Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Eamon de Valera's first thought upon regaining consciousness was that this all had been a horrible, twisted dream. His second thought was a fervent prayer to the heavens above to please make it all a dream.

Therese, his Therese, was gone, taken by HIM.

And it was completely his fault. If he had not insisted that they marry immediately, they would still be snuggled together beneath the covers of his bed. His eyes closed briefly, the pain he felt almost suffocating him. His physical wounds were slight--and were of no notice, but his soul cried out in torment.

THERESE! I will come for you, dearest. As sure as there is a God in heaven, I will come for you. And no God of mine will be able to protect HIM when I arrive. Hell will seem pleasant when I finish with you, Interrogator. And that is precisely where I shall send you, mark my words. . .

Dev rose slowly to his feet, bracing his arm against the tree, and taking several deep breaths. He rubbed the spot on his neck gingerly where the hypodermic needle had entered, before turning to look for the young groom. He found him, still unconscious, behind a nearby thicket.

The man's breathing was slow and regular, but a large welt had formed above his right eye, and he showed no signs of coming around. Dev took hold of him underneath the arms, and leaned him up against an accomodating tree. "I'm sorry to leave you, I'll send help back for you as soon as I can," he told the silent form.

Turning toward Delaford, he began to run.

. . . even as terror reigns in the West Wood, we cut to:

Brandon, alone at his breakfast.

He had left Mary Anne asleep. These past few mornings, they had awakened and gone downstairs together to have breakfast and be with their guests . . . but it is very early and Mary Anne had been sleeping so peacefully that he had not had the heart to awaken her.

No need for it. Allow her to sleep. Yesterday was difficult for her. For all of us.

Not least for the Colonel himself, but his thoughts do not linger on that. They turn, instead, to other matters: to his anxiety over Claudia and his sympathy, one man to another, for Ed. To the deft manner in which Mister de Valera had dealt with the Vicomte at dinner . . . and the somewhat less deft method he had employed to manage Therese.

Were I to attempt such a thing with Mary Anne . . . would the Aurientine pierce my heart?

It is some measure of how old wounds are healing, that Brandon thinks of this with a smile and not a shiver--though his hand does slip briefly under the dark fabric of his waistcoat and brushes against his white shirt, resting against his chest. Fingering a small scar. Old wounds, indeed.

Every now and then, Brandon remembers to take a bite or two from the food on his plate, or a sip from his cup, but the bites and sips become more widely spaced as his thoughts continue. Mary Anne . . .

Brandon, though a discreet, dignified man with extremely little to show in the way of personal vanity, would not be a human male if he were not pleased--pleased? say, rather, inordinately, uxoriously delighted--over how things are progressing between him and Mary Anne. It is as well that none of the servants walk in upon him at this particular moment; they would marvel at the way in which the master is leaning back in his seat, staring off into empty air as if contemplating some extremely gratifying vision. That little smile that plays about his lips . . . the slow lift of an eyebrow . . . they would marvel, and gossip for weeks on end.

A forkful of egg. A sip of tea.

Mary Anne.

The contradiction of her: verbally daring, she is physically shy at the most unexpected moments--yet it is never more than a brief hesitation. An interval to allow her blushes to subside . . .

Brandon smiles quietly. That had taken some time, early this morning, when he paid her the compliment of how well those blushes suit her, especially when they are not confined to her face . . . more than an interval, for that one to subside. Most definitely, a woman who was trained to be a lady--but for her the term refers to one's soul and not to one's social class.

No doubt . . . no doubt there shall be some sidewise looks at her. And at me, for marrying her. It matters nothing with John, nor with Mrs. Jennings--they take people as they find them. Amiable hearts. But there are others . . . ah, well. There is no need to subject her to that, just yet. Allow her to become at home here, and then we shall see.

In some of those circles, Mary Anne could never be considered a lady: a woman from the wrong country, of the wrong class . . .

Brandon's right eyebrow drifts lazily upward.

And all of these things aside, those society carrion-birds could not possibly consider anyone a true lady who . . .

Brandon's grin disappears into his tea, but is still present when the cup settles once more against the saucer. That bit of mischief this morning, now, that she had carried out with the waist cord of his dressing gown . . . I will wager she did not think of that all on her own-- but then again, she does have a most inventive mind.

For his own part, he had been practically helpless to stop her even if he had been inclined to do so--for they were both weak from laughing until their sides ached, teasing and joking about how this time the dashing Highwaylady would be the tender captor of the defenseless Gentleman.

I am her prisoner and ever shall be--nor would I choose to escape, not at any price.

Miss M steps in at this moment and, taking note of the master's reminiscent smile, allows herself a quick, tight-lipped grin before testing the teapot by resting the back of her hand against it. Getting cold.

When Miss MacLeod steps back into the breakfast room, Brandon has risen from his seat and is looking out the window.

"What in heaven's name--!" "

"Sir?" The alarm in her reply, an echo of his.

Brandon stares out at the approach of . . . horses. Menelaus. And Ares, his bay hunter. And the chestnut mare, Andromache.

The fast approach of the three.

Riderless, all.

Without even waiting for an order, MacLeod sets down the teapot and hurries away in search of Lieutenant Sifuentes . . .

Therese awoke in stages. She was first aware of own body once again, and could feel the cramped muscles and the hard, unyielding floor pressing against her. The pulse of her heartbeat thudded in her ears, and a faint gasp escaped her lips. She felt something hard prod her in the ribs, and turned to regard it, her vision being the last sense to sharpen. As the grey mist of awareness finally cleared, she regained her eyesight and looked up from her position on the floor to see the well shod foot of The Interrogator coming toward her once again. She feebly deflected it with her hand, and couldn't remember having felt so weak and ineffective.

"Beginning to come around, I see?" His voice was calmly inquiring, almost polite, and it frightened Therese far more than she cared to admit. She scuttled backwards and away from him along the floor until the cold, stone wall met her shoulders. Struggling to stand, her hands fumbled for a grasp on the smooth stone surface; she only made it as far as her knees, where she wobbled unsteadily.

HE crossed over to her leisurely, and standing before her offered her a hand to help her rise. She looked up at the figure of the man before her, mistrust written clearly in her large, brown eyes.

"It's not likely you'll regain your footing in any other manner," HE remarked, reaching toward her.

Therese graspd the tips of HIS fingers tenuously, and felt HIS hand clasp over her own. HIS touch was warm, and HE drew her up effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Are you able to stand?" HE asked.

Therese nodded in affirmion, and was completely unprepared for what followed. Dropping HIS arm HE pivoted sideways, strking out at her with the back of HIS hand. The blow caught her squarely across the cheekbone, and her head snapped backwards into the stone wall behind her with a resounding thud. Therese dropped back to the floor, stunned. His movement had been so brilliantly quick she had not even begun to see it coming.

HE squatted down before her, grasping her chin between HIS thumb and forefinger, forcing her to meet HIS gaze. "Repayment of an old debt, I believe you understand to which I refer?

Therese wrenched her jaw from HIS grasp, and refused to look up at HIM, her eyes narrowed as her expression hardened. Her mind worked overtime as she frantically took in her surroundings. She was in danger here, and she wanted out.

Dot and Andrea sidestep Rasputin and travel down the hall to Andrea's guestroom. Glancing back, they see Raz -- still on the floor -- eyeing them. Before entering the room, Andrea takes one last look at the priest and wonders if he really could help her.

Believing that he senses desire in Andrea's gaze, Raz stands and walks toward her slowly. "Don't be frightened."

Andrea does not move as he approaches. Her pulse quickens, and she breathes deeply. "Father Grigori, do you know . . . ?"

He stands directly in front of her. "I know that Nottingham could have brought you pleasure, but instead he caused you great pain. Now your flesh cannot give you pleasure unless I heal you. Will you let me heal you?"

Andrea breathes her response. "Yes."

There had been no warning, and suddenly the area was filled with men running toward them, rushing out from all sides the two male riders surrounding Therese were plucked from their horses as easily as flowers from the stem. Therese could hear Eamon's strangled, "Therese--RUN!!" and turning back she saw him off of his horse, the riderless bay headed back to Delaford at a full gallop. Dev was struggling wildly, the three men who captured him barely able to hold him back.

Therese spun Menelaus around toward Eamon, the horse beneath her was a battle weary vetran, and he kicked out at the approaching attackers. Still, she was only part of the way toward him when her right arm was grabbed roughly, feeling as if it would be rent clean from her socket. She hit the ground hard, but was immediately pulled to her feet in time to see poor Jasper land with a sickening thud. The young groom did not move, but Therese was relieved to see the steady rise and fall of his chest as he lay where he fell.

Turning to look at her captor, Therese's breath caught in her throat. It was HIM. The man she now knew to be The Interrogator, the same man she had kicked and escaped from the last time she'd ridden in the woods surrounding Delaford. The one Eamon had warned her about.

"Remember me, I trust?" he asked, his voice deep and mocking in her ear, he twisted her arm behind her back and held her close to his body, quickly imobilizing her. Therese saw the hypodermic needle coming toward her, and vainly attempted to flee, but she was securely pinned. She felt the slight prick along the side of her neck, and tensed her body against it, then slumped against Mr. I's chest as the sedative he'd used quickly caused her to lose consciousness.

Therese looked from Eamon to the young groom who so obviously wanted to please them, yet still also obey his employer. "Hayes, your connection to the grapevine is a good one indeed. Eamon and I would be honoured if you would consent to be our witness."

The young man flushed at Therese's praise, but looked up toward Dev somewhat dubiously. It had only been a few days since a certain Irish presence had wrought havoc in Jasper Hayes' personal domain. "Miss Gellert speaks for myself as well," Dev said reassurinly, "we are pleased by your help."

With Hayes now confident he was not to meet an untimely demise at the hands of an unstable Irishman, it was only a few moments before the three riders set out, Therese, of course astride Menelaus, Dev beside her on the colonel's bay hunter, and the groom alongside them on a bright eyed chestnut mare.

"So what do you think the parish priest will think of my attire?" Therese asked Eamon, indicating her breeches, boots, and his thick, wool sweater which covered her entire lap while mounted, and hung almost to her knees when she stood.

"I believe that he will attempt to marry you off to me as soon as he possibly can--we wouldn't want such a hooligan running amok amongst the respectable villagers. . ."

Therese laughed at his teasing tone, and pushed him gently on the arm. He was just leaning over to kiss her when all hell broke loose.

Therese awoke gradually, stretching beneath the sheet and reaching out toward Eamon--only to find that the bed she slept in was unoccupied save for herself. Sitting up, she looked around the room, but it was empty. She sighed. Her only clothes were a rumpled mess on the floor, and it was unknown whether or not her own quarters were still occupied by Rasputin. It certainly wasn't a chance she was going to take. Lying back down she pulled the sheet more closely about her, and snuggled under the wool blankets.

She had half dozed off by the time Eamon returned, and looked up at him drowsily as he stood over her by the bed. "Where have you been?"

He laid a pile of her clothing on the bed next to the pillow. "I have been making plans," he told her, an air of mystery in his voice, "and it is time for you to dress and come with me."

"What sort of plans?"

He handed her a small plate containing some rolls, several slices of cheese, and a bunch of large, purple grapes. She bit into a piece of the bread, it's fragrant, yeasty scent making her stomach rumble. It was still warm from the oven. "I have been speaking with some of the staff from the kitchen, and they have given me directions to the closest parish priest. Hayes has the horses saddled and waiting below, I have your favourite riding outfit, and the marriage license is all in order, which means I believe that you are eating your wedding breakfast at this very moment."

Therese looked up at him with a peaceful smile, her love for him almost tangible. "So this is it, then?"

"If you do not mind indulging my whims, then yes, this is it."

"Mr. de Valera, I believe that I adore you, and I will most happily spend the rest of my life indulging your whims."

Eamon gently took the plate from Therese's hands, and set it on the table by the bed. Gathering her up in his arms, he embraced her, holding her close to him, and kissing her softly. "I love you and will always do my best by you--I promise you this, Mrs. de Valera."

Therese looked up at him in surprise. "Therese de Valera?"

He smiled down at her, caressing her softly underneath her chin until she looked up at him, her gaze meeting his. "That is usually the way it works."

"Mrs. de Valera. . . I like it."

Though the grouds at Delaford are filled with beauty, there is a part of Mesmer that longs for Vienna. He misses the constant buzz of activity. He also misses one of his best friends. He smiles as he remembers some of the best times of his life spent with his friend. Mesmer lays down under a maple tree and closes his eyes. His memories take him to another place, and another world.

It can be assumed that Mesmer is truly in another universe, for he does not heara servant repeatedly calling out his name.

"Dr. Mesmer? Are you around here? Dr. Mesmer?"

Mesmer's eyes fly open as he hears his name being called. He leaps from his present horizontal position into one of a more vertical stature.

"Yes, I am Dr. Mesmer at your service. What is it you wish of me?"

The servant rushes over to him, handing him a thick white envelop.

"This arrived for you sir. The man said there is no need for an urgent reply."

Mesmer thanks the servant and finds a place to rest his posterior. He sits down and tears open the envelop. It reads:

My Dear Franz,

It has been too long, my good friend! Papa sends his reguards and hopes you are doing well. He tells me that the medicine you gave him for his headaches is working wonderfully.
Oh, Franz, I do miss your company. I am surrounded by intellects, but so many are boring. Why must we keep doing everything the same, simply because of tradition. The Court wishes me to write of gods and deities, the same old immortals who can teach us nothing new. Must it always be the same?
How is the glass harmonica? Still in good shape? I have composed a new work for it, something so new that the ink is still drying! It is dedicated to you, my dearest Franz, since you seem to be the only competent player of that instrument (aside from myself).
Are you ready for a secret? I am working on a new opera! It is going to be the best opera ever in the history of operas! I already know that the Court will oppose it...they always oppose my work. You will like it Franz, I know you will. Enclosed is a small summary. If you have any suggestions, please write them to me. You know I value your input very much. I will send you a final draft once it is completed.
I must depart. I have to compose some ridiculous piece fo rthe Kapellmeister...such idiots, the lot of them. Stanzie sends her love. Please come back to us soon.

Charlie is stunned. How does Emily know that Jamie's instrument is a "her"? Lucky guess, or is it something else?

Jamie smiles, and it occurs to him that she must be a musician, like himself. How else could she know?
"Yes, you may. Her name is Sophie."
Emily smiles. "A very appropriate name." She pauses a moment to find her business voice, and then approaches him. While Jamie points and explains what he has done to Sophie, Charlie wanders around the room. For all she knows, she might be sleeping here tonight! She knows Jamie well enough to tell that he has taken a real interest in this repair shop, even if he is reluctant to show his feelings. She glances over at him for a moment. His head is bent towards Emily, a look of fierce concentration on his face. The indentation in the center of his forehead crinkles slightly. He makes some gestures with his hand and continues talking. To Charlie, the language is indecipherable. One of the few things she is able to understand is that Jamie cares a great deal for his instrument. Though she does not understand his love for the wood, she would never begrudge him of that pleasure.

Charlie wanders over towards Jamie's cello case. She examines his case inside and out. On the outer shell there is a sticker with big, black lettering. It reads:

Royal College of Music, London

Master Class of Mstislav Rostropovich

Joy. What a troubled woman. On the rare occasions he was frank with himself, Hart understood he was as much to blame as she was for how they had drifted apart, how her hurt at his infidelities, his absences, the deals he couldn't explain to her, had turned to rage. How she had insisted that she would fight any divorce in a public and highly inconvenient way, knowing that the only way she could still hurt him was to stay married to him, an unyielding and very expensive burr in his side. Had he ever loved her? Now, he wasn't sure. Like most things in his life, his decision to marry Joy had been as calculated as any corporate takeover or outright fraud he had ever plotted. Joy didn't need his money, although she spent it lavishly. Her own substantial wealth had been a factor in his proposal, and he had used her money as freely as his in his less savory business dealings. Years ago, the humiliation of the Broken Dove scandal and the Senate hearings had finally driven her out of the country, to live among her wealthy friends on the international polo circuit. As far as he knew, she had settled in Buenos Aires, conducting highly public affairs in an effort to humiliate him, although he no longer cared, or even noticed. They had drifted this way for years, communicating through lawyers, never seeing each other. He wasn't entirely unhappy with this limbo state; being officially married kept him out of all sorts of messy entanglements, yet he didn't have to put up with a wife. She existed largely for him as a bookkeeping entry. Now here she was in the flesh. She had some news for him, she had said, news that could only be delivered in person.

She wanted a divorce, at last, to marry an Argentine polo player, oozing with charm and with a venerable family fortune of his own, and who was mad about her. The divorce would still be costly, she had said, only not in the usual way. But as she explained her terms, Hart realized that even Joy didn't know the extent of the havoc she was threatening to wreak on his well laid plans. She didn't want any more of his money, just the satisfaction of knowing he had removed her name from his companies. Joy knew that over the years he had put her name on a shell company here, a parcel of real estate there, all the better to cover his tracks. But she had no idea how liberally Hart had used her name to conceal his own assets; on paper, and without her knowledge, she controlled nearly a quarter of his holdings. More problematic, the complicated interlocking structure he had created now included at least one holding company he used in the Global Marketing government sting. Removing Joy's name from that company might arouse the suspicions of the Investors. He would have to devote some time to restructuring, he told her, buying time without revealing the power she didn't know she had. Joy had refused to leave "her" house and commandeered one of the guest suites upstairs, then spent the next hour or so sending Mrs. Brown scurrying about the big house until she had rearranged the suite to her exacting standards. Hart had retreated to his study and spent the last several hours trying to figure out how to mollify Joy and keep his latest . . . business plan. . . he preferred to call it, intact.

Hart tried Grace's cellular phone again. He waited, then slammed down the phone again. No answer. Where was she?

Dot escorts Andrea to her guestroom in order to fulfill Mesmer's prescription for sleep. As the two walk past Therese's guestroom, that door flies open and Rasputin leaps into the hall blocking their path. He appears exceedingly glad to see them and spreads his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. "Women! I have been waiting for you. Come in. Come in."

Andrea and Dot exchange glances while backing away slightly. Dot is not as familiar as Andrea with Raz. The soldier considers calling for reinforcements. "Do you suppose he is dangerous?"

Andrea does not feel threatened. "That depends on what you mean by 'dangerous'."

Raz drops to his knees in front of Andrea. His pleading eyes lock with hers. "Let me take away your pain."

Andrea is moved yet cautious. "What pain would that be, Father Grigori?"

He reaches out his hand to touch her. As Andrea takes another step back, Raz misses his mark and falls forward. On all fours now, he tilts his head and looks up at her. He entreats her once more. "Please. I can help. You need not suffer."

Andrea weakens and consults with Dot. "Do your orders cover anything like this situation?"

Dot is unsure how to advise her friend. "Not exactly. I was told to always be in the same room with you -- to keep you in sight."

Hamlet tightens his grip on Andrea's shoulders and begins to knead her knotted muscles. Bending down, he murmurs into her ear. "You have something to tell me?"

When Andrea gives a positive response somewhere between a moan and a hum, Hamlet asks Dot and Mesmer for privacy. As the two remove to a discrete distance, Hamlet drags his fingers across Andrea's back and down her left arm to clasp her hand in both of his. He sits beside her and waits.

Andrea squeezes his hand and searches for the least jarring words. After a time, she loses hope of softening the news and dives in. "George's attorney has asked that I meet with him and his client."

Hamlet is appalled. He sinks back into his self-loathing for not slaying Nottingham. "Is it not bad enough that you will face him at the trial?"

Andrea attempts to make the idea palatable. "It is possible that they want to avoid a trial as much as I do."

"He could avoid a trial by admitting his guilt and falling on his sword."

Andrea continues her own train of thought. "They may wish to strike some kind of bargain. I won't know until I hear them out. Dot is scheduling a meeting for tomorrow."

Mary Anne awakens in the gray pre-dawn light to hear movement in the room: footsteps, various thumps, a slight clattering . . . and even as she tries, sleepily, to sit up in bed, Brandon is leaning over her, swathed in his amber-coloured velvet robe.

"Stay under the bedclothes until the room is warmer, dearest."

Ah. So, he is stirring up the fire.

With the counterpane drawn up to her chin, Mary Anne lies in drowsy contentment as Brandon attends to the fireplace and stokes the flames. It is as she had anticipated: a very cold morning. She does not have to get up and look out the window to know what she would see--the raw, damp look of the landscape, if there were enough light to see it; the fields silvered with heavy frost. A late-arriving winter, determined to make up for lost time.

She can feel the room growing warmer. Brandon has the fire crackling nicely. Satisfied with his efforts, he adjusts the firescreen, then moves briefly over to the window, checking the drapes to be certain they are tightly closed against the chill; he then steps to the chest at the foot of the bed and draws out extra blankets.

Ah. No need to trouble Miss M about that, then.

And then he is beside her again, slipping beneath the blankets with a perceptible sigh of enjoyment at the warmth and comfort of the bed--and drawing her next to him, offering a good-morning kiss. "Did you sleep well, Mary Anne?"

"Well . . ." She hadn't, actually. "I did wake up in the middle of the night." The gathering chill in the room. And the little sleep she had, troubled by dreams-- though she can recall none of them clearly at the moment.

"Yes?" prompts Brandon, with an anxious look. "I fear the room became too cold. This house is well-constructed, but it seems that winter has set in--"

"True." Mary Anne turns to Brandon with a playfully accusing look. "And besides, sir, you snore!"

Brandon grins at her. "So do you, Mary Anne."

This time she does sit up. Indignant. "I do no such thing!"

Brandon is chuckling. "I am afraid you do, my dearest." A droll, teasing look. "Let us not call it by so ugly a term as snore, however . . . merely a soft, ladylike trill. Or a hum, perhaps."

Mary Anne, sitting up against the pillows. Her arms crossed. Scowling. "I do not snore." But she cannot maintain the pose of outrage when confronted by Brandon's roguish grin.

"You do not snore so very much." His tone is thoughtful, but the smile still lurks at the corners of his lips. "And when you do, you cease the instant I move you--" He reaches out to her. "Thus--" His hand upon her shoulder, so gentle she can scarcely feel it as he shifts her body so that she lies on her side.

"So," she says. "I've heard that people who snore a great deal are usually the ones who sleep on their backs; they find it harder to breathe. I can't usually sleep that way. I don't do so well on my back--"

"Not sleeping, at any rate," deadpans Brandon.

It takes a moment for that to sink in, before Mary Anne looks at Brandon, her mouth opening a little in astonishment. "Why, you wicked man--!"

Brandon is laughing. On some men, his facial expression would be innocent enough, but for him it is a positive leer. "Why, it is a compliment--"

"Compliment!" Mary Anne is giggling. "I'll 'compliment' you, Christopher Brandon, you--"

Hearty thumps follow as she seizes one of the pillows and proceeds to belabour the Colonel with it--and actually has the advantage of him for several moments, as Brandon is laughing far too much to fend her off. Gradually, however, he recovers and seizes control of the situation, divesting Mary Anne of her pillow . . . which, she must admit, she is only too glad to relinquish.

Oh, yes, the room is quite warm enough, now.

"So," she laughs softly, "when you woke up and I was snoring, you just turned me onto my side? And I never even felt it. Nice light touch you have, sir."

"You shall feel it this time, you may be sure--"

"I'm fine," Colin slurred, rebuffing the guard's attempt to take his arm again, "Henry." Colin gathered up the lapels of the guard's uniform and peered closely into his face. "It is Henry, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. Molyneux. You seem fine, so I'll just be on my way now." The guard, shrinking back from Colin's grip and the reek of gin, broke away and scuttled down the hall as fast as he could.

"Wait," called Grace, "how do I get out of here. . . . " The guard disappeared into the elevator as Grace raced to catch him before the doors closed. She missed. Turning around, she looked for Colin, who was slowly weaving down the main hallway. Grace walked fast to catch up with him and followed him to a large office. He turned again through a doorway, then leaned against the entry to a smaller office. Grace looked down at the name plate. C. Molyneux. "Is this your office?" she asked, loudly, taking him by the arm. Colin nodded and lurched unevenly into the room. His office was mostly dark, but Grace spotted a small sofa and guided him toward it. He sat down heavily, his head hanging between his knees.

"I'm so embarrassssssshhhed," he said, his voice muffled. Grace patted him on the arm and helped him stretch out on the sofa. "It's not so bad. You can stay here. It's better than getting thrown out of the Peninsula." She looked carefully at him. He was sound asleep again, his face relaxed in the dim light. She thought he would be all right, and left him to retrace his steps to the elevator. She pushed the button but nothing happened. The elevators were obviously turned off for the night. She picked up the nearest phone and dialed information for the building's security office, but when she called the guard's office the phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. Stairs? No, no good getting trapped in a stairwell. Too much like that late '80's action move filmed in this very building. Terrific. The perfect end to the perfect day. I tell the Hansbank I can't work for them, Lukas' wife shows up out of thin air, and I'm locked in the Hansbank with a passed out executive who drank himself senseless because he needs to know what I just figured out but can't tell him. I'm almost afraid to see what happens next.

Grace was exhausted and out of bright ideas. Reluctantly, she dialed Hart's number at home and was relieved when his answering machine picked up. He was either gone or on the other line; in any event she was not looking forward to explaining how she ended up locked inside the Hansbank. She decided not to leave a message. What would she say? She put down the phone and walked back to Colin's office. He was stretched out on his sofa, one hand under his cheek, sleeping peacefully as a baby. She watched his sleeping face, so smooth and free of the worry that had haunted him earlier. She sat down on the carpet and leaned against the sofa. Had she ever been this tired? Just for a moment, she told herself, a quick nap until I can figure a way out of here.

Grace fell instantly asleep. Neither she nor Colin heard her cellular phone ringing insistently in her purse.

Charlie watches as her friend clears the counter top and puts a deep blue velvet covering on top of the glass counter. Emily looks up at Charlie and smiles.

"Resorting to hiding your man in the basement, have you? Keep him there with chains? Or is it something much more risque?"
Charlie blushes at those insinuations, but she is glad to see her friend has not changes one bit.
"No, Jamie and I are not together."
Charlie feels reluctant to tell her that she was about to reveal herself, her TRUE self to him. But that can wait until there are further developments. Now is neither the time nor the place for such a private conversation.

"Well, I think it is wonderful that you have a musician in your house! They are usually full of turbulent pasts and passions just begging to be let out! And you now can have a private concert!! One of the perks of having someone musically inclined in the area. Did I mention they have a lot of passion? I must say, this one looks as if he is FULL of passion!"
Emily is grinning and chuckling, most amused at the color that is entering and leaving Charlie's cheeks.
"Passion?", Charlie asks calmly. "He has been staying at my house, and although he is interesting sometimes, there are other times when he is as dull as dishwater."
Of course, Charlie is not telling her friend the truth. Jamie is most intriguing, and she would love to know how that mind of his works. However, she is not about to admit her growing interest in Jamie just yet.
"Dull as dishwater?!! Charlie, have you even LOOKED at him? He is SEETHING with un-discovered passions I doubt even HE is aware of!"
Charlie looks over at her friend, wondering if her friend is just plain crazy, or if she is on to something. As long as she has known Emily, she has been like a human radar device. She is not often wrong about peoples' needs, wants, or secret desires.

Jamie comes over to the counter and hands his cello over to Emily. He has been very reluctant to let unknown hands even touch Sophie, but something tells him that this woman can be trusted. She takes Sophie gently by the neck and carefullly places her down on the blue velvet. Charlie's breath catches in her throat at the sight of the gleaming golden wood against the darkness of the cloth. It reminds Charlie of a museum display case.

"This is a beautiful instrument you have here, Jamie. French, I would say. Vuillaume perhaps?"
She looks at Jamie and he can only nod. It took this woman only a few seconds to determine the instrument's origins. Any bit of doubt in her abilities with Sophie fly out the window.
Jamie's head lifts, almost as if she has willed him to look at her. Emily then says quietly, "May I ask her name?"

"Could you tell me what happened to you, the first time HE took you to HIS offices. And why HE would trust you enough this time to let you come back to Delaford alone."

"That's one thing I want to find out when we reach the sick bay, Doctor."

"Even if HE is having you tracked…"

"I know. I'll try and explain. When I was with the Interrogator a year ago, I went with HIM voluntarily. I didn't know who HE was to begin with. HE'd introduced himself as Arthur, an accountant. When it became apparent there was more to HIM, I was curious. HE wanted me to work with HIM. I wanted so much for a more exciting life, and then there I was, being trained for a job as a spy, or so I thought. My first test was to help him on an interrogation - Colonel Brandon. I really don't know what would have happened then. We got to his cell and the Colonel had already been rescued. Soon after that, you rescued me."

Claudia tried to explain things the way she would for the Interrogator - using the truth to mask the fact that she was leaving large and important pieces of information out. They reached the sick bay and she hopped up on the bed and lay down. A band of light appeared as the Doctor flipped a few switches, it buzzed as it started to move slowly along her body.

"When I remembered these things I had to go back. I know more now and I'm better equipped to handle HIM. The Interrogator was wary of me at first, and set me some tasks to prove myself. "

"These tasks were…?"

"They were difficult, and easy all at once. But they would prove I was loyal to HIM. Now HE trusts me enough to send me here. If I decide not to go back, HE has ways to get me back. And then things might not be so easy for me or for others…"

"You are foolish to put yourself through this. If the High Council on Gallifrey were to hear what you've been getting up to…"

"You'll just have to make sure they don't then, won't you? You know I feel they have no authority over me anyway. I'm sure you wouldn't want me to stand in front of them and speak my mind."

"Or Ed, come to that, or any of your friends. Claudia I…" The Doctor shuddered at the thought of it, just as the machine beeped at him. "There's something in your pocket," he frowned.

"Yes, I know about that. It's the things I don't know about I want to find."

"And what is that for?"

"For emergencies," she rolled her eyes at him. "Please Doctor, I do know what I'm doing."

The light carried on scanning her body, and the Doctor's eyes flicked between the readout and Claudia's face. What did Claudia need that substance for? Another alarm sounded, this time from her leg. "I've found something."

"Where?"

"Get your trousers off."

Claudia hopped off the bed, kicked off her boots and began to unbutton her jeans. "Doctor, really, under any other circumstances…" She wriggled out of her jeans and put them on the bed under the light. No beep.

"It seems the sound it is coming from you," said the Doctor with a frown. Claudia hopped back on the bed. The machine beeped again. The Doctor ran his fingers over her thigh until he found a bump. "Just here," he said. "a tracking device planted under your skin. HE will know where you are, but he can't hear what's going on."

"How did that get there?" said Claudia thinking of all the times in the Interrogator's offices that there had been time missing, or she had woken up in her room unsure how she had got there or how much time had passed.

"Shall I remove it?" asked the Doctor. "It'll be a simple…"

In the post prior to the last one, the line should read: "Still, for all its absurdity . . ." Not "it." Thanks.

. . . and is surprised when, without opening his eyes, Brandon mumbles, "Yes, dearest . . . turn over . . ." and re-positions himself on his side, facing her once more, then settles back into the quiet breathing of sleep.

Mary Anne remains transfixed, looking at him. Taken aback.

He certainly didn't learn that from me.

She had not been accustomed to sharing a bed. But he had, once--and in a matter of days he had re-acquainted himself with it. The old habits have returned. All of them.

Mary Anne lies for a while, listening to the rhythms of Brandon's breathing and her own, and watching him. His shoulder, that she had just touched with her fingertips. If the lamps were burning, his skin--seen in their light--would be the colour of dark ivory. Or tawny gold, seen by firelight.

But what her fingertips had briefly caressed is neither gold nor ivory, but living flesh, and a greater treasure to her than the other two could ever be.

There appears before her mind's eye the portrait of Marianne displayed in the long gallery.

You were beautiful, and he loved you, I know. He still does, in a way. But he loves me, too, and I love him more than my life.

You don't mind, do you?

This imaginary address to the late Mrs. Brandon diverts Mary Anne long enough for her to begin to feel sleepy once more--and to feel peace over something that had disturbed her; as with her wakefulness, it had been disturbing her long before she was truly aware of it. She does not attach a name to what had fretted her, but knows well enough what it had been.

She moves closer to Brandon, and is once more surprised--pleasantly--when he gathers her in, drawing her to him, his limbs moving even in sleep to welcome her, draping an arm about her waist, settling one of his legs across her own before he lapses once more into stillness--and Mary Anne lies in the pool of warmth, feeling the last vestiges of the room's chill disappear as the heat of Brandon's body seeps into her bones.

Mary Anne smiles a little. Some people might consider this an uncomfortable way to sleep, but it definitely has its compensations. Months and months they had waited for each other--and now, having learned what pleasure is to be found in the bed of a good man who truly loves her, Mary Anne sighs. I didn't know what to expect, or just how it could be--but you DID know, Christopher, you did, and still you waited. Honourable in all your dealings with me. If only I had known . . .

A soft chuckle to herself, at the ridiculous mental picture: flinging herself at Brandon in an attempt to ravish him. Well, it was a bit of a near thing, a couple of times.

And after making a mental note to speak with Miss MacLeod in the morning about extra bedclothes against the chill, Mary Anne settles herself against Brandon and relaxes into sleep.

As is often the case at such times, Mary Anne is awake for a while before she actually notices that she has awakened. Frowning a little, she rubs her eyes and looks about the room.

Brandon lies quietly next to her, turned on his side. Strange. She knows from what Brandon has told her that he is usually a light sleeper because of his years of military life, yet she seems to be the one whose sleep is disturbed these days, while her husband slumbers peacefully at her side, looking as if a performance of the 1812 Overture--with artillery pieces-- directly beneath their windows could not disturb his rest.

Understandable, though, at this time. The day had been long and tiring for Brandon, more so than for her, and . . . she is not used to sharing a bed with a man. That takes some adjustment, even in such a large bed as this. Plenty of room, even if both of them had been frightfully restless sleepers. Mary Anne remembers a joke she had made with Brandon, that in a bed this size she would be lost. "You'll have to shake the sheets to find me!" To which Brandon had imperturbably replied that if she should be lost in his bed, he would allow nothing to deter him in his quest to locate her, sheet-shaking and all.

And speaking of sheets . . . Mary Anne gathers the sheet and blanket closer to her and, shivering a little, moves closer to Brandon-- careful not to disturb him, but relishing the heat of his body. Always so warm, like a hearth.

Perhaps that is what had awakened her. There is some change in the very atmosphere of the room; for the past few nights it had been blissfully warm, even after the fire had burned low, but now there is a chill in the air and even a change in the light that filters through the windows. The moon is past full, yet the beams of it are bright, sharp-edged in the clarity of cooler air. Mary Anne is as sensitive to temperature changes as a tropical bloom and she knows at once that the unseasonable warmth that had shone upon her wedding is passing away. Now for the real weather, the winter that should have already arrived. It will probably be a cold morning.

She would like to move in even closer to Brandon but does not want to disturb him, and so contents herself with lying and watching him, waiting for sleep to return.

It seems to her that she will never tire of looking at him. Her husband. Mary Anne is cynical enough to dismiss at least part of this as starry-eyed honeymoon vapouring--but not all of it. It fascinates her to watch him; to the world, perhaps, he presents a consistent appearance. When he appears downstairs in the morning, Christopher Brandon will be every iota the Master of Delaford, all that is proper and correct and irreproachable, from the first good morning over breakfast, through the duties of the day, until the last good night is spoken to his guests and he retires to his chambers.

With her. She, Mary Anne, is privileged to see that self-controlled countenance blaze with passion, glow with tenderness. The various lights and colours of his eyes. The relaxation of that role assumed for the day . . .

Mary Anne smiles, remembering how Brandon had loved her before sleep. Perhaps because of the tensions of the day, they had both been in the most incorrigibly silly mood--the aftermath of Brandon's mischief in taking the book from her hands. Ah, but he had made it up to her . . .

Mary Anne stretches a little, aware of every curve of her flesh. Beside her, Brandon feels the movement and turns onto his back, but does not awaken.

He had made it up to her. Yes. Who would have recognized the sombre Master of Delaford--Colonel Brandon, who is so scrupulously observant of the proprieties--as the man who had lingered over her body hours earlier, bestowing upon her the most outrageous endearments he could invent, love words and nicknames that had left them both laughing in each other's arms. Not for worlds would she repeat any of it . . .

Still, for all its absurdity . . . Mary Anne knits her brow in concentration, presented with a new puzzle--or a new discovery. Some men, she has been told, never really grow up. They retain some boyish qualities throughout their lives. She has heard her share of worldly- wise comments from other women, about the essential nature of men. There are no men--only tall boys. There are no little girls--only short women.

But in all of his dealings with her, even those involving some mischief and playfulness, Brandon has been most decidedly a man. The boyish quality is missing.

Little wonder. From what he's told me, his childhood wasn't so wonderful that he'd want to hold on to any of it.

Abruptly, Mary Anne is disturbed in her reflections by a low sound beside her.

Brandon. Snoring.

Again.

"Wake up," she said loudly into his ear, shaking him roughly by the arm. His only response was to lean forward and fling an arm around her neck.

"Oh no, you don't," she said, prying off his limp arm. She pushed him back into his seat and buckled her safety belt as she pulled out of the Peninsula driveway and onto Santa Monica Boulevard.

She opened the passenger side window, hoping the fresh air would revive Colin. His head lolled out the window, his hair ruffling in the breeze as she drove west. Grace still had his business card; she didn't know where he lived, but she could take him back to his office at the Hansbank in Century City, less than a mile away. She pulled up to the parking garage entrace to the office building and buzzed the security guard. At her request, the guard came out to her car to see the sleeping Colin.

"That's Mr. Molyneux, all right," the guard said, "but I can't leave him upstairs like that. What if he gets sick? Needs a doctor or something? I don't want one of the brass dying on my shift."

"Fine. Then I'll leave him with you in the guard's office." Grace was near the end of her tether with Colin. Who slept on quite soundly.

"Nuh-hug, nothing doing. I don't paid enough as it is, I don't need to babysit drunks, too." The guard put up his hands.

"Then look up his address and send him there. You must have records with home addresses, for emergencies, earthquakes and all that."

"No way, lady. That stuff is under lock and key. I'm not waking up the supervisor at this hour of the night." It was almost one a.m. Grace looked wearily at the guard.

"Ok, ok, ok, I got it," the guard said, capitulating, "Here's the deal. I'll help you take him upstairs. He can sleep it off in the gym they've got up there. There are massage tables in the locker room. They're pretty comfortable. . . ." He stopped abruptly as Grace fixed him with a look. "Or so I hear," he dissembled, knowing he was busted.

Charlie calls Jamie over to the counter. He saunters over, eyeing the girl behind the counter the entire time. The girl fails to take notice, for her attention is fully on Charlie.

"Emily, I would like you to meet my good friend, Jamie. He is the one with the cello."

Emily is completely taken aback. She is not prepared for the warm amber eyes to gaze into her gray-blue ones. She feels her entire body flush with pleasure from the intensity of his look. They shake hands, and she feels his grip is quite strong. His hands are warm, and incredibly soft, unusual with the men she has previously encountered.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Jamie" she hears herself say confidantely.
"The pleasure is mine."
"How can I be of assistance, Jamie?"
"Well, my cello has a very bad crack down her belly. I checked and it is not a hairline crack; it runs all the way to the other side of the wood. I would like to have her properly repaired."
"Why don't you bring your cello over to the counter top and we will take a look and see what kind of surgery might be required, k?" Emily blasts a full smile at him, and Jamie responds weakly by nodding his head. His stomach does flip- flops at the word 'surgery'.

Andrea composes herself and explains to Mesmer the reason for her near-swoon: The impending meeting with The Sheriff and his attorney.

Mesmer nods his understanding. "Perhaps this meeting could wait until tomorrow?"

Andrea objects. "And I'm supposed to sleep tonight wondering what they want with me?"

Mesmer exudes confidence. "I can ensure that you sleep very well. And, you'll be better equipped to face them after a good night's rest."

Andrea recalls the last occasion when Mesmer put her to sleep. She knows that he speaks the truth, and she acquiesces. "All right. -- Dot, please reschedule the meeting for tomorrow. And, please don't mention this to Hamlet."

"What--!" she startles, turning in her chair. Few things annoy her more than to be interrupted while reading, especially such a deliberate interruption as this. However, her irritation gives way to crimson-cheeked embarrassment as Brandon flicks through the pages, one eyebrow sardonically on the rise.

"Ah. Now we shall see what is so fascinating about this particular novel, that you troubled to bring it with you when we left the Safehouse."

"I think," retorts Mary Anne, rising from her chair, "that you know exactly what the fascination is! Christopher--" She grabs for the book, but Brandon evades her effortlessly, keeping the novel out of her reach as he affects to examine various scenes, scowling at some, nodding approval at others while Mary Anne fumes.

"Christopher . . ."

Though Brandon does have a sense of mischief, it is quite mild and takes no pleasure in causing distress; perceiving that Mary Anne is genuinely aggravated, Brandon grins at her and returns the book. "I have not lost your place."

"You were about to lose something--"

"No, no," protests Brandon, laughing a little as he puts his arms about her. Not a passionate embrace, this, but a warm hug, all good humour and affection, as well as absolute refusal to let go until Mary Anne begins laughing herself: partly because her annoyance is draining away and partly because Brandon nuzzles at her neck and tickles her ear by nibbling on it, as he whispers to her, "Not another quarrel, not so soon, my dearest."

"Mmmmm, I think not," agrees Mary Anne as Brandon's explorations of her neck take on a somewhat more urgent character . . . as he draws her closer yet, his fingers traveling up and down her back, causing her to shiver and press nearer until he has to move her slightly away from him--the better to open her gown, part the white frill at her throat . . .

The camera tracks discreetly away from the lovers and finally comes to rest on the book, which lies where it has fallen beside the armchair. A few moments earlier, Mary Anne had been captivated by the story; now she has, for the moment, forgotten that the novel exists.

In the background, telltale rustles and murmurs and sighs as the camera lingers on the title: Bride of the Highwayman.

Read it? She is living it . . .

Mary Anne sits before the fire, reading.

She and Brandon had sought to retire for the evening, at the close of the festivities downstairs, but Lieutenant Sifuentes had wished to consult with Brandon for a few moments about security precautions around Delaford.

Brandon had kissed her fingers. "Wait for me," he had whispered softly. Oh, certainly. No doubt of that.

She had lingered over her preparations for bed--undressing and carefully hanging up her gown in the armoire, putting away her jewels, removing the pins from her thick, fair hair and brushing it until it shone--and finally, as Brandon still did not put in an appearance, wrapping herself in her dressing gown, choosing a book, and going to sit in front of the fireplace.

As Mary Anne curls up in the armchair and tucks her feet under her, we catch a glimpse of the book. Standard cover art for this genre of leisure reading. The woman: her figure is anatomically questionable but undeniably pleasing, with its slim length of leg and tiny waist . . . and the creamy swell of bosom about to spill out of the extremely low neckline of her gown. Neckline? Not even close to her neck. A gown that remains in place, it seems, by the force of the woman's will alone-- though it might be some consolation to this heroine that what is exposed by the gown has some potential to be covered by her unbelievably long waterfall of silken hair . . .

And the man: the hero-abductor with his impossibly perfect physique. If his shoulders were any wider, they'd be in two different time zones (homage). Muscled chest enhanced by the white shirt open to his waist--but again, there is some possibility of covering all that is revealed, if he so desires, for the stormy swirl of his long black cloak is lifted as in a high wind and threatens to envelop them both . . .

. . . and the face? Hidden. Behind a black silk mask.

So absorbed is Mary Anne in the perusal of the pages behind this cover that she does not hear the door to the room softly open . . .

"Shall we, my dear?" Eamon placed his hand upon Therese's shoulder, caressing her neck gently. "Most of the other guests have retired."

"Shall we what?" Therese demanded, glaring up at Dev.

Dev swallowed. So, not forgiven yet. . ."Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb," he said aloud, to no one in particular--and once AGAIN grasped Therese around the waist, and tossed her over his shoulder.

"That all depends," she growled into his ear, "on whether or not you like mutton. Are you completely daft?"

"It certainly seems that way, doesn't it?" He turned, and headed for the stairs leading to the guest quarters. Therese noted that the Brandon's guests aclimated well--few eyes turned to watch their departure, and the ones that did seemed only vaguely amused.

Upon reaching Therese's guest quarters, Dev opened the door wide, and covered the several strides to her bed--to see a now wakening Razz look up at him appreciatively. "Zee 'ospitality here! You haff delivered to me your woman!"

Eamon sighed. He'd completely forgotten about the priest. Turning around abruptly, he closed the door firmly behind him, crossed the hallway, and entered his own quarters. "I believe it's my place tonight, dearest."

"How can you be so confident that I wouldn't prefer the Russian at this point?"

Dev winced. That was hitting below the belt. He lowered Therese gently upon his bed, and kneeled on the floor in front of her, his hands resting upon her lap, their eyes level with one another. "I will not say that everything I do by you is right, Therese, but my intentions are always the best." He ignored her snort of disgust, and continued. "And I most humbly apologize for my behaviour this evening. . ."

Therese sat for a moment in silence, and considered the man before her. His dark eyes--TWINKLED!? The laugh lines about his eyes and the corner of his mouth pulled at his features as if he could barely contain his mirth. "You think this is funny!?" she accused. "You're enjoying this, aren't you--you domineering, thick skulled, overbearing--"

"Please let us not forget barbaric, and I imagine uncouth, mannerless, incorigable--" "Oooh! You, you--" *whack!* Therese's first smack caught him in the middle of his chest, sending him tipping backwards, and she quickly followed it with a second to finish him off.

Dev couldn't contain his grin any longer, and as he fell backward under Therese's assault, he took hold of her shoulders, pulling her down on top of his chest. She was reaching back to beam him again when he clasped her hands firmly between his own. "It's always the little ones you have to look out for," he wheezed between chuckles. "My dear, you never told me of this violent streak which you seem to possess."

"I was never violent before I met YOU--and would you stop giggling--as if my giving you the sound thrashing you so richly deserve is the most humorous thing you've ever known? Oooh!" she harumphed in her frustration, which caused him to start laughing all over again.

Therese rose up on her knees, dropped her bottom on his stomach, and was halfway successful in knocking the wind out of him, his breath exhaling in a loud "Oooof!" Quickly, before she even had the chance to react, he pulled her hands forward, tipped her sideways, and covered her body with his own. "You are entirely too unforgiving," he said, the grin still very much in place.

"And you are still entirely too unrepentant." Dev stuck his tongue out at her. Therese had to giggle, she couldn't help herself. And as she began to laugh, the entire evening came into a much clearer perspective. Eamon was domineering, overprotective, and sometimes incredibly thick. But he was hers. She'd never felt more secure, treasured, or loved than when she was in his arms. He laughed with her, his beloved voice deep and rich in her ear.

"Forgive me?" he whispered, his lips and tongue caressing the tender skin along the column of her neck.

Therese could only arch her back and sigh, her arms clasping him around the neck as she drew him down to her, and held him close.

Indeed, Charlie has left his side. She sees her friend sitting at the counter, completely oblivious that there are two individuals waiting for her attendance.

"Say, you wouldn't know where I could find a good geologist around here, would you?" says Charlie.
The girl's eyes immediately leave the book, and smile at Charlie. She quips back "You know, I think I might be able to find you one!"

Charlie holds out her hand and the girl takes it enthusiastically.
"I didn't expect to to see you here! What have you been up to?" the girl inquires.
"Oh, this and that. I will have to tell you about it over a cup of tea. This is not really a social visit today. I happen to have some business for you."
"Oh, really? Business...um, I am not sure if I remember what that term means!" The girl's eyes sparkle.
"Come on, Em! I am sure you remember business. Geology running a bit slow for you?"
"Well, volcano season has been quite a disappointment. Must be the weather!"
Both the young ladies laugh like mad. They look at eachother, and the look speaks for itself. It is just good to see eachother.
"Em, there is really a piece of business for you. My friend, Jamie, has a cello that he says needs some repair. It looks fine to me, but then I am not the specialist!"
"Sure, Charlie. We will take a look at it. Where is it?"

There is a small brick building partially covered with ivy. The building itself looks as if it has seen better days. A wooden sign hangs out from a rusty iron post. The sign reads:

Page Nine Restorations

Jamie looks at Charlie and says, "Are you sure about this place? PAGE NINE sounds like it is an antique book shop, not an instrument repair shop." Charlie grins, fully aware that the place looks a bit daunting. She must install some sense of adventure in this boy!

"Jamie, hasn't anyone ever told you that appearances can be decieving? Besides, I know a few people who work here. They will take very good care of Sophie, I assure you."

Jamie looks around his surroundings doubtfully. He hugs Sophie tight against his chest. He whispers to her from his heart. "Darling, I promise I won't let them hurt you. If I have to go back to London to have them help fix you, then I will."

Charlie laughs. "Come on, scardy cat! Let's see what they can do for your Sophie." She grabs his hand and half pulls him inside to the repair shop.

The entrance is dark. There is a small flight of wooden steps, perhaps seven or eight. Charlie squeezes Jamie's hand as they reach the top. She opens a door, and a small bell announces their arrival.

Jamie examines his surroundings. 'It IS an instrument shop' he thinks. Everything looks normal. Sheet music in boxes and in cabinets; instruments hanging from the walls and in cases. Instrument cases of all different colors and sizes line the walls; introduction manuals and "How To" videos. Over in the right corner lies a bunch of Suzuki material. Images of students he taught, all holding those Suzuki books, flash through his mind.

Jamie sets down his cello and goes over to the stack of books. He is so absorbed in examining the Suzuki books that he has failed to notice that Charlie has left his side.

A young woman sits behind a glass counter. The area is well lit and instruments line the walls. Stacks of sheet music sit in boxes, waiting to be put into the gray metal cabinets. She pays little heed to the objects that are strewn about the room. Her face is burried in a book; the title is obscured from view. A smile starts to spread across her face as she starts delving into what readers have dubbed, "the GOOD parts."

"Emily, come on! I have told you that reading THAT rubbish will rot your brain!" The voice belongs to Sarah, Emily's friend and partner. She takes the book out of Emily's hand and inspects the front cover.

"Bride of the Highwayman"
"Intersting title. Shouldn't you be studying or starting on one of those dreaded thesis's that you are supposed to be pursuing? I honestly cannot see your professors approving of *THIS* as the appropriate curriculum for research." Sarah is only partially serious. Mainly she is just teasing her friend because she is, well...just a lot of fun to tease!

"But Sarah, this IS educational! I mean, where else am I supposed to learn how do seduce somebody?! Besides, this could come in real handy when I am out in the desert. You actually think all we do is work?!" The grin spreads onto Emily's face and goes over to Sarah's.

"Alright, Alright. I give up! Not only are you a pathetic liar, but you are silly as well! What am I going to do with you?" Before Emily can retort a smart remark, Sarah holds up her hand.

"No, I don't want to know! I did come her on a business visit. Is the Peterson's instrument ready to go?" Sarah is all business now.

"Yes, I did that this morning. It is all taken care of."

"Good. And you shelved a few of the boxes, right?" Emily nods her head.

"Well, Em, I am going to take a nap in the back. If you need anything, let me know. Oh, and try to keep your noises down, huh?!" Sarah preceeds to grin and duck just in time as a pad of paper comes flying at her.

Emily watches her friend retreat to the comforts of her office and smiles. The door closes, and she grabs the book off the counter. Nothing is going to keep her for the "good parts" that await!

Just wanted to let everyone know that I'll be away on holiday for the next nine days. I'm going to Eminence, Missouri to go on a one hundred mile trailride. Something I've wanted to do for ages, and this year I'll finally be loading my horse in the trailer and heading on down.

The accomodations are spartan--so email and computer time wouldn't happen even if I did own a laptop (which, sadly I don't).

Therese and Dev and Therese and Mr. I will continue when I return!

Grace looked at him. He swayed dangerously in his seat. She put out a hand to steady him, and gently shook his arm. "Are you all right, Mr. Molyneux? Would you like me to call a cab for you?" He was in no shape to drive, and looked like he might pass out right there at her table

"I'm fine," slurred Colin as he slumped against the banquette, snoring softly.

Grace looked around the room, slightly embarrassed. What to do? She couldn't just leave him here. But where could she take him? She slid around the banquette to sit next to him, gently patting his cheeks to revive him. "Where do you live? If you can walk toward the door, I'll put you in a cab home." Colin opened one bleary eye to look at her. He saw Grace, all three of her. "I live right here," he mumbled, then collapsed back against the banquette.

Grace thought he meant he was staying here at the Peninsula. Relieved, she called over a waiter and explained. She and the waiter half carried, half propelled Colin toward the front desk. A puzzled clerk told Grace that Mr. Molyneux was not registered at the hotel. "Then do you have any rooms? I'd send him home if I knew where he lives," Grace said. The clerk frowned at her computer terminal and told Grace they were fully booked, adding, "You can't leave him here. You'll have to take him out of the hotel."

Grace sighed, exasperated, and leaned the limp Colin against the front desk so she could think. She had to brace him with one arm so he wouldn't fall over. "He's a business acquaintance. I just met him today." The desk clerk gave Grace a look that said, uh-huh, I saw "Pretty Woman," too, lady, then leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "you could check his pockets for a driver's license. That's what the . . . girls . . . usually do."

Grace gave the clerk a withering look and asked the waiter to check for a wallet. There was Colin's license. Issued by the State of New York and bearing a Manhattan address. "That's no help," Grace said, showing the address to the nonplussed clerk. "Can't he just stay in the bar until he wakes up?" Grace asked, desperate now. Colin sagged lower against her and threatened to slither like a slinky to the floor as she struggled to prop him upright against the counter. His contented snore filled the lobby.

"No ma'am," answered the desk clerk, horrified at the suggestion of a snoring drunk in the elegant Peninsula bar. "You'll have to take him with you. Otherwise I'll have to call the police and have him arrested for public intoxication."

Grace couldn't let Colin be arrested. Both he and the Hansbank would be embarrassed. She had bailed out enough of her less sober friends from the Beverly Hills drunk tank to want to spare Colin waking up there. "Fine," she half-snarled at the supercilious desk clerk, "you've been such a help." She motioned for the waiter to help her drag Colin out to the valet parking lot. The valet and the waiter slung Colin into her car. She tipped them both generously and got behind the wheel.

As Jamie reached the bottom of the stairs with his large cello case, Charlie flashed him a brilliant smile and opened the front door. His eyes twinkled at the sight and the outer corners of his eyes displayed their trademark deep lines as he smiled back at her.

But he knew what he had just seen. The glimmer of remembrance -- or was it regret? -- that had flashed across her usually sunny face as he descended the stairs. At last. The glimmer he’d been waiting for all this time.

And he knew.

Knew that his work here on the island would soon come to a close. Charlie was finally going to tell him about her past. Even so, as he approached and waved her through the door before him, he instinctively knew that it would not happen tonight. Yet he had no doubt that it would happen soon.

He followed her onto the porch, closing the door tightly behind him as she headed down the stairs and around the side of the house to the gravel drive. Her shoes crunched gaily at the tiny stones under her feet as she disappeared around the corner. He stood for a moment looking out at the water with a wistful gaze. The wind blew softly at his hair and, behind him, the screen door clanged lightly against the weathered island cottage with a tinny sound.

The noise of a car door slamming shut quickly snapped him out of his reverie, and, as he turned to make his way around the side of the house, the car’s engine rumbled slowly to life and the sound of Charlie’s voice rang out over the motor’s rattled hum.

"What's he done that you have to dine alone at this hour?" he guessed, a little thickly, eyes firmly fixed several inches south of her face. He raised his hand unsteadily for a waiter and ordered another drink.

Grace looked up sharply at him. She bit back the acerbic response she thought his impertinent question deserved, and instead smiled thinly. "How can you be sure it's his fault, not mine?"

"How could it be?" Colin leaned closed and put on his warmest rumbly voice, one that he counted on to melt even the most reserved women as he curled a hand around a fresh drink.

"Sorry to disappoint, but there's no drama here. I was just working late." She had no intention of being Colin's. . . distraction. . . for the evening.

"What could be so important?" he asked, curious what drove her.

I'd just love to tell you. . . she thought to herself, taking a sip of water while trying to think of something innocuous to say. "Just some research," she answered nonchalantly.

"Devoted to your work, I can tell. Judge Cromwell was right. The Hansbank could have used you." Colin leaned even closer. "But won't he worry about you?" The alcohol took the edge off his consonants as his eyelids sagged.

"There's nothing to worry about," she parried, finishing her omelette and leaning away from him. The poor man seemed dead tired, or dead drunk, and about ready to pass out either way.

"Don't be frightened if you swoon away." Mesmer is magically beside her. "I have you."

As she is led to a chair, Andrea wonders how Mesmer could have sensed her need and moved to her so quickly. "How did you know?"

"Miss Therese?" Colonel Brandon's hand touched gently upon the inside of her left elbow, drawing her slightly to the edge of the crowd of well wishers as Mary Anne, Diggory and Tamsey Venn, and many of their other friends crowded around.

"Yes, Colonel Brandon?" she looked up and into the amber gaze directed at her with concern, and followed him willingly.

"You do not seem as happy as I would perhaps like to see a newly betrothed woman. I was under the impression that this is supposed to be a time of joy. . ."

Therese smiled fondly at the colonel, her face softened by his gesture. "I know that you have been forced into a very uncomfortable position here, sir--"

The colonel held up his hand to interrupt her. "Miss Therese, you must realize that I am not concerned about myself in such matters--" Therese's smile widened, and she did not allow him to continue. "Of course not! I would never suggest such a thing, allow me to finish?"

The colonel stopped abruptly, and clasped his hands behind his back as he fell silent.

"Eamon and I have behaved abominably whilst in your company at Delaford, and you have personally witnessed things between the two of us which I certainly wish no one else knew. We are a volitle couple, Colonel--I'm sure I do not need to tell you that. He is a thick skulled, domineering lug, and I am a stubborn, flighty girl who often acts before thinking. In other words, we are eminantly suited for one another." She paused, her large brown eyes softening, and grinned up at the man before her impishly. "And when I do not want to strangle him--and, heaven help me, even when I DO wish I were tall enough to wrap my fingers around that thick neck of his--I love him and cannot imagine my life without him."

"You are absolutely certain?"

"Completely and utterly."

"Then I wish you both all the joy and happiness one may possess. And as a wedding present, I would offer Delaford for your nuptuals, should you so desire?" "Colonel, that is a very kind, and most generous offer, but I know that Eamon wishes to marry in Dublin (Therese crossed her fingers behind her back self-consciously--she wasn't going into why there currently was a drunken priest asleep on her bed in the guest quarters.). However, there is something you could do for me?" Therese turned her large eyes up toward him, working them full force.

The colonel stifled a chuckle. Eamon was clearly besotted, and with those huge, imploring eyes--well, things were not, perhaps, as bad as he had once supposed. "Miss Therese, I believe you realize that I would find it impossible to refuse you most anything--save Menalaus."

"Colonel! As if I would attempt to bribe your favourite horse from your stables." She looked hurt. "If I thought it would work, perhaps I'd try--" she grinned at him teasingly, then her face straightened as she grew serious once more. "As you know, I have no family to speak of. True, I do have an older half brother--though his relationship with me was much as the one you shared with your brother, so I need not explain why he will not be attending my nuptuals. This leaves me with a distinct lack of male relations, and well, you have been so kind and protective toward me. . .far kinder than any male related to me by blood. . ." Therese faltered awkwardly as she hesitated, unsure whether she asked too great of an imposition.

The colonel looked down upon the slender little figure before him, a tender smile warming his features. "Miss Therese, I would be honoured to escort you down the aisle. Mrs. Brandon and myself will most happily attend your wedding in Dublin."

Therese's face broke into a radiant smile, and she hugged Colonel Brandon impulsively.

Mary Anne seizes a moment to approach Therese. Brandon is conversing with Dev, and that is one conversation Mary Anne will not attempt to overhear.

"Congratulations, Therese. I . . . think."

Therese turns to look at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Brandon. I . . . think."

Mary Anne takes her cue from Dev--the most innocent gaze she can summon. "Have I done something wrong?"

Therese makes a small throat-clearing noise that comes out sounding like hrrrmphh. "Wrong? Oh, no. Nothing at all. Just that my--" The velvety brown eyes crackle lightning in Dev's general direction, then turn back toward Mary Anne. "--fiance' slings me over his shoulder like a sack of Irish potatoes, right here in front of the whole world--"

Mary Anne is smiling. She cannot help it.

"--and I look over at you, and what do I see? There you are, smirking and giggling like a . . . like a . . ."

"Genteel hyena?" suggests Mary Anne.

"Right! Whose side are you on, anyway?" demands Therese. But Mary Anne can see the reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and now they are both laughing as she moves in to give Therese a hug, which is heartily returned. Still . . . the look on Therese's face as they step back from each other does not bode well for Eamon de Valera.

Hastily, Mary Anne tries to smooth things over. "Well, it could have been a whole lot worse, you know."

Small wince from Therese. "Yes. I do know. But I don't think he'll ever be trying that again."

"Not after what you did to him." Small, wicked chuckle from Mary Anne. "If he knew I knew that . . ."

Therese's look says it all, and then some. "Hmmmmm--'mortified' wouldn't begin to express it."

"He loves you very much, and he's trying to protect you from Valmont." Mary Anne holds up one hand to stop Therese's automatic protest. "Yes, we both know you're a grown woman, but Valmont is dangerous, I tell you. Listen, at least Dev kept the duel verbal at the dinner table."

"Yes, he did do that." A brief pause as Therese sips from her glass. "I suppose I had better get used to him trying to protect me."

Mary Anne's gaze rests briefly on Brandon as he speaks with Dev, and Therese smiles a little to herself at the luminous look on Mary Anne's face, then clears her throat to attract Mary Anne's attention back to her. Mary Anne blushes a little to be caught staring at Brandon with such unabashed adoration, but she returns Therese's grin and murmurs, "I do hope you'll be very happy. A man can have worse habits than being protective, you know."

"Oh, I know," returns Therese. "And I'm sure we will be. Happy, I mean."

Therese then turns her eyes upon Dev and Colonel Brandon until, feeling her look, both men glance up. Brandon's nod invites the women to join them, and as Mary Anne and Therese move in their direction, Dev indulges a tiny inward groan at the expression on Therese's face--that is, the expression that lurks behind her pleasant "company" smile . . .