Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

April 1st - April 15th, 1999

Much milling about as the principals assemble for the next series of scenes. As Mary Anne enters, there are some winks and nudges among the cast and crew; news travels fast, and the spectacle of The Director chasing one of his cast members through the sets, bellowing about executing his Directorial Privileges, is not exactly a common sight. And no one feels inclined to quiz Mary Anne about it, once they see that she can still walk.

Brandon, especially, is not about to tease her--not after the unfortunate episode of being caught on camera in the bunny suit. He certainly hopes Mary Anne has not heard about that, but then reflects dismally that she is certain to know of it sooner or later; that clip will go straight into the goodie reel. Probably at the very next cast party . . .

Brandon groans. He will never hear the end of this.

Then Therese wanders onto the Delaford set . . . looking a little dazed. She sees Mary Anne and attempts a little wave of greeting, but then her hand falls back to her side, and Mary Anne hurries over to her.

"Therese, thanks for helping cover for me back there. But what's happened to you? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"Well, nearly." Therese conjures up a shaky smile. "I bumped into Mister I."

"Oh." Lift of Mary Anne's eyebrow. "When you say you 'bumped into' Mister I, do you mean, er . . ."

"Just what I said. I bumped into him. I followed you to make sure you'd be all right with The Director, and I heard HIM come out of Wardrobe--I thought HE was gone when I came out, but--WHAM!"

Mary Anne shakes her head, trying to keep her face straight. "Listen, Therese, it's HIS job to rough US up, not the other way around . . ."

"Ha, funny lady," retorts Therese good- naturedly, briefly sticking out her tongue, which promptly does in Mary Anne's efforts to keep from laughing. "Besides, you're a fine one to talk, after what your character did to HIM in that 'evil MA' thread!"

"Well, see, that was different," chuckles Mary Anne. "She was HIM, sort of, so it comes down to the same thing."

"Excuses, excuses. Anyway, I ran into HIM--and he was really nice about it! Not at all what I expected, especially after . . ." Therese's smile fades.

"After." Dryly. "Let's just leave it at that."

"Fine." Therese swallows. "And HE invited me to dinner . . . well, more like ordered me to have dinner with him, so we could talk about my script ideas."

"But that's wonderful! You'll find that he's very helpful." Mary Anne's eyes twinkle as she sets out to have a little fun with Therese. "And even better if HE cooks for you. Of course, he does have his little idiosyncracies."

"Like what?" demands Therese, who suspects that she is being deviled. Smart woman.

Mary Anne shrugs. "Oh, like those extra-large stainless-steel pliers . . ." A pause, and then a grin. "I believe he uses them for a garlic press."

"Oh, you . . ." laughs Therese, as she picks up on the teasing, and gives a mock shudder. "Good thing you warned me, or I'd have fainted when HE brought those out!"

"Well, you'll find HE can be very good company. And smart about script ideas--but some of those ideas really push the envelope. HE likes a challenge."

"In more ways than one," mutters Therese, and any reply Mary Anne could make is stopped by the entrance of The Director, who calls the group to order and begins to hand around script pages for the next series of scenes at Delaford.

The Director pauses and grins at Mary Anne as he hands over her set of pages, and Mary Anne does a double take, watching him closely as he sorts out Therese's bits, and Dev's and Brandon's.

Mary Anne opens her pages, looking over the lines and trying to concentrate as The Director explains the next sequence. He is now all business as he speaks to his actors and actresses. Yes. All business. The Director had admitted to her that he had overreacted because he had been having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (homage). They had exchanged apologies and everything has been settled. He had forgiven her. Of course he had, and everything is now back to normal. As normal as it ever gets on this set.

Still . . . there had been something awfully toothy about that grin.

Mary Anne makes an effort and shakes off her misgivings. Concentrate, girl. Back to Delaford . . .

Mr I stood in front of her, holding a script in one hand, and tapping his lip with the extended forefinger of the other. "I'm not sure about my motivation for this part," HE said stabbing the page with the same finger that hat tapped his lips.

"Motivation? There's me standing here, half undressed, the door is locked, the recorders turned off and it has been a while since you last had…"

"A relationship?" The eyebrow raised, reminiscent of Mr Spock.

"Yes, you could call it that. You've already had an interesting time with me when I was under the influence of drugs, a year ago. You are curious to see if I have such a passion for you without the aid of chemicals."

"Yes, yes, but that is not the part I was worried about – its this…" HE turned the script round so she could see clearly the part HE was talking about.

"Ah," said Claudia and turned bright red.

Hamlet agitatedly paces along the length of George's body. Weighing his options, the prince is no nearer to a decision. Kill him as he sleeps? And forego the satisfaction of besting him in battle? Or, wait for him to awaken? And risk discovery by an AR search party?

A VOICE from behind the prince makes the question moot. "Hamlet?"

Prepared to cut down any challenger to his claim, Hamlet raises his sword as he spins around to face ... Mesmer, who is out of reach, unarmed and accompanied by Dot.

Dot is not unarmed. She trains her dart pistol on the prince. "Lower your weapon, please, my lord."

Meanwhile, back at the house ...

Eyebrows raise at Andrea's casual remark "HE's at work."

Then Marian remembers, from weeks ago, Andrea's comment "HE is home." This simple statement helped the AR to rescue Brandon and Mary Anne from The Interrogator even though Andrea had no idea where "home" was.

A man with no name has no will, no last wishes, but Grace knew what he wanted. Hart paid a private mortuary handsomely to cremate Bill anonymously and give him the ashes. Then he hired a crew for the Sea Dove and sailed out to the spot where Bill and Grace had been swept overboard.

Barnacle's death had shaken Hart. He regretted that he hadn't noticed how badly hurt Bill had been. Instead, he had ordered Bill around, using him like any other tool on the boat to get the Sea Dove safely home. But even if he had known, what would he have done differently? He knew himself well enough to answer, absolutely nothing. Hart made no apologies for himself, but he was uncharacteristically uncomfortable coming face to face so abruptly with the crueler side of his nature.

Now Grace opened the bronze urn containing Bill's ashes and leaned well over the stern rail. She looked at Hart, in case he wanted to say something. It seemed inappropriate to just dump the ashes overboard. But Hart looked away from her, inscrutable and silent behind his tinted glasses, stiff and remote in a white shirt and dark tie, his right hand gripping the stern rail. The professional crew was quiet and respectful behind them. They had all known Barnacle Bill. He had taught most of them to sail, given them their livelihoods. The ashes tipped into the water, swirled briefly on the surface, then scattered in a thousand different directions. Grace had attached white lillies to a life ring and tossed it over the same spot. The gentle waves picked up the life ring as it bobbed away from the boat. Hart stared after it, then growled an order to start back for Marina del Rey.

So far as he can remember, Mary Anne has never addressed him by name. Friendly and outgoing as she is, she can be something of a formalist in her manners--after all, it had taken her weeks and weeks before she would address Brandon as "Christopher." And "Chris" would be out of the question, even now.

Mary Anne does not notice his astonishment, or she does a good job of pretending that she does not. "You've had a hard day, haven't you?"

The Director nods, but qualifies with, "I've had worse."

"Well, it wasn't my intention to make this one any worse. It just seemed like a fun joke, is all. Those crazy ideas." Mary Anne gestures to the pile of script notes. "I thought you might be able to use a laugh. I wouldn't have done it if I thought--"

The Director looks closely at Mary Anne's face. Is he being . . . charmed? For she can be very persuasive.

Mary Anne watches The Director watch her. That's the trouble with having a reputation for mischief: people think that you're a con artist ALL the time.

The Director leans forward in his chair. "So--in short, I am behaving like a boor and overreacting. Is that it?"

"I wouldn't say that, sir--"

A small laugh escapes The Director; the "sir" is back. "Well, you should say it, Mary Anne, because you're right. I am overreacting."

"I am? I mean--you are?"

"Rather." Dryly. "Especially when all you did was give me some, ah, unusual script notes. Perhaps I am the one who should apologize, for playing the wild man as I did. I am sorry."

Now it is safe for Mary Anne to let her eyes twinkle a bit. "Playing the wild man, hmmm? Well, you are an actor as well as a director, after all."

"Enough of that!" The Director holds up a warning hand, but he is smiling, and Mary Anne allows herself an inward sigh of relief. "Enough teasing for one day. Now that we are--" A shade ironic. "--back in each other's good graces, let's not spoil it. You belong on the Delaford set. I suggest you get over there before I change my mind."

"May I have my shoe, sir?"

Mock-menace. "I'll give you your shoe--" But The Director picks up the slipper and lightly tosses it to Mary Anne, who catches it neatly and returns it to her foot, then stands and heads for the door, pausing there to say, "Thank you."

She would leave then, but The Director calls, "Mary Anne."

Mary Anne turns.

The Director looks at her for a moment. "That habit of mischief-making will catch up with you, you know. Soon or late, there shall be a reckoning day."

Mary Anne offers The Director her best smile--the one of sincere sweetness and good humour. With, perhaps, just a tiny spark of devilment. "So long as that day is not today," she trills, and is gone.

The Director watches her go, and then sits for long moments, thinking of the woman who has just left his office: that streak of teasing in her character, her vanities and foibles and faults. But you must be fair; that is not all there is to her, no . . . she has good qualities as well. But dwell upon those as he may, The Director cannot escape the feeling that he has somehow been had. Conned.

Charmed.

He contemplates the situation--and as he thinks of Mary Anne, a grin spreads across his face. A grin of more than mischief, easily equal to Mary Anne's own: ah, readers, this is a wicked grin. And not just your everyday dinner-table wickedness--no, this is a gourmet article, to be served up with a gleaming white damask tablecloth and china and crytal and a carefully-selected wine.

The Director leans back in his chair once again, savouring the idea, and idly rubs his hands together.

If he remembers correctly, Mary Anne has a birthday coming up in just a couple of months. And after the stories that have made the rounds about last year's "Full Monty" performance, he should not have very much trouble gathering a crowd this year--for a simple Cast Party, of course. Food and drink and music, and a showing of the "goodie reel" of outtakes, and . . .

The Director's smile widens as he rises from his chair, gathers his notes, and heads for the set.

There shall be a reckoning day.

SMACK.

SMACK.

The Director, still tapping Mary Anne's slipper against his left hand, nods his head toward a chair--and Mary Anne obeys the unspoken command and takes it, finally venturing, "May I have my shoe back, sir?"

"I think I'll keep it for the time being." A pause. "No danger of you running away, then."

Mary Anne gazes at him for a moment. "If I were going to run away . . ." Her voice, even and measured. " . . . I would have already run."

"So you would." The Director crosses to his desk and seats himself behind it, tossing Mary Anne's slipper onto a pile of script ideas-- with Mary Anne's "April Fool" ideas on the top. She eyes the shoe but does not quite dare to reach for it, as The Director leans back in his chair, steeples his fingers in front of him, and sighs, "What am I going to do with you, Mary Anne?"

Believe me, I'm asking myself the very same question! " Well . . ." she tries. "Keep directing me, I suppose . . . and hope?"

It seems an eternity before The Director gives her a small nod, and Mary Anne finds the courage to continue.

"And . . . well, sir, do you remember when we talked at my birthday party, and I said that some of my friends let me get away with a lot, but that I need the kind who'll keep me honest, too?"

His eyebrow lifts. "Keep you honest--or keep you in order?"

The Director is fighting to repress a smile, and Mary Anne does not bother to repress hers. "Sometimes it's the same thing. And you do that very well . . ."

"Flattery," grumps The Director, "will get you nowhere." But the smile hovers at the corners of his mouth.

"So, we're back to your first question. What are you going to do with me?" Lightly, but with some concern . . .

The Director tiredly runs one hand through his hair. "Mary Anne, I hardly know where to begin. You could have been killed climbing around up in those beams--which reminds me, before I forget--" Hastily, he scribbles a note to remind himself to call Set Maintenance to go and have a look at those beams and girders. A screw loose? Well, that shouldn't surprise me in THIS place . . . "I mean, I know I was angry, but to go to those lengths--I wasn't going to kill you, you know, or . . . anything."

Sly smile from Mary Anne. "Not . . . anything?"

"Especially not 'anything.' This isn't the Downtime," retorts The Director, feeling his face flush. How does she DO this to me? "I hope," he continues sarcastically, "that you aren't too disappointed."

The Director quite expects some barbed comment in return, and so is surprised when Mary Anne says nothing for several seconds, but looks down at the floor as if in deep thought.

Finally, she raises her eyes to his.

"I'm sorry, Alan."

"I'm going back on deck. You'll be all right here," he said gruffly, more of a statement than a question.

"Aye, aye, Captain," Grace made a weak salute. Hart twisted a grim smile at her and vaulted back up to the deck.

He found Barnacle Bill clinging to the wheel in the driving rain. Hart took over the wheel and quizzed Barnacle about their location. Bill had them on a course for home, but they were still hours away from Marina del Rey. Bill was as pale as Grace, and almost as cold. He had been standing in the rain for over an hour while fighting the storm for control of the Sea Dove. Barnacle turned to go below, but Hart kept him on deck, shouting orders. Shorten the jib sheet. Shift the ballast belowdecks. And on and on as the boat pitched in the storm. Desperate measures, every survival trick Hart and Bill had learned in decades of sailing. Barnacle executed the orders, his instincts closely tuned to the boat and his captain. Hart fought back fatigue as he braced himself behind the wheel, and narrowed his eyes to concentrate on the swirling ocean around him.

Three hours later, it had stopped raining and the sea had settled back into a manageable rhythm. Hart easily kept the boat on course now. He watched as Barnacle walked slowly from his position on the bow toward the stern.

"Sorry, Captain, can't seem to patch this leak," he said, a little thickly, pointing to a wet, bloodsoaked piece of cloth that he had managed to tie around his forehead. He pointed to the lights of the harbor ahead. They were just minutes away from making the turn arond the breakwater and into the sheltered water of the marina. Barnacle halfheartedly trimmed the sails as Hart fired up the diesel engine. It would be far easier to motor into the marina than sail with Bill in his slow motion state, Hart decided. Bill took up his position on the bow again to guide Hart through the dark, deserted marina. He leaned heavily against the ropes securing the mast, making weak, automatic gestures as they glided toward their slip. Barnacle took the wheel as Hart leaped down to the dock to tie up the boat. When the boat was safely moored, Hart shouted to Bill to cut the engine. The diesel coughed, then went silent as Hart stood on the dock and surveyed his boat.

He had sailed through storms worse than this before, but never had come so close to losing a passenger. He was suddenly exhausted, his sea legs rubbery on solid ground. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders before he climbed back aboard to collect Grace, then casually shouted an order to Bill as he went below. He found Grace already dressed and packing to leave. He shouldered her bag and helped her up the ladder to the stern deck.

"Where's Barnacle?" asked Grace, scanning the deck for the sailor. Hart looked around, expecting to see Bill furling sails or any of a dozen docking chores. But the boat was silent in the darkness. Still lightheaded and wobbly, Grace stepped down into the stern well as Hart went forward, calling Barnacle's name. Her foot bumped against something soft in the dark.

She bent down to find Barnacle Bill slumped at the bottom of the stern well, one hand still gripping the wheel. She felt for his face, then recoiled when her hand moved through a sticky wet puddle. Please don't let it be, she thought quickly, but knew it was too late. Bill's face was already growing cold. He had bled to death from the wound to his head, but the old salt had stubbornly refused to die until the Sea Dove was safely docked. Grace didn't particularly believe in ghosts, but at that moment she could swear she heard his voice.

You wouldn't let go of me. It was the least I could do.

Grace choked back a sob. "I'm sorry," she gasped, cold tears streaming down her face.

Save the saltwater, Bill answered, I did what I loved to the end. How many of you will be able to say the same?

Grace sat in the stern well talking to Barnacle for several minutes. Then she went to find Hart.

I'm finally caught up reading FOF. Pure pleasure -- all the story lines have been absolutely incredible! -- Hilarious, thrilling, heart breaking-- You guys have out done yourselves. You all deserve a Pulitzer!

"Gleck!" Therese made a garbled, squawking sound as she attempted to halt her forward motion in mid-stride, and felt strong hands clasp her shoulders. She was propelled backwards, gently but firmly, and could feel the hard wooden doorframe press into her back. "Mr. I!" she squeaked, "um, pardon me."

Mr. I inclined his head slightly, and released his hold from Therese's shoulders, though he did not step from the threshold. "Therese, you seem quite intent upon damaging my person. We're going to be working together quite soon, it simply won't do to continue putting your co-star out of commision."

Therese felt her cheeks grow warm, and cursed her pale complexion. She knew that her face currently resembled a tomato with eyes and hair. "I wasn't sure if you'd agree to work with me after the escape scene in the West Woods where I, er. . .well, got a bit carried away with the realism aspect."

"You're young and new to acting, it was an honest misake, I realize that you meant no harm. One can forgive overzealousness as the result of enthusiasm for one's craft."

"But the Director said that you'd adamently refused to do a re-shoot. . ."

The surface of Mr. I's spectacles glinted with the hallway lighting. "I said I'm forgiving...not stupid."

Therese smiled up at him tentatively. "Point taken. You know, Mr. I, you're really okay. I would like to hash out our storyline sometime soon if that would be okay with you? I mean it's rather intense and I'm a bit nervous about some of the scenes. I never realized that we'd be able to discuss some of these issues."

Mr. I looked at his future co-star. "Whyever not? It's a tried and true part of the creative process to collaborate with one's colleagues."

Therese paused. How did one voice such a delicate matter? "Well you must admit that you're rather intimidating at best, and downright petrifying the rest of the time."

Leave it to Therese, gentle readers, to use the 'bull in the china shop' approach.

Mr. I shook his head slightly. "Frightening? Me? My character perhaps. . ." he paused, and shook his head. "Bah, typecasting!" He leaned in toward Therese, lowering his face until it was even with her own. "Dinner, tomorrow night, with me. Bring your script."

Therese gulped. "Y-yes sir."

Grace was still and cold, her lips blue and her eyes unfocused. "Stop slapping her, Captain, and get her below out of this wind," shouted Barnacle. Hart frantically felt for a pulse and found one, weak and thready. He gathered her in his arms and awkwardly carried her down the narrow ladder belowdecks. Ignoring his own shivering, he carried her into the forward cabin and stripped off her wet clothes, wrapping her in a dry blanket and tucking the down comforter around her. She looked vacantly up at him, then down at the comforter. Through numb lips, she croaked so hoarsely he had to bend down to hear her. She thought that she told him that his words had kept her afloat long enough for him to find her, but he heard only gibberish as she shivered uncontrollably. He ran a hand along her cheek. She was still far too cold. Hart lunged over the slanting deck toward his private bath and turned on a hot shower. He carried her in, holding her shivering upright under the water while he stood in his own soaking clothes. The shower pump faltered as the boat lurched from side to side, but the warm water continued to rain down on them. Grace's skin gradually lost its bluey-grey pallor as she stopped shivering. Her eyes focused on him. "Lukas," she stammered, bringing her arms up and around his neck, "we've got to get you out of those wet clothes before you catch your death of cold."

"Yes, Grace," Hart said softly, gathering her close.

A normally quiet unused corner of the Flights of Fancy lot, the still air punctuated with thuds and gasps and grunts. It is a dark corner, and it isn't immediately obvious what is going on.

"Alright, I think its dead." Lis is sitting on an old beanbag, watching something going on in the shadows. She smiles, amused.

"Its not dead yet - there is still some stuffing left in it." We catch a glimpse of red and the shine of sweat on skin.

"Who are you imagining, while you kick that thing to death. Whoever it is, I think I'd like to warn them to keep out of your way."

It's Claudia in a red leotard and black lycra leggings and bare feet kicking to death a large punch bag, which is swinging, ropes creaking, tied to the metal beams above. "Its not who exactly…. It's all this stuff with Ed, and Mr I…. I don't think I can carry on any more… I think I need to quit Flights of Fancy all together."

"But you do some of your best work with Mr I, you can't quit now…"

Claudia stopped kicking and picked up her towel, mopping the sweat from her face. "My point exactly. It's causing so many problems with Ed. He wants to know why there is so much chemistry between me and Mr I on set together, why isn't it like that when I work with him?"

"I don't know, you've had a few steamy scenes with Ed in the past…"

"Yes, in the past, before I started doing one-on-one scenes with Mr I. Ed thinks there is something going on. I tried to explain its acting and that because I with him all the time, our on screen time will look more comfortable - as if we've been together for a while. Its realistic for it to be that way."

"And when you're with Mr I you can almost see the sparks of electricity."

"Yes, so I either have to quit acting, and become a behind the scenes writer, or I'm going to lose Ed."

"You won't lose him. He needs to learn the difference between acting and real life. It's one of the hazards of becoming involved with your leading man."

"And you should know right?" Claudia smiles at her friend. "And its about time you got writing some more about you and Valmont - I'm sure everyone else would like to know why he was being so nice to you. It isn't in his character, after all."

"Hey, stop changing the subject. There is a very good reason for it, but I don't know if the time is right yet to disclose it to the world."

"You won't be able to keep it secret much longer…"

Lis struggles up out of the beanbag. "Listen you…" she put up her fists, "wanna fight?"

Claudia laughs and gives her friend a sweaty hug. "No, I'm all worn out, you'd beat me." Claudia turns and sighs. "Its just this next scene with Mr I, if I go through with it, there will be no turning back. Ed will go ballistic."

"I know," says Lis with a wink. "I'll keep Ed out of the way, and make sure he doesn't watch any of your scenes. He won't know what you've been up to."

"Or I could just rewrite the scene so I end up going back to my room alone."

"Really boring - the ratings will go down, and the Director will not be happy."

"But I could tell him that I was worried about sticking to the PG rating. Or some excuse like 'remember Kari and Achilles - you were shooting that bedroom scene all day and they still didn't get it right'."

"I think you should go ahead and shoot the scene. Come on - you'd better hit the showers, Mr I will be waiting for you, and you know he doesn't like to be kept waiting!"

"I--"

Renie's voice halts as Hans leads her out of the elevator.

It's big. Very big. But that's to be expected. Where Hans is involved, no expense is spared. No detail too small. No idea unrealizable.

Renie's eyes widen like oversized robin's eggs--the green speckled variety. "I can't believe the size of this pool!"

"Swimming relaxes the body, as well as the mind." The design of the pool area is modern, except done in classical materials. The perfectly-achieved mix of marble, granite, woods, glass and steel bespeaks an architectural magnificence. Hans smiles at Renie's pleasure in seeing it for the first time. "This is my father's design. It is reminiscent of the glassworks. Not identical, of course. This place is for pleasure, not business."

Comfortable wet/dry lounges, with thick black terry-cloth coverings. Temperature-controlled air, on the dry side. The water, a clear blue, dazzling with lights below the surface. Moving, through unseen jets, undulating New Mexican Turquoise, furthered by the mosaic tiles along the sides of the pool. A faintly Egyptian design.

Just beautiful.

"But Hans--I don't have a swimsuit here--" Her eyes fall to her waistline, resting on what every woman feels make her look gigantic. Her midsection. "--And I'm not even sure if they'd fit me anyway . . . " Looking into Hans' eyes, she wonders why she bothered with such a half-hearted objection.

"You don't need one" comes his answer. The low VOICE. Not a growl. But his tiger eyes are unmistakable. The kind of look by which he intends nothing, but which will make women breathe deeply and slowly.

It is then that she notices that this hulking huge place is empty. Not a soul--except hers, and the gentleman who pulled her towards a small room with pale green blinds behind long thin windows.

'Tis not Colonel Brandon--'tis The Interrogator!

"Mister I!" gasps Mary Anne.

The Director rolls his eyes. "And what are you doing here? You're supposed to be over at the Interrogation Room set with Claudia-- isn't ANYONE where he is supposed to be?" The Director halts his tirade and gives Mister I a sudden suspicious look. "You aren't drunk, are you? Did someone put real wine in those glasses for your dinner with Claudia? Wonderful; just what I needed--"

The Interrogator lifts one hand to halt the outburst. "Claudia and I," HE enunciates with glorious distinction, "finished the previous scene ahead of schedule, thank you, and we were having a short break. Breaks?" HE takes a step forward. "Perhaps you have heard of them? We are not due back for the next part of that scene for at least fifteen more minutes--at which time I shall be exactly where I belong, thank you verrrrrrry much."

Mary Anne quivers a little at the deliciously trilled "r," and HE turns toward her with a disarming smile. "Do you need any help?"

Mary Anne is tempted to take HIM up on HIS offer, but . . . regretfully, she shakes her head. "No--but thank you, just the same. I had better talk to him, or I'll be in even worse trouble. It's a kind offer, though." She laughs a little. "It's just a surprise to see you trying to play the hero!"

"Ah, that's the trouble," grouses The Interrogator. "Everybody thinks I can't play anything but a villain--I've been typecast!"

The Director raises an eyebrow. "You had your chance at heroics during the evil Mary Anne sequence."

"Some heroics. I spent most of that thread strapped to a table--"

"And you were superb," soothes Mary Anne. "Listen, I hadn't realized an opportunity for heroics would mean so much to you." She pauses in thought. "Hmmmm, maybe an alternative timeline thread . . ."

The Director intervenes. "Meanwhile, in this timeline--" He fixes Mary Anne with a look--with THE look--and nods toward the door.

Mary Anne resigns herself. "Thanks, Mister I. I'll see you later." A smile of combined mischief and sweetness. "It was an honour to be present for your 'breakout' role as a hero!"

And so, with her best attempt at nonchalance, Mary Anne follows The Director out of Wardrobe . . .

. . . and they are not interrupted again. No more rescue offers. No distractions, as Mary Anne follows him all the way to his office.

With mock gallantry that makes Mary Anne wince to herself, The Director bows her through the door, which he then firmly closes . . .

Walking along in front of The Director, Mary Anne is mortified, but keeps her head up and her eyes forward. Yes, there it is: the characteristic and defiant lift of her chin . . .

Scurrying footsteps behind them.

Therese's hairdresser. " Here, Mary Anne, you forgot this." She holds out Mary Anne's lost shoe.

Mary Anne moves forward, but The Director intervenes. "I'll take that," he says, cocking an eyebrow at Mary Anne in mock menace as he holds the flat-heeled slipper in his right hand and begins to slap it softly against his left hand. That insinuating eyebrow still aloft . . .

SMACK. SMACK.

"Well, Mary Anne, what are you waiting for? Get moving."

Mary Anne swallows, and moves.

For some reason, it seems that most if not ALL of the cast are milling about on the path to The Director's office, and Mary Anne's face burns at the speculative glances that follow them, to say nothing of the barrage of whispered comments as they pass. Oh, well, she thinks, as long as it's only my FACE that's burning . . .

Still dejected from the incident in Wardrobe, George hangs about sulking in the hall, but brightens at the approach of The Director and Mary Anne, and brandishes his mink-lined cuffs with a knowing leer. "Need to borrow these?" he smirks to The Director. "She can be a bit feisty, you know."

"No, thank you, George, I can handle her."

Mary Anne fumes.

And as they pass through the Wardrobe rooms, there is a rustle in the costume racks . . .

And, HUZZAH! Out steps a man in a long sweeping black cloak, fastened at the neck with a silver clasp. A black silk mask conceals his face.

The Director and Mary Anne come to a dead stop in astonishment. 'Tis The Highwayman!

"Brandon, what are you doing here?" snaps The Director. "You're supposed to be over on the Delaford set!"

A commanding VOICE fills the room. "You have mistaken me, sir, for I am NOT Brandon--and it seems that this fair lady is in need of rescuing!"

With a fine theatrical flourish, Mary Anne's would-be protector tosses aside his mask . . .

Abruptly, she felt herself being pulled backwards. A shark? Only a fish that big could move her around like that. She hoped the shark would deal with her quickly. Her mind fading in and out of consciousness, she closed her eyes and relaxed, thinking, so this is it, this is what it feels like to die.

The fish pulled her onto her back. She floated higher in the water, her legs trailing behind her. The shark had a strong grip and was towing her across the top of the water. Suddenly they stopped. She felt a pressure on her hands and let them go limp. Then she felt a hard bump against her back. Abruptly, she opened her eyes, morbidly curious to see the shark before he struck. She expected to see the cold staring eye of a predator. Instead, swimming over her was the face she had been dreaming about, distorted by the salt water in her eyes. Hart's face. A hallucination, she thought. A farewell.

Then she felt hands slapping her face, chafing her cold arms and legs, blankets being tossed over her. She looked to the side and realized she was on the deck of the Sea Dove. Like a picture coming back into focus, the face over hers became real. She wasn't dreaming. There was no shark. Hart had found her and pulled her aboard. Just as he said he would.

As Hart unclipped Grace's life line, he estimated where the waves would take her. Barnacle Bill had followed Hart's movements and knew what to do next. Bill savagely fought the wheel and turned the Sea Dove to follow Grace. Barnacle had run hundreds of man overboard drills, but never in weather like this. Without the life line dragging her down, Grace bobbed on the surface. Hart kept his eyes fixed on her as Bill manuevered the boat toward her, keeping a safe distance away.

Weakly treading water, Grace was turned away from the boat and couldn't see it approach. She drifted as the squalls seemed to die down a little. She was so cold. The life vest had lost its buoyancy and dragged her down like a dead weight. She was so sleepy. It would be easy to just let go, let the water take her down for good. Hart had told her he would find her. But why had he let her go? She tried not to think about it, and focused on his words.

Drifting, she tried to think of the last time she felt warm. Last night, in Hart's bed in the forward cabin. She had awakened just before dawn. Looking over at Hart, she saw he had kicked the warm down comforter off of his legs. She had rearranged the covers around them and curled close against his chest. Looking up at him, she had watched his face until the sun came up. She could close her eyes now and see his face, every detail engraved on her memory. Should she wait for Hart, or just let go? But he said he would, she told herself, and resolved to try just once more to find the Sea Dove.

As she drifted, Hart signalled Barnacle to keep the Sea Dove in her path, then buckled another life vest to his own. The boat pitched wildly, but held steady about fifty away from Grace. Any closer and an errant wave could crash the boat directly on top of her. His eyes firmly fixed on her position, Hart prepared to leap off the side of the boat. After watching Grace swept dangerously close to the side of the bucking sailboat, he knew he couldn't risk clipping on a life line. He would have to swim for her across the open sea and carefully manuever both of them back toward the ship's ladder. Barnacle watched. He thought Hart was taking his life in his hands. He knew Grace would have little chance to survive much longer in the cold water. But he was absolutely sure that Hart could not be talked out of taking the wild risk of going after her. He stood silently at the wheel as Hart jumped toward her. Bill gave Hart a 50-50 chance of coming back, with or without her.

All Barnacle could do now was hold the Sea Dove on course, and offer up a rusty prayer.

HE reached inside HIS jacket, slowly and she held her breath. As HE drew the dark object out, she mentally stepped backwards, and turned, running for the door. In reality her feet were still planted firmly on the cold marble floor, her hands defiantly on her hips. HE held it up to show her. A black box. Tilting it towards her, HE made a show of switching every switch to 'off'. Then he smiled, sending a cold shiver through her body. Or was there a draft sending goose bumps up and down her exposed back? The black box was tossed to the floor, clattering away under the desk.

"I've met you're requirements," HE said. "Now, I think we've done enough talking." HE took a step towards her, held out his hand to her.

She looked at HIS hand. This was it. Now they would both find out just how far she would go to protect her friends.

She listened hard, trying to will the screech of the Tardis to appear in the air around her. But nothing. No one was going to rescue her today. She didn't want to be rescued anyway, there was still so much work to be done.

Just then George burst into the room. He was panting as if he'd just run a long way.

"What do you want!" the two shouted again in unison and then looked at each other as if to say "stop doing that"!

"I heard you were in need of a pair of these," George grinned from ear-to-ear as he proudly produced an item from behind his back and dangled it in front of their faces. His mink-lined cuffs.

"No George," said Kari emphatically. "We need cuff LINKS not HAND cuffs." David rolled his eyes. George's expression changed from one of enthusiasm to one of dejection. He'd raced all the way back to his dressing room to get them. And for what? Nothing. Simply nothing. However, his momentary flash of self-pity was interrupted by a woman's voice behind him.

"George!" said Fausta in mock shock as she appeared in the doorway and snatched the items from his grip as she handed a pair of gold-toned cuff links to David. "Not now! Put those away!" she exclaimed, mistakenly believing that George had been trying to convince Kari and/or David to allow him to *cuff* them up.

David ran his hands through his hair and clasped them behind his neck while he looked up at the ceiling. Kari immediately noticed the open cuffs. Her eyes widened instantly. "Let me do those," she said taking a step inside the room and tugging on his elbows. Reluctantly, he released his hands and lowered his arms so that she could button up the cuffs. That done, she cupped her palm and held it up to him. "Right," she said matter-of-factly. "Now, just give me the cuff links and we can be on our way."

He gave her an exasperated look. "I don't have them," he stated flatly, looking around as if he'd rather escape the whole mess rather than be late for the start of the scene. Unfortunately, there were no windows or he'd have gladly disappeared through one of them.

"What do you mean you don't have them?" queried Kari in a snappish tone. "You were wearing them yesterday!"

"We put them in the accessory box after the shoot. I sent Fausta to get them for me," he said.

"Fausta?" asked Kari as she glanced nervously at the clock. Didn't he know better than to put any of his current wardrobe items in the accessory box? The accessory box was like the Bermuda Triangle. Once things went in, they never came back out. Three minutes and counting. "When?"

"About 7 minutes ago," he said as he brushed aside the front of his elegant suit jacket with a strong movement and placed a hand on his hip while motioning towards the door.

"7 minutes ago?" asked Kari. David nodded.

As if reading each other's minds, the two, in unison, took a deep breath and yelled with all their might towards the open doorway of the dressing room.

Just then a voice was heard calling from an occupied dressing room directly across the small hallway from the wardrobe room.

"Fauuuuuusta," it wailed. A rich voice. A velvet voice. Hard to tell apart, these characters. In fact, they all sounded quite the same.

"Ah," thought Fausta as she rummaged through the accessories box. It was David Weinberg. She'd know that East Coast accent anywhere. Being from the same area and all. David was readying for Part Two of the Ritz scene with Kari. Filming was to start in 10 minutes and he couldn't finish dressing without his cuff links.

"Just a minute!" she called in a cheery sing-song voice even though a slight panic was starting to set in.

Rummage, rummage. She continued to sift through the large box frantically. What had she done with those links after yesterday's shoot? He had to wear the same pair. Just had to. Either that or continuity would have her head. She gasped at the thought. Rummage, rummage.

The Director has had the wind knocked out of him and he lies still for a moment, attempting to breathe, before he is finally able to sit up, his arms still wrapped around Mary Anne.

He is shaking. So is she.

The Director gulps, testing. Yes, now he can breathe again.

"Mary Anne, are you all right?"

"I think so, sir . . ."

"Here. Let's see."

Gently, he helps her to her feet, and they both wince a little, knowing that they will display a fine assortment of bruises within hours.

Mary Anne walks back and forth. "Nothing broken or sprained."

"Yet." Dryly, as his aggravation returns. "Well, Mary Anne, what do you have to say for yourself?"

That stops her, all right. She is caught good and proper this time. Mary Anne flicks a glance at Renie and Therese, her expression a helpless cry of NOW what do I do? But they are no help at a time like this. Yes, they are immensely relieved that she is unhurt and sorry for her present predicament, but they are more than a little amused by it as well. Catching the twinkle in their eyes, Mary Anne shoots them a brief glower before she turns again to The Director--who is waiting for her with a ferocious frown, his arms crossed.

What does she have to say for herself?

Mary Anne moves to stand directly in front of him, and softly replies, "First of all--thank you."

"You're welcome," he replies--softened and disarmed by this unexpectedly dignified response, but not yet ready to relent. Not completely. Still . . .

The Director makes a show of consulting his watch. "Renie, if you're finished, get out of here; you're late for that elevator scene with Hans."

Renie would obviously far rather stay, but she goes, wiggling her fingers at Mary Anne in a little goodbye wave, which Mary Anne sarcastically returns.

The Director turns toward Therese. "And what about you--?"

Therese's hairdresser speaks up. "I'm almost done with her, sir; just need to finish these bangs."

"Well, be quick about it." The Director stretches out his arm, directing a long elegant finger toward the door. "My office, Mary Anne. Now."

Disdaining to show the least sign of unease, Mary Anne squares her shoulders and marches out, followed by The Director . . .

Hart couldn't see her through the rain and the foamy swells, but Grace was only few feet away from the boat. With each rise and fall of the waves, she was alternately dragged under the water,then pulled to the surface for a few seconds until the sea pushed her under again. She learned to use her brief moments at the surface to grab a quick breath. She knew she was running out of time as the cold water numbed her and her soaked life vest lost buoyancy each time she submerged. Kicking for the surface, she saw a dark shape just above her. It was the hull of the Sea Dove. Instinctively, she stroked toward it.

From his vigil at the railing, Hart saw a brief flash of orange life vest near the stern. "Grace!" he shouted, but she disappeared as fast as she had surfaced. He was relieved she was still near the boat, but his relief turned to cold fear as she surfaced again just inches from the stern. "Kick away from the boat, Grace," he yelled, hoping she could hear, but knowing she probably couldn't. The boat was rising with the waves, then falling through the air into the trough of each swell. Grace was so near the stern that the Sea Dove, and the blades of her propeller, could fall directly on her. Hart tugged desperately on her life line, then realized the life line was tethering Grace to her precarious position. He had to get her away from the boat. The last life ring had no rope attached, but Hart threw it at her the next time she surfaced. She was so close that he almost dropped it on her. She grabbed it and was buoyed to the surface long enough for Hart to yell at her, "I'm going to let go of your life line. Hold on to the ring and kick away from the boat."

Grace heard him through a fog of cold and fear as she was pulled down again. Let go of her life line? Kick away? Was he crazy? She's be swept away from the Sea Dove in seconds. Was he letting her go to save himself? Giving up on her? Again? She bobbed to the surface screaming, "Noooooooo!"

The Director is mystified. And aggravated. Where did Mary Anne go? How did she manage to outwit him and escape him--?

Creeeeeaaaak.

The Director's head snaps around. "What," he enunciates with exquisite and chilling precision, "was that?"

Renie and Therese exchange helpless glances.

"Um, ah, I think it was--" Therese improvises.

"Your chair," Renie helpfully supplies.

"Yeah, right. My chair." Therese rocks the chair back and forth a little--but, though the chair does squeak a little, there is no comparison with that metallic noise of a few moments earlier . . .

A sharp crack, followed by a high-pitched clink.

The Director looks down . . . as a small bolt rolls to a halt near his left foot.

Renie and Therese exchange glances of utter and entire despair.

The Director leans down. His fingers close about the bolt, and he straightens, and finally . . .

. . . the light goes on.

He tilts his head back and looks up--just in time to hear another ominous sccreeeeeeeak, and to see Mary Anne lean over and grab at another girder.

Even from down on the floor, The Director can see that a second bolt has started to work loose and that unless Mary Anne is removed from her perch immediately, the beam will fall.

Renie has started up out of her seat in alarm, and The Director moves, grabbing her chair and pushing it directly beneath the beam. Renie's hairdresser, who has already shown herself a quick thinker, rummages underneath the counter and scoops up a booster seat, useful for when there is work to be done with child stars. Quickly, she drops the seat into Renie's chair and in an instant The Director has climbed up into the chair--yes. The added height of the booster seat and he can almost reach her . . .

Mary Anne tests the girder on the other side. Still firmly bolted to the wall.

Gathering her courage, Mary Anne grabs the girder and swings free of the beam on which she has been sitting, dropping herself down within The Director's reach. Instantly, he wraps his arms around her waist and begins to lower her to the floor . . .

. . . and the chair begins to tip . . .

Both hairdressers make a dart at the chair, intending to brace and steady it, but they are too late.

And now the Director lies sprawled in a heap on the floor, having fallen with Mary Anne on top of him . . .

Ed stirred in his forced sleep. There was someone who needed him, somewhere he needed to be, but he couldn't quite remember… Reality was just out of reach. He could hear his name being called - who was that? He frowned and moved in his sleep, feeling the warm bodies snuggled at each side of him, and pulled them in close.

The twins had seen him sleeping and one had crawled under each of his arms and with the warmth had fallen asleep too. They were smarter than the average children, but all the training they'd gone through with the Timelords still couldn't stop them picking up on the vibes around them, and being frightened, even though they didn't know what of. And where was mummy, anyway?

In a bunny suit.

A rather helpless expression on his face, as he's confronted with the camera and cast. Pink embarrassment to the tips of his long bunny ears.

"I'm on my way to the Children's Hospital--I thought the shoot was in the other elevator--"

Renie's laughter borders on apoplectic. Making the mistake of trying to speak--"Do you know you've ruined the pacing, the mood . . . " It is no use. She surrenders to the hilarity. Too bad Mary Anne isn't here . . .

The camera is rolling as the Assistant Director finds the opportunity too good to pass up. Brandon the Easter Bunny. Perfect. The famous FOF out-takes were already being compiled for the next cast party . . .

Renie gives the Colonel a big hug. Soft and fuzzy. "I always knew you were real." Even Hans has been twisting his face about, so as not to literally laugh in Herr Colonel's fur--juzst too goot. "Luckily for you, Colonel, that the Director is still busy, where I left him." Renie grins, then shrugs a bit--"Of course, not so luckily for Mary Anne . . .

The Interrogator walks past, in a brief break from the, errrrr, enjoyable dessert scene with Claudia. HE looks into the Colonel's basket. Then at the Colonel.

"You've been working on your eggs."

The floors pass, but Renie does not notice. Did HE believe that Hans would leave her--that this would be the last straw? Did HE crave HIS son as much as she had--had HE left the world behind because HE had lost him--and her? And how had HE managed this--this, trick, this changeling test? HE always had help--but . . .

And again--without explanation, Renie sees Hans coming towards her, in anger--and then, the feeling of sailing. And the woman on the shore, trying to tell her something. The woman's face--so far away . . .

18 - - 19 - - 20 - -

One button remains stubbornly lit. "P."--as the floor number flash overhead . . .

. . . we cut to the dial numbers on a sleek cell phone . . . in close-up . . .

And we are in:

Flashback.

"Get me Colin." The voice of the CEO. Commanding.

"Yes, sir. I'll have him call you. He's--" Bruno pauses, remembering his bumbling offer of congratulations to Hans on an unsecured line. Idiot! And now Colin wasn't here. All a reflection on me. "He's--working on something."Something. Well, that sounded informative. Helplessly at sea, Bruno falters for the second time in his life in front of his boss.

Hans looks over at Renie and her doctor, deep in conversation--the doctor nods, mostly, and Renie whispers quietly.

"I want him now." *Click* The birds, he can see, are making a nest. As Hans lets the curtain fall back into place, his cell phone gives off its distinctive buzz. Goot. Colin knew the virtues of immediacy.

"Colin." It wasn't a question.

"I hope your morning has gone well?" Colin reflects on his own morning, not without satisfaction. Hans would be pleased. Either now or later.

Hans' VOICE tells Colin it will not be now. "That's why I'm calling you. I have . . . need of . . . there is an investigation. A matter of great importance. But the utmost discretion is . . . " Hans is about to say needed, and as he speaks, he happens to slide his HAND into his pocket . . . top find the airline peanut wrapper--from the hallway--and we see his face transform, as he's putting it all together . . . behind those tiger eyes . . .

"Hans?" Colin may well wonder if the connection's been broken. "Hans???"

The silver wrapper. Might it be? What could it tell?

Colin waits.

"Never mind, Colin. For now. I'll be in touch. Tell Bruno to let me know any further details on the Delaford search."

Colin can take this badly, if he's inclined. Hans has apparently thought better of assigning him something. Ordinarily, Colin would have let it pass. Hans trusted him. After everything . . But today, he feels more stung than he should.

Hans powers down the phone, as he returns to his wife . . . as we return to real time . . . in the elevator . . .

The elevator levels off. The door opens. Hans watches the look on his wife's face. Yes, she is surprised.

"I can't believe . . . " she begins.

Slowly, slowly, by fractions of centimeters, Therese lifts her head and looks up . . .

What she sees causes her to utter a muffled squawk, which she hastily covers by pretending to sneeze. The noise causes Renie to opens her eyes as well, and look up, but Renie's quick- thinking hairdresser claps a hand over Renie's mouth for a second to muffle the tiny screech that escapes.

The Director appears from behind the partition. "What's the matter with you two?"

Therese has recovered herself by now. "Nothing," she replies. "Just some loose hair making my nose itch. I had to sneeze."

Renie is not slow to pick up her cues, either. "I'm fine." She gestures to her hair. "Just a little tangle. It ouched a bit." As Renie's hairdresser concentrates intently on one of the long chestnut strands . . .

There is a long and suspicious silence.

The shssssshhhh of the hairbrush. The tiny snick of scissors.

"Well . . ." mutters The Director, unwilling to give up yet, and directing one last piercing glance toward the partition, as if he can cause Mary Anne to materialize there by the force of his will alone.

Renie keeps her eyes screwed tightly shut and bites her lip, repressing by the force of her will a bout of hysterical giggles that is bubbling ever nearer and nearer to the surface.

Therese risks one upward glance and then hastily looks down again.

Yes, Mary Anne is still up there, perched among the network of narrow steel beams that supports the ceiling, and Therese shivers to think of that climb: how Mary Anne must have scrambled up onto the back of one of the hairdryer chairs and then-- bracing herself, perhaps, against the partition--had lifted herself up into the framework of girders . . . and she had done it quickly.

Against her will, Therese sneaks another peek--and goes cold when Mary Anne, sitting on one of the beams and gripping the girder framework with only one hand, slowly raises the other to put a finger to her lips . . .

Feeling a little nervous about asking for correction right now . . .

"Where . . . is . . . she . . .?"

"Where is who?" replies Renie with magnificent nonchalance as she leans back in her chair, pretending to be relaxed and sleepy from the hairbrushing. It gives her a good excuse to close her eyes, for to look The Director in the eyes and attempt an untruth . . . well, no. Not a good idea.

"Mary Anne," growls The Director, and Renie cannot tell if it is an answer to her question, an ivocation, or a malediction. "I know she came in here; there wasn't time for her to--"

The Director catches sight of the partition nearer to the far wall.

"Ah, ha," he gloats, striding across the room, moving in for the kill . . .

. . . and comes to an abrupt and puzzled halt.

For Mary Anne is not there.

The Director shakes his head as if to clear it, and looks again. Mary Anne is not there. She is not behind the screen.

Now, here is a puzzle. No door on this side of the room. No way for her to have slipped past him and gone out the way she came in--the way she must have come in. Nothing here but a couple of the large padded chairs with the helmet-style dryers attached, a heap of towels and plastic hair-catcher drapes piled in one corner . . . and on an impulse The Director prods the heap with his foot. No movement. Mary Anne is not hidden there.

She seems to have completely disappeared.

On the other side of the partition, the imperturbable hairdressers continue their work; this is no concern of theirs, though it is rather diverting. Renie remains at her ease, or gives a very convincing imitation of it with her head tilted back and her eyes closed. As for Therese, she is puzzled but relieved by Mary Anne's disappearance, for this time The Director seems unusually ticked off at Mary Anne's mischief- making. Oh, yes, readers, Therese has been on the set long enough to have heard of Mary Anne's exploits. But this . . .

I saw her run back there, muses Therese as she listens to the tiny snips of the scissors. How in the world . . .

Therese's meditations are interrupted by a muffled thump.

"What was--?" begins Therese, but the hairdresser's warning glance silences her. Fortunately, The Director is still rummaging about behind the partition and so he did not hear the noise, nor does he see Therese's hairdresser lean down and retrieve from the floor . . .

. . . a shoe.

The steel blade grates against the sheath. Hamlet fully expects the sound to rouse The Sheriff. So much the better. The prince wants Nottingham to know who has vanquished him. Also, he has a few choice words for his enemy before he slays him.

Surprisingly, The Sheriff sleeps on. Not a natural sleep -- a drug-induced sleep. His own snoring would wake him otherwise.

Hamlet is beside himself with rage. "Wake up! Wake up and fight!"

As much as he wants to kill Nottingham, Hamlet wants even more to do battle with him. Murdering the scoundrel as he sleeps would prove rather unsatisfying.

In another attempt to rouse his enemy, the prince kicks Nottingham in the ribs. The Sheriff does not wake, but he does roll onto his side. His snoring ceases.

Meanwhile, back at the house . . .

A most thorough search is being conducted. Although the consensus seems to be that Claudia has followed The Interrogator to HIS offices, any evidence that HE has been in the house will be uncovered.

In Andrea's guestroom, Dr. Dubois watches over her patient as she sleeps. Two AR agents quietly enter the room and explain their intrusion to Marian. They try to avoid waking Andrea but are unsuccessful.

Still half asleep, Andrea asks Marian "What's going on?"

"A search for The Interrogator."

"What's the matter?" Jamie asked Charlie while she stared blankly at the notebook computer from her authorial chair. "The ol' brain not working today?" He smirked as he adjusted himself in the chair and opened his folder of papers.

Charlie turned her head slightly and eyed him as he sat across the room. "I think it needs batteries," she said with a sigh. He grinned at her and turned his attentions to his papers when, suddenly, two young girls burst into the room. Jamie, seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, looks up in surprise at the pint-sized intruders, who appear to be about the ages of 4 and 6. Charlie is staring out the window, having momentarily diverted her attentions from the computer screen, and does not notice them.

The girls march straight into the sitting room without saying a word and plant themselves directly in front of Jamie. His eyes grow wide, and he calls out Charlie's name in a startled fashion.

Charlie turns around with a grumpy face before realizing that they have company. When she sees the small figures, her face quickly dissolves into a smile. "Well, hello you two!" she exclaims. "I didn't hear you come in." Rising from her chair, she takes a step in their direction, amused by the look on Jamie's face. "How are my girls today?"

For The Director is on the other side of it.

Still, she only just makes it out the door as The Director springs to his feet, knocking his desk chair over with a crash . . .

Now she has done it. Whatever "it" is, there can be no question that Mary Anne has done that very thing. Finally. Unquestionably. Irrevocably.

Gulp, thinks Mary Anne, as she flees down the hallway in gleeful panic.

It takes The Director a moment or two before he untangles himself from his desk chair, which gives Mary Anne a bit of a head start. But it is not long before she can hear the running steps, the noise of pursuit . . . and something that sounds terribly like snarling . . .

Oops. Guess he had a worse day than I thought.

She can hear words in the snarling, now. Something to the effect that, when he catches her, he intends to execute some of his Directorial Privileges, whatever those might be. Mary Anne is not sure she wants to find out, and she does not like the verb "execute" in this context, that is for sure.

Try to lose him! Mary Anne hangs a sharp right down one of the corridors and skids through Properties, knocking over a stand of beautiful Italian foils and fencing gear.

The clatter is appalling. "Fishsticks!" swears Mary Anne, as she ducks out another door, certain that the clanging and rattling has given her away to her pursuer. And reader, do not dismiss her culinary oath so lightly if you have not sampled the fishsticks at the studio commissary.

Riiiing. Skaannng. Cling-gling. That will be The Director, running the obstacle course through the scattered swords.

Frantically, Mary Anne examines her options. Which door now?

A mad dash through Wardrobe . . .

Mary Anne pauses to listen.

The Director. Still hot on her trail.

I'll bet he could find Claudia, all right, thinks Mary Anne, as she opens a door at random and dives through . . .

Hair and Make-up.

Greetings of "Hey, Mary Anne." And, "Hi, dearest."

Therese and Renie are both relaxing under the able hands of the studio hairdressers.

For Renie, some rinses with camomile tea and apple cider vinegar to add shine to her spectacular hair and bring out the chestnut and red highlights; the stylist has just finished a blow dry on medium heat and carefully smooths Renie's glowing tresses with a soft brush.

Therese had come in with a complaint about her bangs getting into her eyes. Her stylist carefully trims the bangs a fraction of an inch at a time, pausing at intervals to consult a picture so that she will not scissor away too much. Continuity and all. It would not do for Therese's bangs to look too different from one scene to the next; the effect must seem totally natural.

Both women notice that Mary Anne is breathing very hard.

"What's going on, Mary Anne--another scene with the Colonel?" quips Renie.

"Yeah," chimes in Therese. "Funny how much rehearsal she seems to need with those . . ."

And it is only now that Mary Anne notices, with a sinking heart, that there is no other exit from this room; the door behind her is the only access.

There, in one corner. A folding screen, set up to partition off some of the sinks and older helmet- style hair dryers from the rest of the room. Some towels draped over the screen, along with some of the plastic "hair catcher" capes . . .

Mary Anne darts behind the screen. "Please, please don't tell him I'm here!"

Renie and Therese exchange puzzled glances. As for the stylists, well, they had heard all about the shenanigans on this set long before they ever came here. It's nothing they haven't seen before. Been there, done that, bought the T- shirt emblazoned with Vere, Dementer, Graviter.

Then, suddenly, The Director looms up in the doorway.

A silence, broken only by the long strokes of the brush through Renie's hair, and the snip of scissors in Therese's bangs . . .

And then, by a VOICE.

"Where . . . is . . . she . . . ?"

The Director thrusts his hands distractedly into his hair. It has been a most tiring and trying day, so when there is a knock at his door, he snaps--a bit more sharply than he had intended--"Come in!"

The door opens and Mary Anne peers timidly around it. "Am I disturbing you, sir?"

No, I was already . . . oh, never mind. "No, not at all," he replies, as genially as possible under the circumstances. "Come in. Is there a problem?"

Clutching a handful of papers, Mary Anne enters, seats herself, and looks shyly up at him. "You tell me."

The Director's eyebrow, in questioning arc. "Tell you what?"

"Whether I'm in trouble or not."

The eyebrow lowers again, dangerously. "Trouble? What sort of trouble?"

Mary Anne shrugs nervously. "Well, I've seen the notices--people suspended for the day for failing to uphold the PG standard, and . . . well . . ." Mary Anne looks down at the floor. " . . . I'm not always especially scrupulous about that myself, and I just wondered . . . whether I was about to be called on the carpet. I didn't want to wait for it, if I was." An awkward smile. "I guess you could say I'm turning myself in, sir."

A grin tugs at one corner of The Director's mouth, and he feels his mood lightening a little. "Well," he intones with mock gravity, "this could be very serious indeed. Allow me to consult my notes."

The Director returns to his desk chair, opens a black-bound notebook, and affects to examine his FOF Film Diary.

"Nothing recently," he finally announces. "The occasional naughty double entendre here and there . . ."

"Dev does not come," murmurs Mary Anne under her breath.

"What was that, Mary Anne?"

"Oh, nothing, sir. Nothing at all. You were saying--?"

"I was saying that, as of late, your conduct has been blameless and the quality of your work impeccable. You have reported to the set on time and fully prepared. Your behaviour to your fellow cast members has been gracious and cheerful; to me, you have been professional, respectful, obedient--" A sudden suspicious glower. "Out with it! What are you up to?"

"Nothing, sir! I mean . . ." Mary Anne clutches her papers close to her like a shield. "I'm just trying to do my job, I mean, and stay out of trouble."

"Then is doomsday near," quotes The Director. But at Mary Anne's stricken look, he relents. A little. "Was there anything else?"

"Nothing, sir, except . . . well . . ." Mary Anne offers the papers. "I thought perhaps you'd like to see my long-range projections for some threads I'm thinking about."

Ah. Now that is more like it! He extends his hand for the papers and settles back comfortably in his desk chair to read.

The Director's comfort does not last long, however. It is only a matter of moments before he slams down the papers in horror on the desk and turns his sternest frown on Mary Anne, who returns the ferocious glower with a look of utter bewilderment.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"Is something wrong? Is . . . something . . . wrong?! Mary Anne--we couldn't possibly . . ." He stirs the papers about with one finger as if they are too hot to touch.

"Why not? What's the matter? It's just a few ideas I had . . ."

"IDEAS?"

The Director lifts one of the sheets of paper. "Ideas, the woman says. First of all, how many times do I have to tell all of you: NO ALIENS!"

"But sir, The Doctor is an alien! And--" Slyly. "Rumour has it that you're about to be involved in another project that does have aliens in it, so you had better get used--"

"That is another project entirely and has no bearing on this one! And some of these other ideas, well . . ." An exasperated sigh. "What in the WORLD made you think your character, as you have established her, could possibly get away with seducing Hans Gruber--"

"Oh, but didn't you read the rest, sir? It all balances out, because Renie winds up in bed with the Colonel--" A frown as Mary Anne tries to remember. "At least, I think she does. And it's all an alternative timeline, anyway . . ."

"And this." The elegant Directorial finger stabs yet another sheet of Times New Roman type. "Sherlock Holmes investigates the murder of Valmont? You know you can't go around killing off characters that way . . . and you a prime suspect in the murder, yet! Along with Therese, and Dev, and Hans, and Lis, and--"

"Well, if ever a man went around asking to be murdered--"

The august Directorial countenance has gone a most remarkable shade of red. "That is beside the point! Mary Anne, you know better; what in the world . . ."

An ominous silence falls.

The Director looks closely at Mary Anne's face and sees--finally--the twinkle in her eyes, the slight twitch of her lips as she struggles to keep her face straight.

In vain. All in vain.

As The Director watches, Mary Anne opens her mouth to speak . . ."

"Don't say it," he warns. "Mary Anne, do not say it--!"

But it is too late.

Even as he speaks, Mary Anne says it.

"April Fool, sir!"

"You promised me a night off, yet you insist on getting a confession out of me before anything more happens." Her fingers tightened in HIS hair, a hint of a threat. "You want me to admit to things so you have proof against me for my friends, and evidence to save yourself if you ever get to trial again."

Distractingly he nibbled her ear, but she could feel HIS body tense slightly and the hand undoing her zip halted its downward journey. "You are paranoid, my dear. I merely want to…"

"Paranoid? In this place it's called common sense. You want to get me on public record saying I'm with you 100%. Well, nothing more is going to happen here tonight until you can convince me you have turned off every listening, watching and recording device in this room."

"If I turn them off, then no one will here what's going on in here - I could do anything, and no one would hear you scream."

The Director consults his clipboard. Claire. Check. Claudia. Check. Kari. Check. All suspended for not upholding the PG rating at FOF. He begins to shake his head when, suddenly, he hears something objectionable from the next room where the crew is watching dailies. He marches methodically across the office and steps over the threshold with an air of deliberate purpose.

"Play that back," he orders the man who is running the film.

The tape rewinds slightly with a screechy noise and then starts up again. He watches the small screen intently. Looking for proof.

And there it is. Just as he thought. That word.

He sets his jaw, raises his clipboard, and searches for the name of the woman with the long raven hair. He'd wanted to cast a blonde in the role of the perky Renie from California. But no, the casting director had insisted on someone with raven hair. Let's make it raven, so you know who's coming. Though he couldn't place it, the casting director's comment had an air of deja vu. But it certainly sounded plausible enough. And so they'd gone ahead and, with his blessing, cast Renie with the Raven Hair in the role of Renie with the Raven Hair.

He'd not regretted it for a moment.

That is, until now.

He finds her name. Renie. He puts pen to paper. Check.

And there. Just like that, Renie is suspended for a day as well.

Her offense?

One of The Doctor's most endearing (and sometimes infuriating) characteristics is his unquenchable optimism, so it is with a sinking heart that Mary Anne sees the grim expression on his face as he exits the Tardis. Not even his customary entrance of scrambling through the window causes anyone to smile or be in the least amused, and despite the comic appeal of his multicoloured clothing and his question mark umbrella, The Doctor is one very morose Timelord indeed as he paces the study, recounting his failure to locate any trace of Claudia with the Tardis equipment.

"You say," he asks, turning to Brandon, "that the dogs followed a trail but lost it in the stream?"

"Yes. And could not locate it again on the other side. So she must have remained in the water for some time."

"Quite," replies The Doctor, deep in thought. "Which implies, of course, that she had some freedom of movement. It would be very difficult to carry someone through water far enough to lose a scent like that . . ."

Mary Anne's eyes close. Thank you, Doctor. I didn't want to be the one to say it--but I knew it just the same; I knew it! No one took Claudia away . . . she went after HIM!

The Doctor, meanwhile, is absorbed in other thoughts--thoughts which he must keep to himself, for there are items of Claudia's past that are not for public discussion. Clever girl, Claudia. To evade us all so completely, even to baffle the Tardis . . . so, she did learn more at the Academy than how to drink without becoming drunk. Hmmmmm. Well, that is a possibility, there! If she can alter her metabolism to avoid intoxication, perhaps she could alter it enough to change her scent. An interesting side effect, that. Perhaps that is why the dogs could not follow her.

Aloud, he says, "Well, we are not defeated yet. We must simply use our brains, that is all."

Mary Anne smiles to herself. Easy for you to say, Doctor. Since The Doctor's intelligence quotient is literally off the scale, he has brains enough and to spare.

Once more, the Timelord turns to Colonel Brandon. "If I remember correctly, The Interrogator abducted you from the Delaford picnic, did HE not?"

"Yes," replies Brandon, very quietly. The memory of it is an evil one, and something the Colonel does not readily discuss.

"How did you escape?"

"I had help." A pause. "Mister Willoughby . . . found me and rescued me." Brandon frowns, as if suddenly remembering something, and turns to Mary Anne. "I wonder why he did not attend the wedding? He was invited, was he not?"

Exclamation of surprise from Mary Anne. "Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you! There was so much going on . . . I was talking with Renie, and one of the maids brought me Mister Willougby's reply to the invitation. He sent his regrets--he wanted to attend, but he said that Beth and Kit were both ill--" At Brandon's worried look, Mary Anne hastens to add, "Nothing serious. They were already getting better, but he didn't want to leave them. He said he would be paying a call when they were recovered."

Meanwhile, The Doctor's mind is racing. "Colonel, when Willoughby rescued you--"

"I do not remember it well," confesses Brandon. "He helped me escape-- put me on a horse and got me away, but the ride was a difficult one, and . . . I was not strong . . . I . . ."

Christopher, what on earth did HE do to you? Mary Anne thinks it, but does not ask.

And now Hudson is on her feet and pacing about. "It stands to reason that if Claudia were to seek HIM out, she would start with the nearest location of HIS offices that she could find. How she knew where to find HIM is something I don't understand--"

Mary Anne is very still. She understands quite well how Claudia knew.

"--but somehow, she knew to start looking . . . how far away would you say it was, Colonel? Can you remember?"

"Not well." Brandon's gaze sharpens. "But Mister Willoughby might."

"That's it, then. Does Willoughby live very far from Delaford?"

"Not far at all."

"Good." Hudson turns briskly to Looey. "Lieutenant, as soon as Colonel Brandon can give you directions, get a party together. I'll go with you; I want to talk to this Mister Willoughby."