first quarrel of your marriage. Do you know so little of Mary Anne, then? She wishes to make amends, every bit as much as you do, but she is not certain of what to do next. She has not been married before; you have.

Help your wife.

It is a moment or two, however, before Brandon makes any move; he does have a temper, and the day's fatigues and anxieties have taken their toll. But at last he reaches for the stacked towels . . .

Mary Anne listens--she does not look. There is the small sllshhh of water as Brandon steps from the tub. She can hear the padding about of wet feet on the floor . . .

Then Brandon is beside her, taking her hands and helping her from the tub, peeling away the clinging wet dressing gown and wrapping her in thick toweling, helping her tuck the lengths of it about her . . .

She stands, watching the water pool about her feet on the floor, and begins to shiver. How did it happen? So quickly . . . one minute we were just teasing each other . . .

Her teeth are chattering.

No. Honesty, please, Mrs. Brandon; you were teasing him. And you could have stopped when he asked you to, but no, you had to go and behave like--

An arm about her shoulders. "Come in here with me, Mary Anne." A pause. "You . . . need not speak to me, if you do not wish, but come in here where it is warm."

She does not resist, but allows Brandon to lead her from the anteroom . . .

Look at all of that water we spilled.

. . . through her own room, and into his bedchamber, over to the glowing fire.

Quickly, Brandon takes cushions and pillows from the bed and spreads them before the fire, then helps Mary Anne to seat herself on the floor among the cushions before he steps into his dressing room--and soon reappears, wrapped in a dressing gown that Mary Anne does not recognize: an older one of dark blue, somewhat worn and not half so elegant as his favourite of deep amber, which he is carrying across one arm.

And which he is even now--after relieving her of her towels--wrapping about her, tucking the collar closely around her throat, rolling up the too-long sleeves.

Until, finally, Brandon murmurs, "There. Is this better?"

Mary Anne stares at the flames, hoping that the hisses and crackles will mask the tiny snap of her heart, when it breaks.

Re: "Manor House episodes." There are a couple of them that figure into this last post with Brandon and Mary Anne. The first is when she discovered that Brandon has that, um, sensitivity to being touched like that on the back of his neck. *wicked chuckles* That occurs in early September, 97.

The second is when MA awakens Brandon from a nightmare, and they have that discussion about their somewhat darker sides. That sequence is in the 16th Nov.-4th Dec. 97 posts. Early December, I think.

Hope this helps, and that you enjoy yourself . . . ;-D

There is a light slap of water against the side of the tub as Brandon twists about to glower at Mary Anne with feigned ferocity--or perhaps it is not all feigned. It is no secret to her that a light touch on that particular spot . . .

Mary Anne reaches around and teases the back of his neck again.

"Mary Anne." The warning tone is plain.

"Yes, sir?" So is the unrepentant tone. And grin.

Brandon settles against the side of the tub, trying to keep out of her reach and feeling a little ridiculous in the attempt. "My dearest--" Through his teeth. "--I must say you have me at a disadvantage, here."

"Mmmmm. Rather like the way you had me at a disadvantage last night. No?"

"No." Biting down on the word. "If you will recall, I promised you that I would cease, if you found it unpleasant . . . "

Mary Anne wiggles her fingers at him playfully, but does not touch him. "So, you find this unpleasant?"

"I--" Brandon stops. What is his objection, precisely? At this particular moment? Not Mary Anne's touch, certainly--quite pleasant, though it does provoke a most acute response.

Provoke?

A counterattack. "Is it so pleasant to you, then, to know--"

"To know what, Christopher?"

Brandon, borne along on the strains and fatigues of the day, on his own discomfort in this game. Why he should feel any embarrassment in this situation is a mystery to him, seeing as he feels not the slightest constraint when he and Mary Anne lie in each other's arms--only wonder and gratitude that she is there for him, with the gifts of her heart and mind and body, freely offered.

That one saving thought flashes by and is gone, as Brandon pushes recklessly onward. "--to know that you have such power over me? Not merely with these--" Another surge of water, as the Colonel leans forward and catches Mary Anne's hands in his, clutching them for an instant and then releasing them. "-- not merely with your touch . . . a word from you, or a look . . . for months! And even now, I feel as if I can never have enough of you!" Brandon's voice has risen, and he knows it, and does not care. "Does that please you, Mrs. Brandon? Do you enjoy this power?"

Mary Anne's voice, as soft and cool as new snow. "And if I do?"

Her husband stares at her. Brandon, for the love of God, how has this happened? Apologize at once! Stop this, before-- But what comes out is, "That is not like you, Mary Anne; that is more like--"

Appalled, Brandon manages to close his mouth just in time.

Or is it in time at all? For time seems to have stopped. The room is silent. Mary Anne sits as if carved of marble, her white, white fingers on the rim of the tub where they had come to rest when Brandon released her hands. The rapid, irregular pulse beating in her throat, just visible there above the frill of her dressing gown.

Say something, Brandon. Something. Anything.

But it is Mary Anne who speaks. "You say that it is not like me, sir."

In spite of the warm water, Brandon chills at the tone of that "sir."

The soft voice continues. "But it is. In a way." Her eyes--that burning blue of unshed tears. "You can't tell me you don't know it, not after that night at the Manor House. We talked about it. About how--" Mary Anne gulps a breath to steady herself. "--how I do seem to enjoy driving you half-mad sometimes, even though--" Another breath, though it does not help; her voice less steady now. "--I never want to hurt you. Ever! But to have a man like you love me: it's beyond my dreams. Maybe--"

A long choked moment. The tears begin to slip free.

"--maybe when I tease you like that, I'm . . . holding on to a little bit of myself. I think it would be easy to lose myself, in you--"

"Lose yourself?" It comes out a little more harshly than he had intended, and Brandon softens his voice. "How do you mean?"

Mary Anne wipes her eyes on her sleeve and glares at him. "I mean that I love you so much it would be easy to turn into a doting, adoring little wife--and bore you to death! I see the way your eyes follow me sometimes, wondering what I might do, or say . . . and I want to keep on getting that look from you!" Mary Anne rises from the stool, fuming. "I want to keep getting that look for the rest of our lives! Is that so hard to understand?"

And Mary Anne--creature of impulse that she sometimes is--and quite carried away by her aggravation, obeys the impulse that howls within her to do something or run screaming mad.

Catching up one of the pails of warm water on the floor, she empties it over Colonel Brandon's head.

Another long silence. Brandon sits in the tub. Dripping. His arms folded across his chest, gazing at her with the most inscrutable expression she has ever yet beheld upon his countenance.

Dear God, Mary Anne, you have done it this time, and no mistake. Tell him you're sorry. Tell him . . . something.

Mary Anne becomes aware that she is still clutching the pail. She sets it down, and clears her throat. "Christopher . . ."

Brandon's expression--or lack of it--does not alter. "No, what you have been saying is not at all difficult to understand." A pause. "And, my dearest, I would not wish for you to become bored with me, either." Brandon sits up straighter. Leans toward her. "And so--"

By the time Mary Anne catches some flicker of Brandon's intention, it is too late.

The Colonel's hands close around her wrists, and--

SPLASH!

Sloshes and gurglings of water, mingled with shrieks, as Colonel Christopher Brandon drags Mary Anne into the bath with him, dressing gown and all.

The prince stares at the floor but sees something else. "I should have. Even after Dot trained her pistol on me, I could have ... "

Mesmer interrupts him. "Should have -- could have -- But, you didn't. Get over it. We need to refocus our energy on supporting Andrea."

Hamlet raises his eyes from the floor to glare at Mesmer. Then, his expression becomes less severe. Although Hamlet does not appreciate being spoken to in this manner, he realizes that Mesmer has a point. Hamlet intended to help Andrea by killing The Sheriff. Having failed in that, he must find another means. "It is difficult to support someone who does not want you near. You've seen how Andrea pushes me away."

Mesmer wishes to clarify the issue. "Not lately. I believe she may finally be ready to accept our help. Just now she reached out to us both."

"Physically." Hamlet recalls Andrea's plea (was it two evenings ago?) that he spend the night with her and her admission that she did not love him.

Mesmer seizes the opportunity to educate Hamlet. "Your memories of past encounters have blinded you to what is happening now. Andrea is changed. She nearly died -- believed that she wanted to die. Now she knows the truth -- believes that her life is worth living -- hopes for future happiness. Her perspective is very different from what it was as recently as yesterday. You must look at her with fresh eyes."

Hamlet considers this and experiences a sudden desire to run back to Andrea's guestroom. Could Mesmer be right? The prince must see for himself.

Mesmer grabs Hamlet's arm to stay him. "Not so fast. You will see her at dinner. Take some time to consider how best to proceed. Andrea has made herself vulnerable. She is open and unguarded. If you frighten or hurt her now, she may bury her heart deeper than before."

Mary Anne can see that Brandon, while enjoying her attentions, still has some reservations about this whole proceeding; relaxing into the playfulness of it clearly requires a conscious effort from him. Mary Anne knows her husband well--almost as well as he knows her--and is aware that his habitually grave demeanour conceals a capacity for feeling, for passion, and yes, for mischief and good humour, that would go completely undetected by the casual observer.

Brandon's view of life is essentially serious. So is Mary Anne's, at the core of her heart, yet to her, laughter can be another expression of love. Nothing malicious, nothing hurtful--but occasional deft provocation, private jokes and teasings and catchwords are, to her, near to the very centre of affection as it is known on earth.

Not that she articulates any of this to herself--not in so many words. Not on this occasion. The knowledge simply lies quietly within her. And Brandon is so . . . responsible . . .

Brandon shifts his position. "Mary Anne, soon I shall have no skin left on my back at all . . ."

Mary Anne tries for lightness. "I'm not rubbing that hard."

Brandon, meanwhile, is preoccupied with his own thoughts: wondering whether Mary Anne feels obliged to think up such games as this because she thinks it will please him. Or impress him. He is deeply grateful for the physical harmony between them, knowing as he does that it is most unusual in a marriage only a few days old. But from the first, she had held nothing back from him, giving herself to him unreservedly and unashamedly . . .

Astonishing, muses the Colonel. And smiles a little, for he is also acquainted with Mary Anne's vanity, her desire, perhaps, to seem to him more sophisticated than she truly is in such matters. Playing the femme fatale for his benefit. Astonishing, how people speak as if someone--especially a woman--leaves "innocence" behind, so quickly as that. One time. Instead, it seems to him as if the lack of experience is shed gradually, almost undetectably, as one's skin renews itself cell by cell.

There is still much for his wife to discover. Watching the process . . .

Brandon is now smiling more than a little.

. . . indeed, assisting in the process, will be most interesting.

The smile fades as Brandon, with a slight darkening of his spirit, reflects that he does not know where such a process might lead. People love and marry, trusting that the one they marry will continue to be someone they can love. The changes have already begun with her--no. You must go further back, Brandon. You had loved her for so long before you married her; already she had changed. The woman you married is not the one you first loved. Think of all that has happened . . .

Brandon lifts his head. Though the smile does not reappear, there is soft, hopeful shine in his eyes. It bodes well for the future, that they have loved each through so much . . .

Abruptly, Brandon sits up straight in the tub--Mary Anne is lightly scratching the back of his neck, that spot . . .

"Are you sure?" Hans asked, after giving him three uninterrupted minutes to explain his report. Colin shrugged. It was not a question Hans asked often. He expected you to be sure, or to avoid wasting his time.

"The numbers speak for themselves. Someone is dumping Hansbank stock, but not just any someone. From the number of shares being traded, it's a very large shareholder, or a group of large shareholders working together. The data support no conclusions, but Hansbank insiders are the only individuals who have that many shares." Colin looked Hans in the eyes as he spoke. It may be suicidal to imply Hans Gruber is manipulating the stock of his bank, Colin thought. But if Hans was not behind the manipulation, he needed to know about it. The Hansbank was set to commence a secondary offering of stock next month. The offering would be a failure, even in the midst of the biggest bull market in history, if investors had reservations about the stability of the Hansbank. The proceeds of the offering -- the money the bank would receive from the sale of the newly offered shares, expected to be in the hundreds of milions of dollars -- were already committed to a make-or-break expansion of the Hansbank's Asian operations. Colin knew he had had no choice but to bypass Bruno Stern and bring this information directly to Hans in secret.

Colonel Brandon, submerged in steaming water almost to his his chest, leans back and reflects on what an excellent idea this tub had been. A gift for Mary Anne, yes, because he had remembered the way she enjoyed the enormous clawfoot at the Manor House--but his gift to her is turning out to be a source of pleasure to him as well. Cast your bread upon the waters . . .

"Feels lovely, doesn't it, Christopher?"

"Very nice, indeed," replies Brandon, who is then startled into an "ahhh" of pleasure as Mary Anne dips a washcloth into one of the pails of water and kneads Brandon's back gently through the warmed cloth, wiping away the last remnants of the morning's ride, the scents of anxiety and dread compounded with those of leather and horses and dogs . . . there . . . ah, there . . . Mary Anne's fingers . . . she has laid the cloth to one side, as her hand trails across one of his water-slicked shoulders . . . again, simply to watch the sheen of the water part, as her finger tracks through it, then smooth out again . . .

Brandon's hands tighten on the rim of the tub. Warm water is supposed to be relaxing, but he has seldom felt less relaxed in his life, with Mary Anne there behind him, fresh from her own bath a short time ago--her perfume, her warm skin . . .

And now her amused voice. "Dinner will not be served for hours; we have--" A positively wicked chuckle. "--plenty of time. Now . . . at ease, sir."

As he had on their wedding night when Mary Anne had pleaded, "Let me love you," Brandon manages to give in with good grace. Not that it is so difficult, under the circumstances. Not unpleasant for him at all.

Brandon turns a little in the tub to look at Mary Anne and sketch a quick salute that makes her burst into giggles before he leans against the back of the tub once more, closing his eyes and giving himself up to the luxury of her attentions . . .

As he sat up he disturbed the two warm little bodies snuggled up against him. They blinked in at him. “What time is it?” asked Luke. “I’m hungry,” said Joseph.

“Then it must be dinner time,” said Ed. “Just let me get washed and dressed and we’ll go downstairs and see what we can find.”

He got up turning on lights, as he made is way to the dressing table on which stood a large bowl and a jug of water. He tipped the water over his head and scrubbed at his face, then looked up into the mirror. When he saw his reflection, his damp tousled hair and his wild eyes he remembered. He felt his heart twisting inside of him and a growing anger.

Colin's face was calm as he walked into the room Hans had designated for their meeting. He passed Bruno Stern and took a seat to Hans' right. Stern, who had joined the Hansbank when it was formed, had known Hans Gruber even longer than Colin. In fact, their association dated back to days, and activities, Hans no longer cared to discuss. Stern knew the secrets of the Hansbank and guarded the inner circle of the bank well. So well that Colin thought of Stern less as a rival than as a jealous Cerberus guarding Hans' door. Stern knew Hans had called for Colin. He couldn't, didn't dare, stop him from entering the room. But the withering look Stern flashed at him as he passed would have made a lesser man hesitate.

"Stern, don't you have a phone call to return?" asked Hans, looking meaningfully at the balding German banker. Stern's eyes narrowed as he understood he was being dismissed in favor of the journalist, as he typically thought of Colin. Stern, who had put on a few pounds since his days as a gentleman thief, hefted himself toward the door with all the dignity he could muster, sweat plastering his sparse graying hair to his shiny scalp. Dignity was difficult when the towels were sized for men of lesser girth, Stern decided, as he adjusted his towel to cover his rosy backside. He opened the door of the sauna and stepped out, a wave of dry heat billowing into the locker room of the private Hansbank gymnasium at the top of the Nakatomi Plaza. Hans enjoyed the sauna, not just to relax, but to conduct meetings far from prying eyes. The sauna was as secure as any of Hans' offices around the world, and swept just as often for electronic surveillance.

Of course, there was that time. . . Stern nearly chuckled as he recalled the day he and Hans found a stranger in the sauna. A tall, elderly man who maintained a vanity office near the top of the building, used mainly to dictate his memoirs (on the days he could remember things) had wandered into the Hansbank gym and charmed his way past the guards. The old man was harmless, if not a little disoriented. Hans had enjoyed a bemused half hour with the former President, then had Mr. Reagan gently escorted back to his offices several floors below. Stern smiled at the memory of the tall American who, apparently, had also forgotten what towels were for.

Colin waited for Hans to speak first, beads of sweat forming on his brow, and not just from the heat. But Hans showed no sign of wanting to talk. He leaned back against the wall of the sauna, eyes half closed, damp hair swept off his face, one leg on the step below, the other languidly stretched out in front of him under the short white towel -- a reclining tiger. "How is Renie?" Colin asked, to fill the silence. Hans' eyes, suddenly alert, focused on Colin. "Well. She's on her way home. She said lap swimming for two was exhausting."

Several minutes went by as Colin waited for Hans to tell him why he had called.

In the days after Barnacle Bill's burial at sea, Hart was remote and distracted. He never spoke of Barnacle again, at least not to Grace. The night that Bill died, they had returned to Hart's house just before dawn, physically exhausted, emotionally spent. As though he feared losing Grace, too, Hart insisted that she stay with him. He was unusually protective of her, reluctant to be too far away from her. He no longer suggested she move in with him, but as if by tacit agreement, she rarely went to her own home any more.

At the same time, however, Hart began to disappear for two or three days at a time. He never mentioned where he had gone, nor did she ask. Shortly after the accident, she had gone back to work. Hart thought it was too soon, but knew better than to argue with her. He simply converted a downstairs room into an office for her, hoping she would spend more time at his home. She loved the cozy office with the fireplace and worked there late at night when Hart was gone or had disappeared into his own study, a room he had politely, but firmly, told her was off limits. She was busy and content, and did not question his behavior. She knew Hart was unpredictable.

Therese stood in front of the hanging rack of clothes lining one wall of her trailer in abject dismay. Breeches, jeans, and athletic clothes she had in multitudes; hiking boots, riding boots and running shoes were present in abundance. Of casual chic, there was a definite lack. Zilch, zero, nada. She wanted to look classy, sophisticated, and elegant. Heck, at this point, she'd settle for not being mistaken for one of the set janitors.

The large closet behind the assortment of hanging clothes was her only hope. Who knew what could be found in there? The way costuming was always dropping by, it was certainly possible she'd find something appropriate. . .Therese sighed, suuuure, right.

Stripping out of her sweatshirt and jeans in order to be ready to try on whatever brilliant outfit she came upon, Therese entered the closet, and pulled the string to turn on the light. A full length, puce coloured formal hung in the very front of the doorway. What reject pile had THAT come from? she wondered, pushing it aside. A flowing velvet gown was behind. Too formal. A smart wool skirt and blazer. Too business like. Gold lame'. Too flashy. Harem pants. Too suggestive. Capris. Too Laura Petrie. Therese put her hands on her hips and sighed. This was going well. At this rate she'd be eating dinner in her knickers.

A knock on the door interrupted her pursuit.

"Come in!" she barked, more harshly than intended as frustration at her predicament got the better of her. Maybe it was Mary Anne, Eustacia, or Claudia--they dropped by all the time, and she certainly could use some help at the moment.

The door opened slowly, as Therese stepped part way out of the closet to greet whichever one of her girlfriends had dropped by. And was utterly mortified to look up and find Mr. I entering her trailer, an amused look upon his face, and a bottle of wine in hand.

Seizing upon the sole remaining course of action left to her, Therese dove back into the closet, and slammed the door.

Therese was restless, and flipped over the pages of her script restlessly. The problem wasn't her upcoming scene with Dev, no, she had that one down pat--and was even anticipating the next fight scene they were going to enact. . .Watching her Irishman yell was a treat in itself. No, what caused her to take innumerable sips of her Evian bottled water, hop from her perch on the edge of the futon, to the recliner, and the edge of her tack trunk (properties be damned--she was doing her riding scenes in HER saddle, thank you very much) and back again were the rough scenes that the director had sent her way several days ago. The actual lines hadn't even been written yet. . .but what was there was more than enough to alarm an actress of skill and experience--let alone a woman on her first set who still occassionally looked over her shoulder as if expecting someone to finally realize that she didn't belong and cart her away.

Therese straightened, and gave herself a mental pep talk. You can do this, it's no different than your chagrin at discovering you'd have to do bedroom scenes your very first week on the set. She couldn't stiffle the grin as she remembered the many half patiently shouted, "Cut!"s that the director had thrown her way. It seemed Therese had a tendency to blush. At the entirely wrong instances. Fair skin and all that. By the time makeup had finished with her she could have been burning alive and her cheeks would have only reflected her 'normal' pale hue.

But this new storyline. . .Therese shook her head. She was to be the next victim of Mr. I? His plaything? An amusement, who might have the added bonus of further testing Claudia's commitment to HIM? It didn't bear thinking.

Sighing, Therese looked up to the clock on the microwave. Dev had scoffed at her insistance at being provided this modern convenience, and was horrified when she had offered him tea with water heated in 'that contraption' rather than boiled in a propper kettle. It was getting late, The Director would surely be soon calling it a wrap for the day. Time to change for dinner, after all, she had a date.

A delicious shiver of anticipation traversed Therese's spine.

Brandon getting out of his clothes . . . sheesh. No wonder I'm making mistakes!

Colonel Brandon quietly enters his room and proceeds at once to his dressing room--where he pauses at the door, with a slight frown of puzzled annoyance. What time is it? He draws out his watch, glances at it, and puts it away again, shaking his head. Strange. His bath would generally be ready by now--especially in light of his morning spent riding about the countryside. Still . . . to be absolutely fair, he had left no specific orders, and he had been away from Delaford so long. The estate has been in an upheaval with the wedding, and with all their houseguests; it may take some time to re- establish the previous routine. Or . . .

Once more, Brandon shakes his head a little, but now a small smile plays about his lips. No, Brandon. No more of your previous routine. Mary Anne is your wife, and mistress of Delaford. You must discuss this with her, and decide together how this home is now to be run.

Brandon lingers in the doorway of his dressing room, thinking. Changes. How much he has forgotten of what it means to share his life with another . . . but it will be a pleasure to learn the meaning of it once again . . .

Brandon's thoughts are interrupted by a small sound, and he straightens, looking about the dressing room--and then proceeds into the bedchamber. There are signs of the recent AR search, but they have left the room reasonably tidy. Still . . . that sound. Brandon is on the verge of reaching for a pistol when a thought occurs to him.

"Mary Anne?"

The soft sound again, and then a call of, "In here, sir."

Brandon gives a little sigh of relief and rolls his eyes at his own foolishness; this day has given him a prizewinning case of nerves.

He crosses to Mary Anne's small room and enters.

No sign of Mary Anne in this room, but there are some pails before the fireplace . . .

The little sounds, louder now. Brandon crosses Mary Anne's room to the little attached antechamber . . . and pauses in the doorway.

Mary Anne sits on a stool beside the enormous bathtub he had placed in this room for her. Wrapped in her white dressing gown and toweling her slightly damp hair, Mary Anne looks up to see Brandon standing before her, and winks at him. "Well, Christopher, what are you waiting for? Your bath's ready."

Brandon glances at the tub and notes that it has been filled with fresh, steaming water and that several spare pails are standing about, in addition to those he had seen warming before the fire.

Brandon's eyebrow lifts. "Mary Anne, I usually, um, take care of such matters as these . . . in my dressing room . . ."

The Colonel's voice trails off at the sight of Mary Anne's mischievous grin. The lure of her soft murmur. "But Christopher, wouldn't you like some help with your back?"

Brandon hesitates--but only for a moment. Mary Anne's mood is infectious, and with an answering smile, Brandon shrugs off his jacket . . .

Yes, sir, Mister Director. No need to glower; I'm getting back to work. (MA drags herself up from the floor)

(Sliiiiide and THUMP as MA's body slips limply from her chair and sprawls helplessly on the floor--after reading Claudia's latest post!)

No rest, Suzanne--you knew what you were getting into when you came back! ;-D Soooooo glad you are back, safe and well.

"No fair watching, Hart, if you're not going to try this at least once," Grace said, as soon as she could catch her breath.

Hart let an admiring glance linger at the Lycra shorts that covered only a part of her very long legs. "It's not just the scenery, Grace. There's something odd going on around here." He flourished a dog-eared copy of the Los Angeles Times.

"What's that?" she asked.

"The Times picked up a rather nasty review of FOF -- gushes for MA, brickbats for the rest of us. Almost as bad the Director's reviews for 'A & C.' The front office is in an uproar, the rest of the cast and crew are not taking it well, either."

"Well, who doesn't love MA's work? She's always terrific, and never better than lately. That last bit with Brandon, his internal struggles not to be like his father . . . chillingly good and perceptive stuff. At least the reviewer has some sense when it comes to MA." Grace calmly clicked her cycling shoes out of the pedals and started her stretching routine.

"Doesn't the rest concern you?"

"Hart," she said, standing up and putting a sweaty hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she stretched her right quadricep, "I never read reviews. I line bird cages with 'em." She switched hands and picked up her other leg to stretch. "The reviewers savaged 'Titanic,' too. I'd say Jim Cameron got the last laugh there, wouldn't you? Besides, I'm starving after that ride. I snagged some leftover hors d'oeuvres from one of Mrs. Brown's scenes that was cut. I'll share if you put that silly newspaper away." She put a towel around her neck and walked toward her dressing room. Hart followed, a puckered frown of worry on his face as he rolled the newspaper in his hand.

In her dressing room, Grace settled Hart on a spare chair and rummaged in her mini-fridge. She passed Hart a plate of crackers and opened a tall bottle of mineral water. Hart looked at her and said, "Grace, I think you're taking this too lightly. What if the producers decide to cut us out of FOF?"

"Hart, you worry too much. It's the viewers who matter. They watch what they want, and skip what they don't. It's a democracy by remote control. I'll start to worry when you tell me that people fast forward past us whenever we're on. Then if we're boring viewers, maybe we don't belong here."

He sat silently, sipping mineral water. Grace opened a plastic container salvaged from Craft Services. "Aha, just what I was looking for. Here, this will go well with the crackers. I love this stuff -- it reminds me of the big parties my aunt and uncle used to throw." She held out the container to Hart.

"Lukas, will you have some chopped liver?"

Wearily, Colonel Brandon climbs the stairs and heads for his chambers.

A trying day, with the morning's unsuccessful search for Claudia, and then . . .

The Colonel pauses in the long gallery, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes, tapping one hand absentmindedly against the dark-grained panelling behind him.

What a fool he must have seemed, in that mad dash from the summerhouse. Though the unseasonable weather continues and the gallery is quite warm, Brandon shivers, remembering that instant when all of his subconscious observations had coalesced into terrible fear.

HE was here. In this house. During the wedding.

Brandon's fist suddenly clenches and strikes the panelling a terrible blow.

HE WAS IN MY HOUSE!

And it had been enough to send him toward Delaford like a madman: the thought that HE might still be about, and Mary Anne . . .

I will never be able to keep her safe. Never. Not completely. Brandon's shoulders sag a little as he thinks of Bacon's statement about the man who gives "hostages to fortune"--that man being anyone who loves another. His wife. His children. His friends. All of these can be taken from him, without warning . . . or at times with plenty of warning, which can be far worse.

Is this, then, a reason not to love? Brandon raises his head. He knows the answer: it is, for some men, an excuse. But not for him. Life with love can be perilous and heartbreaking, but it is life, even then. Life without love, however, is a living death.

Brandon stands quietly, recalling the night at the Manor House when he had remained at Mary Anne's bedside, watching over her during her sleep.

He had silently vowed that she would never be hurt again, yet he has lived to see that oath broken into fragments--simply because it is beyond his power to fulfill it. Some would have called it a foolish vow, yet he does not regret making it, and would do it again in a heartbeat.

Brandon glances up, then, at the portrait of his mother, and wonders briefly if there could have been a time when she and his father had truly loved each other. And whether that is not how some forms of violence can begin: rooted in the desire to protect. Keep your beloved close to you; do not let the cherished person out of your sight; control another's life in the name of keeping harm at bay . . . can it truly begin in this manner? No doubt it can, until the love fails and all that is left is . . .

Brandon wrenches his eyes away from his mother's likeness, his mind beating with thoughts he would rather keep far from him, if he only could. His father. Brandon's anger toward that man is as cold and deep as the sea, yet it is as if a light has briefly shone into regions he would prefer to let lie in darkness. Was it even so, with them? Renie and The Interrogator. And with them, as well?

Mary Anne . . .

Brandon pushes himself away from the wall and paces further down the gallery, leaving the portraits behind him.

Yes, he wishes to keep Mary Anne safe. He can clearly recall telling her that in his darker moments, he wishes he could chain her to him so that no one could take her from his side. But no, he will not . . .

And had he not arrived home after that bone-shaking ride, to find her safe? Safe and well and conversing with Therese, the two of them in good enough spirits to tease him and Dev for their headlong return?

Open your hand, Brandon.

Let go . . .

The Colonel remains for a moment at the far end of the gallery, and with his resolution to defend his love, but not to smother her if he can help it, he feels some of the tensions of the day flow out of him. He does not forget that someone else's love is in danger, that Ed is probably still deeply asleep from The Doctor's hypnosis and that Claudia is out there, somewhere, with HIM. But they cannot find her without further information; perhaps Commander Hudson and her party will bring back something useful from their visit to Willoughby.

What I need, decides Brandon, is a bath. And a rest before dinner. When he had last seen Mary Anne, she had been downstairs talking over the dinner plans with Miss M, and he had overheard her saying that hopefully Miss Andrea would be well enough to join them.

A pang of regret catches at Brandon's heart. I have been so preoccupied; how did it escape my notice that Miss Andrea was ill?

Oh, if once he allows himself to begin, he could find plenty to regret about this day, and Brandon shakes his head as he recalls his brusque orders to Sifuentes about conducting a search. The man is not under my command--it was hasty of me. Yet he bore it gracefully. The Commander has excellent people around her. Brandon's heart lifts. We shall find Miss Claudia yet!

And with this thought, Brandon raises his head and leaves the gallery, making his way toward his chambers.

What is wrong with this world anyway?

Who would say such mean things? I'm mortified, shocked, and veritably appalled. I must say, however, that I have "spoken" to this Fiona (do we in fact know it was her?) via e-mail about 3 times over the past few months and even sent my extra MO copy to a friend of hers in the Midwest (at her pleading request). I don't consider us "friends" at all though I've heard she refers to me as such. Go figure. In my opinion, a few scattered e-mails does not a friend make. And I suppose that this should teach me to be nice to others I don't know very well, shouldn't it? But (trying to find a bright side here) what is life without lessons learned?

Whatever.

I love all of you here. You've provided me with countless smiles and some grand fun.

Claire, it seems something is up with you but I don't have the time at the moment to check out your "checking out"! Maybe tomorrow after I've had a cup of tea .. :o) .. OFF TOPIC sounds rather nice at this point.

I won't allow this to stop me from posting at FOF however. I do have some loose ends to tie up before my own "visa" (Renie!) expires.

Enjoy the rest of Sunday my friends, and I'll see you in the new week!

It's bad enough to whinge and moan. . .but then to post it three separate times?? Good heavens, I'm never going to see the light of day again, am I? Right, I'm off to the Sheriff's kitchens, from whence it is rather unlikely I'll ever return.

DoC, if you could be so kind as to do some deleting on my behalf?

Allow me to begin with this. The LAST person who would EVER consider Mary Anne to be the sole talanted writer at FOF would be Mary Anne herself. When I began my thread with Dev she was nothing but encouragement and praise itself, and we have both spoken highly of each and every one of the other writers represented here in our private emails to one another.

Kari, Claudia, Reni, Andrea, Lin, and all the other people (who, heaven forgive, me I cannot name at the moment, but adore equally as well) represented on this guestbook--you are an inspiration to me, and I value each and every word posted on these pages. Yes, we are all different, and have different styles and characters, but that is much of the appeal.

Pardon me for going on with such a personal post in what is supposed to be a fictional place, but it simply outrages me when someone dares to criticize those who mean very much to me, and then must hide behind the cloak of annonymity in order to cast his or her spurious remarks. For shame, whoever you are.

HE took her hand and she felt electricity running down her arm as HIS fingers closed about hers. HE said nothing, just looked, searchingly into her eyes, then turned and led her across the wide expanse of marble floor. Behind a pillar, and in a distant corner that she hadn't been able to see from the dinner table, was a thin gauzy curtain, softly rippling it a breeze from an unknown location. Behind the curtain was a huge 4 poster bed. The effect was quite breathtaking, romantic, and totally out of place within the context of the room as a whole.

HE reached for the thin curtain and pulled it dramatically aside. There was a little table with a mirror, and a stool. HE made her sit down, picked up a silver-backed hairbrush and started to brush out her hair. "One hundred times before bed," HE said.

She could feel he had done this many times before, and thrilled as HIS fingers stroked her hair as they followed after the brush. "Am I to be Renie as well tonight," she wished she hadn't said it, she didn't want to break the spell.

"I did this for her, that is true," the brush strokes continued. "But I savour each of you like the wines in my collection, for your different qualities. They are very different qualities, but each as delicious and intoxicating as the next."

Hamlet takes her hand in his. He is sorry to disappoint her. "I was unable to fulfill your request." The attendance of an AR soldier forces him to encrypt his information.

Andrea appears unconcerned. "No matter. You are here."

Hamlet suspects that Andrea does not fully understand the meaning behind his words. He is blunt. "The Sheriff is in AR custody."

Andrea flinches but quickly composes herself. "I see."

Hamlet was expecting a stronger reaction. "Are you not angry with me?"

Andrea looks at the hand which holds her own. "I confess that your news is not what I had hoped for. But, I am not angry with you. -- It was wrong of me to make such a request of you. Forgive me?" Her pleading eyes raise again to his own.

"Forgive you? You merely gave me permission to do what I had intended."

Andrea suddenly remembers that she will certainly have to testify against The Sheriff at a trial. She squeezes Hamlet's hand. "You will stand with me when I face him?"

He squeezes back. "Of course. And, so will Mesmer." Hamlet nods to Andrea's right.

Andrea turns her head to see Mesmer step near her bed. She smiles and offers her right hand.

Mesmer takes it in both of his. "Confronting your attacker will not be easy for you. But, you will not have to face him alone."

I, personally, enjoy all the "books" in this FOF library, and have chosen the current sound file because I believe what the man says; "... you really have talent." All of you.

It's been awfully quiet here the last few days. Perhaps (?) due to a couple of our writers, Claire and Renie, "checking out," so to speak (and I wish you the best of luck in your new ventures!). Though I'm sure (and hope!) they will be around to read and offer the occasional post.

And I believe that we (the readers) owe ALL the writers a huge round of applause. I know from experience (occasional poster that I am) that it takes guts to offer stories to the world. But also greatly satisfying and rewarding. And lets not forget, fun!

And one of the fun things about FOF is the way the writers interact between each others stories, the result often being surprising and new storylines, to say the least.