Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

They took their coffee into the living room and moved the couch to face the large window that overlooked the street. Placing their feet up on the sill they watched the traffic and the people go by. The lights were off. “You really surprised me you know.” She continued to look out the window.

“Did I?” He knew what she meant.

“Yes. I never would have expected you to bring this up.” Still looking out the window. It had begun to rain and the few cars had turned on their wipers, the rain illuminated by their headlights.

He put his arm around her, “I’m glad that I can surprise you. I should hate to be too predictable.”

She leaned against him, “little chance of that, I should think.”

“Cindie.”

There was something about the tone of his voice which set off alarm bells in her head. “Yes, Patrick?”

“Have you thought about the fallout of what you’re thinking of doing? That is to say, how it will affect the other aspects of your life?” A couple walked by across the street and paused to kiss in between the pools of light made by the streetlights, heedless of the raindrops.

“How do you mean? You said you’re not worried about Anton, I know most of the other cast members are, well, attached to their co-stars…”

“Not that. I mean the rest of your life. Your everyday, I’m going to go the market or to a restaurant, or to a movie, life.”

“No, I guess I really hadn’t. It doesn’t seem to bother you though.” She recalled their dining out and their recent trip to the market together. People had generally maintained a polite distance.

He looked at her, considering. “It is different for me. Remember what you said yourself, it took you awhile to work up the nerve to talk to me.” His tone was bland but it brought Cindie up short.

“I did say that.”

“And you meant it. You see, it is different for me, than it will be for you.”

“Because of the sort of character you play.”

“In part.” He rubbed his lower lip with the back of his index finger, “I had, as they say, a small taste of my own medicine at the Anniversary Party.”

“Brandon.”

“Indeed, Brandon.”

“But that wasn’t the same. You were susceptible to that character right now.”

“Yes, that is true. But it brought home how I am perceived -- as my character.” A car fishtailed on the now slick roadway. “Not everyone is as capable of discernment as you.” She shook her head, Brandon had rattled her too, in a different way. Mistral smiled at her, full and free for a moment, before his expression turned serious once again. “To many I will be no one but HIM. Remember that night at the Stag and Thistle?”

As if she could ever forget it. Their first dance. Dances. She had nearly lost her senses in his arms. That wasn’t what he meant of course. “You mean the way you handled Therese’s pushy fan?”

“I mean the fact that a total stranger felt he could impede Therese simply because she spent time in his living room or bedroom once a week. Even if that time was spent as a character on a television show.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought about it like that before. “Is it very difficult for you?”

He shrugged. “No, I would not complain, but it is a lifestyle.”

“But do you think that would happen to me? I won’t have a big part or any thing. I can’t imagine…”

“It is precisely because you cannot imagine that I bring it up now. It is something you must consider before making your final decision.” He pulled her close and tilted her head to look at him, “I will be there for you. I will protect you as I am able. But if you chose to do this thing, it will change your life.”

“Yes.” He would protect her. It occurred to her that she ought to bristle at that. She ran her fingers through his hair. She seemed to like to do that quite a lot. “I would be more in your world.”

He started. “You are in my world.”

She understood his alarm. “I didn’t mean that I had to do it to be close to you or that I was thinking about it because you’re an actor, just that I might understand better what it is you do. How you do it.”

“I would not wish for you to have to understand too much, too fast.”

Now she did bristle. “Patrick, I’m not a child…”

He placed a finger lightly on her lips, “I know.” He moved his finger and hand to caress her jaw line, “Believe me, I’ve noticed. I don’t mean to condescend, just care.”

“Careful, you’re very close to being perfect right now.” The enormity of the undertaking struck her again, “Of course I’ll have to take classes, maybe try to get into some workshops. I’ll be busy with maintaining my regular duties too.”

“If you truly wish to do this, I will assist you. I have taught some classes, and” he smirked, “some consider me quite good. But I won’t have you exhausting yourself trying to do too much. We’ve already had one person fainting away, I won’t allow you to run yourself into the ground.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. But I can’t give up my regular job, especially with everything going on right now.” She settled back on the couch and put her head back. “Besides, there’s no rush. Like I said its all speculation right now anyway.” She sipped her coffee and enjoyed the feel of his arm around her, their bodies close together, watching the cars and the people and listening to the rain and the sound of his breathing.

Cindie
- Friday, August 31, 2001 at 17:28:02 (PDT)

Police Station
End of Day One of the Investigation
Mary Anne, Barbara, Sandy, Alexander Dane, Sveyn (intern), Geoff (intern) and Ed were all interviewed

"Vanders," Silvert said. "The set designer." Graff frowned. "She's the one with the missing mail packet that mysteriously turned up once she was threatened with termination."

Ah, Graff mouthed silently, enlightenment dawning. "Mysteriously, indeed," he said.

"The envelope she produced for us appeared authentic, Miles," she replied.

Graff shook his head. "I have no doubt that it really did go through the post, Ekaterin," he clarified. "Perhaps whomever she'd mailed them to never intercepted them, so they tried something..."

"Direct." It was not a question.

Graff nodded.

"Then Ms. Vanders is on the list." Silvert scribbled a moment. "Long or short?"

"Long list. She has an alibi for the entire evening," he said.

Silvert checked her notes. "But not for the night."

Graff started. "What?"

"According to Mrs. Kathryn O'Guinn, the widow who lives in the flat next over, Ms. Vanders never did come back that night."

Graff's eyes lit. "Really?" he asked, speculation in his tone.

Silvert smiled. "Really."

"Her alibi is the hairdresser, Allen," Graff mused. "Let's move him up a day."

"Fair enough." The two officers then discussed their interviews with Sveyn and Geoff, the FoF interns. Silvert flipped her notebook over and looked at the next interview. "The writer, Sandra F______."

Graff's face crumpled. He looked over at his partner. "There was no need for her to be malicious, Ekaterin. We're trying to find a writer's work. I thought that another writer would want that to happen."

"Perhaps she's jealous?" Silvert suggested. "The Claudia and Ed storyline is an older one. Bigger fanbase, perhaps?"

"Perhaps." Graff didn't sound convinced. He sounded despondent.

"Looks like Ms. F_____ gets another interview, Miles." He looked up. "Obviously, since she deliberately set us up, we can't take her comments at face value. Let's take her in, mirandize her." Her lip curled. "If she wants to play hardball, Miles, we can play harder than she can...."

"No."

"No?"

Graff sighed. "No. No hardball, Ekaterin."

"Miles..."

"She did say she had an offbeat sense of humor."

"Miles, she did it deliberately. You were practically falling over Dane in admiration and awe. It's one of the reasons I don't go to science fiction conventions with you. Once was enough. Watching you follow Isaac Asimov around like a lost puppy was too much..."

Graff grinned. "He was a great man."

"He was a science fiction writer, Miles. We're not talking Jane Austen, here."

"No, he was better than Austen."

"Miles!"

"He was a scientist, Ekaterin. And an author. And a teacher. And a lecturer. He was a genius. He was everything Alexander Dane pretended to be on Galaxy Quest." Graff's face sobered. "It seems like Dane pretended to be a lot of things," Graff said thoughtfully. Silvert's eyes narrowed at the residual shame and hurt in her partner's face. Like being a gentleman? she snarled silently. Even at your worst "bad fan," you didn't deserve that. Actors, she thought with increasing contempt. Actors. It was fast becoming her favorite curse word. (homage)

Graff continued. "Let's consider Dane seriously, Ekaterin. He had opportunity. And motive. I'm sure the last thing he wants to see is another action figure of himself."

Silvert eyed her partner's turnaround with trepidation. "Do you think the thefts are not related after all?"

Graff met her eyes with a level gaze. "I think the missing laptop is a red herring. I think the key to this is the designs, especially after what I heard after the meeting this morning."

Flashback to FoF Sets ~ Hallway outside the Nottingham Courtyard Set

"Claudia. Ed," the Director had called out, with a soft, yet carrying voice. All that theatre training coming to the fore. "The police tell me that, when and if they find the laptop and the papers, they'll be holding them as evidence until the trial, should there be one. At the earliest, that'd be sometime next year."

"That's a little late, innit?" Ed had asked.

"Exactly, " the Director had continued, crisply. "We need to solve this ourselves, before the police, if we want to get those designs back before we lose the momentum of the development arc. Or FoF will go the way of the dodo bird. So, when dealing with the police, I want maximum inefficiency, incompetence and error. You've worked with the interns, Claudia," the Director had said. "Be creative." (homage)

Claudia had grinned and given him a cheery wave before she, Ed and the Director split and went their separate ways.

Graff had stepped from the shadow of the open door. For a brief moment, he'd been livid that Rickman, Claudia and her partner had the nerve to interfere with a police investigation, and had been ready to leap out and slap them all with charges. Then he'd thought better of it. Never do yourself what you can con an expert into doing for you. That's what Hawkins would have said. Tactical judo from the master herself. (homage) Graff had grinned. He'd sit back and let the experts do the footwork in the big bad world of the entertainment industry. They wanted to think of themselves as being far ahead of the game, didn't they? He was willing to let them continue thinking so. Besides, working with a studio meant positive media relations with... the media. And the police department could always use some good press.

"Hmm," Silvert said. "Good idea, Miles. Let them run. If they get on top of things, we can always yank their chains and haul them back. Besides," she smiled coolly, "they can do all sorts of things we can't. The joys of the private citizen."

Graff smiled back, his spirits buoyed. "So that leads us to Ed."

Silvert smiled, warmly. "Yes. Ed."

"You like him?" Graff asked. "Even if he's part of the -- uhm --"

"Citizen Patrol?" Silvert asked. "Yes. I like him. He's very together."

Graff felt a brief flash of jealousy. "He's an actor."

"But he's a painter first." Silvert yawned. "Let's call it a night, Miles. We can go over these other two interviews tomorrow morning."

Graff's face stilled. "Yes. Dane and Ed."

"Besides, we've got this 'Mistral' fellow tomorrow and he's apparently a hard nut to crack."

Graff's eyes gleamed. "Yes, and you won't believe what my Welsh connections have told me...." He continued with what he'd heard from some insiders in the Welsh police.

Silvert listened quietly, her eyes wide.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Sandy, don't worry! It's all good ;), - Friday, August 31, 2001 at 14:33:13 (PDT)

In the "where credit is due" department:

Check out the site Focal an Lae--The Word of the Day in Irish for more information on Irish Gaelic. Here's the URL:

http://www.lincolnu.edu/~focal/

In the sidebar, click on "Features" and then scroll down to find the Irish curse engine and generate your own Irish curse. It also includes a pronunication guide, if you really want to take a crack at sounding like Dev. ;-) Interesting and fun!

MA
Let's not even get into what the War Goddess and the Sea Cat can do to you . . ., - Thursday, August 30, 2001 at 20:45:40 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

Several seconds pass, during which Therese scowls while Dev and Mary Anne stare at her in consternation, then look at each other, then back at Therese.

And suddenly Mary Anne begins to giggle. Dev glances at her as though he suspects she has lost her wits, but as her helpless laughter continues his expression softens imperceptibly into something approaching a grin, as he turns to Therese and wryly observes, "Ah. The Voice of Reason is heard in our land."

"Well, somebody had to do something!" retorts Therese, though she is beginning to smile a little as well. "Mary Anne, are you going to be all right?"

For Mary Anne is wiping her eyes with a napkin. "Ohhhhhhhh," she sighs, the last notes of her laughter escaping. "Yes. I think I will be, now. Therese, you must be feeling much better!"

"I am, thank you. But if I have to be the Voice of Reason, then we’re all in bad trouble. Now you two behave yourselves."

"To hear is to obey," intones Dev, earning himself a casual swat, while Mary Anne contents herself with a tiny "Yes ma’am" that not even her blue-eyed innocence can render convincing.

"Now," announces Therese, folding her arms. "We’re going to get to the bottom of this, because I can’t stand wondering about it any longer. And I especially can’t stand all this bickering. Here’s the rule: if everybody’s yelling, then nobody’s learning. So when one of you talks, the other is going to listen."

"In that case," Mary Anne puts in quickly, "there’s something I wanted to say before anything else. Dev—" She turns to face him. "What I said a few minutes ago, about your habits and eavesdropping . . . I apologize. That was a hateful thing to say, and you are a guest in our home." A pause. "And our friend. Please forgive me."

"I do." An unspoken for that hangs in the air, until Dev adds, "And I know it looks black against me, but I truly did not mean to overhear your conversation with the Colonel. This was the way of it . . ."

Carefully, then, Dev explains how he had come to be in the library. But there is no evading the issue of what he had heard when he was there, and Mary Anne is acutely conscious of his eyes upon her, his probing gaze that challenges: Will your side be so easy to explain? However, she finds it easier to bear than the dead flatness of his look when he had asked if her reasons mattered.

That was "The Monster," she thinks. That was the expression that had earned him denunciation as coldhearted and inhuman, because he had trained himself to look on horror and show no feeling. Very convincing—except that Eamon de Valera is far from emotionless, and Mary Anne now understands the effort behind that public persona as she has never understood it before.

"Mary Anne?"

She comes to herself with a start as Therese breaks in on her thoughts. "Now, Mary Anne. You get to talk, and Dev has to listen." An impish glance from Therese. "And pity the man, if you will, because it’s hard for a politician to hush up and let somebody else talk. And Eamon—" Her voice rises over his muttered aside, something to the effect that he’ll get her for that later. "—she’ll find it much easier to tell her side of it if you pull those old ruthless eyes back in a little bit and stop glaring like you’re about to put a mallacht on her. As for you getting me later . . ." The grin turns wicked. "I can hardly wait, but we’ll have to figure out how to keep Joanna away."

"What’s a mallacht?" asks Mary Anne.

"It’s a curse," replies Dev, removing his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose. Without the shield of the lenses, he appears tired, almost vulnerable, and Mary Anne feels safer in a way that she cannot explain. Dev has his fears and weaknesses just as she does, and though he loves Therese, he will hear reason, now—now that the first explosion is discharged.

"You probably did something very much like it, as a child," Dev continues. "You know the sort of formula: ‘may the fleas of a thousand camels,’ and so forth. Except that ours tend to be more colourful."

Therese is smirking in anticipation. "Tell her a few!"

"Very well." Dev leans back in his chair and considers for a moment, then calmly pronounces, " Go gcreime na gráinneoga cealgrúnacha do chuid fo-éadaigh."

Mary Anne is already chuckling in anticipation. "I know I’ll be sorry for asking, but what does it mean?"

"May the malevolent hedgehogs gnaw at your underwear."

Hoots of laughter from both Mary Anne and Therese, as Dev watches them indulgently, then offers: "Or perhaps you might prefer, Go salaí maorlathaí míthrócaireach do ghrianán rúnda."

"Oh, I know this one!" chortles Therese. "You told it to me before!" And at Mary Anne’s urging, she happily translates, "May a pitiless bureaucrat soil your secret bower!"

"Ugh!" exclaims Mary Anne, though she is chuckling and ready to ask for more examples, until Dev’s look alerts her that he cannot be put off forever. Though he is prepared, now, to treat her with more understanding, he will know what he will know.

"Dev, do you have any of those that would be appropriate for . . . HIM?"

Dev’s eyes narrow. No laughter, now, as though a shadow had fallen over the glass.

"For The Interrogator," he replies, "There is only one." He does not resort to the Irish Gaelic now, but intones in clear English for all present to understand. "A short life. A hard death. And a slow fire, for eternity."

Silently, Mary Anne refills her cup and drinks, before setting it down. "What you heard in the library was true. I did break The Interrogator out of prison, and I . . . was HIM . . . for a time, in a way you’ll find hard to believe. Would you pronounce that on me, then?"

Therese tenses warily, ready to intervene once more, but this time Dev outdoes himself, reaching across the table and briefly grasping one of Mary Anne’s cold hands in his own, before releasing her fingers and firmly assuring her, "Never. It’s not a thing to say of one’s . . . friends. Tell us, then, and don’t be afraid . . ."

MA--oh, Cindie, so you went "to the movies," did you?
" Somewhat highly charged," indeed!, - Thursday, August 30, 2001 at 20:39:15 (PDT)

“Do you think so?” She fixed him with a look of her own, wishing she didn’t care so much about his opinion, caring anyway. “It is good to hear you say that.” She recalled what had brought them around to this topic in the first place, “but I still can’t believe the way you went at Anton.” He released her hands and they went around her mug.

“Imagine how it would have gone if he had been making advances towards you.” He smiled that predator smile.

“I’m not sure whether I like that or not.”

“I did tell you, did I not, not to mistake my patience for indifference?” His voice was quiet and his eyes had gone smoky.

“Yes, you did.” Her eyes held embers of their own. She dipped her head and took a sip of her coffee.

“Then don’t expect me to be indifferent to anything you do.” He took a sip of his own, his mind registered that it was Hawaiian Kona again. “Although I do not expect you to consult me in all your decisions, I will be interested.”

“Yes. Of course.” Truth be told she rather liked that. “Just so you don’t go beating up my co-star,” she added, feeling that amendment might be necessary.

“Why do you think I let him talk first?” His eyes glinted again, “Gruber men aren’t to be trifled with lightly, my dear!”

She made a noise into her coffee cup, “No, I suppose not.” She regarded him over the edge of her cup. “Neither are you I expect.”

“No. That’s true.” He absently stirred some milk into his cup, “though usually I just have to let HIM out of the box for a bit and there’s an end to it.” He continued to sip his coffee, his face expressionless with no hint of the internal debate he was waging with himself. He decided. It was on his mind, best to discuss it now and see where she stood. “That does bring to mind something of which we have not yet spoken.”

“What is that?”

“Exclusivity.”

This was a surprise. She hadn’t expected him to actually want to talk about this. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who would want to be pinned down, give up his freedom. “How do you mean?”

Did she try to be maddening or was it a natural gift she possessed, like perfect pitch? As in I don’t want you seeing anybody else. Ever. “I mean,” he was speaking slowly, choosing his words, “there isn’t anybody else. No one else I’m seeing.” No one else I wish to see. Ever. “I would make you the promise, that as long as we are …dating, that I won’t be with anyone else.”

“And you wish the same promise from me.”

“Only if that is what you wish.”

“Is the fact that I was talking with Anton what brought this up?”

“It brought it to the front off my mind, yes.”

“But I’ll need to work with him, possibly other actors too. Will that bother you?”

“Does it bother you that I work with Mary Anne? With Suzanne?” He ticked off his co-stars on his fingertips, “Renie, Claudia, Therese… Andrea.” He gave her a steady look, “have had scenes with content that has been somewhat …highly charged?”

“Somewhat! Now its my turn to say that I wouldn’t have you think so meanly of yourself! Patrick, you,” she ran a hand through her hair, at a complete loss for adequate words, “you are so good at what you do. But, to answer your question, no, it doesn’t bother me. Not that way. I know its professional.

“Of course, as it will be for you.” He’d keep a close watch on Herr Gruber just to be sure, of course. “But that isn’t what I meant.”

“Oh. You know I do things with Chandos?”

“Yes. You are friends are you not?”

“Yes. But its not, well, romantic. I’m not seeing anybody else either.” She stared at him for a long moment. “Is that what this is? You want to make sure I’m not dating anyone else?”

His mouth twitched, “I hadn’t meant it to check up on you, but, yes, I did hope that we were in agreement on that point.”

She smiled, he looked so solemn, so serious. As if she could manage to date anyone else at the same time as she was seeing him. “Patrick, you ought to know that I find the one man quite sufficient.” Her smile was his alone, “I don’t want to see anybody else either.”

“Good. It is settled.”

Cindie
Wait a minute, that's not what they were supposed to talk about . . ., - Thursday, August 30, 2001 at 16:36:55 (PDT)

Another yummy scene Magda! What could possibly be next?

Should be interesting to see George get himself and his beloved out of this tight spot!
Christine
- Thursday, August 30, 2001 at 07:04:58 (PDT)

Cindie--re: possible stolen line. It's okay, because I'm pretty sure I stole that line from an episode of Doctor Who! ;-D

MA
Sandy--OWWWWwwww and LOL!! , - Thursday, August 30, 2001 at 04:53:58 (PDT)

After they’d eaten she got up and started the coffee. While they waited for it she turned to him and asked the question she’d meant to ask him earlier. “What in the world were you and Anton Gruber about today?”

He chuckled, mostly at himself, but at her as well. “I wondered if you were going to ask me about that.”

“Well wonder no more, but tell me! You both looked like big cats ready to pounce each other over some carcass.”

She’d been leaning back on the counter but crossed to him when he put his hand out to her. “My dear,” she sat down across from him, “I will not have you speak so meanly of yourself.”

“What on earth do you mean? I was the carcass? Did you suppose Anton and I were having a torrid affair because I stopped to talk to him today?”

“No. Not exactly. But you really could have mentioned what you two were planning.”

“It’s too soon. We haven’t even talked to the Director about it yet. Besides,” she looked at him with a touch of wariness now, “it’s hardly something for which I need your approval.”

“Oh, so you’re doing this to prove you don’t need my approval, is that it?”

“No that’s not it!” Her tone was all indignation. She ought to have seen that glint in his eyes right away.

“What were you planning on doing, waiting until we were in the same scene and then casually bringing it up?”

She finally realized she was being baited. “Actually, Patrick, I don’t know what I’m doing at all. It seemed like a good idea when Anton brought it up, but now I’m not so sure.” Then what he’d said caught up with her. “What do you mean, the same scene? We wouldn’t have any scenes together, would we?”

“We might. If your character is going to be at the trial. My character is the object of the proceedings you know.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.” The coffee had finished and she got up and gathered mugs and the carton of milk, glad to do something just then.

“Why not? We’ve exorcised that particular demon, haven’t we?” He took the mug from her obviously trembling hands. Hadn’t they?

“Yes, its just that…. Yes. I just hadn’t thought about you watching me!” Her words came out in a rush now. “What if I can’t do it?”

“You can do it.”

“I’ve never acted before.”

“The Director will help you through it.”

“What if I’m no good?”

He gathered her hands up in his and fixed her with a long look, making certain that he had her full attention. “Good? My dear, you will be …superb.”

Cindie
Poor Graff, maybe things will go better for him with Mistral's interview?
MA--correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe I've stolen that last line from you.;-D, - Wednesday, August 29, 2001 at 18:05:34 (PDT)

Uh-huh.... suuuuuurrrrrreeeeee....
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Too, too, cruel Sandy!, - Wednesday, August 29, 2001 at 14:51:08 (PDT)

The preceeding opinions expressed by Alexander Dane regarding sci-fi conventions and the fans that attend them are solely his own and not those of Flights of Fancy.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Sandy
It's really bad when you start writing disclaimers for your posts, - Wednesday, August 29, 2001 at 14:31:37 (PDT)

Slight flashback, Egyptian Cave/River Set:

Ekaterin Silvert frowned as she went over the list of staff that they had interviewed thus far in her mind as she and Graff made their way towards their last interview of the day. One actress, obviously an intellectual, but a bit... otherworldly..., a mercurial staff writer with a rather unique sense of humor, and one actor/painter completely ga-ga over his co-star. She glanced over at her partner and quietly sighed at the glowing little boy let loose in the candy store expression on his face.

The two stopped as the doors to the Egyptian cave set were opened to allow a pair of the occupants access to the hallway - set workers by the appearance of them. "Oh, it's you two," one of the men said, glaring at the detectives as if he had stepped into some gum that was stuck on the bottom of his shoe.

"We're here to interview Alexander Dane. Is he on-set at the moment?" Graff asked. Silvert winced inwardly at the eagerness in his voice yet her face remained neutral.

"Yes. He's getting made up at the moment for his next scene," the second man replied distractedly, listening to something that was being said into his headset. He took in both detectives' appearances, raised an eyebrow when he saw Silvert's shoes and smirked. "Mind where you walk, Detective. It's slippery in there and we don't want either of you to have an... accident, do we now?" He barked a command into his headset.

"Thank you for the warning. We appreciate it," Silvert replied smoothly, filing away the implied threat for discussion later at the police station. "Now if you could just point in which direction he's located. We don't want to disrupt..."

The first man interrupted her rudely with a soft, "It's a little too late for that, isn't it?" Graff decided to return from la-la land at that moment and blinked in startled surprise at his comment. The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"When you enter the set, go straight and take a left at Camera A - the first camera that you'll see. It's a bit convoluted in there because of the way the set's constructed, but there's a spot to the side where the actors sit when they're waiting for any changes that need to be made in lighting, etc. He's sitting over there. Now, IF you'll excuse us," he finished and the duo hurried down the hall, speaking in low voices. The second man threw a resentful glance over his shoulder before they turned the corner.

"Ouch," Graff said, shaking his head as they entered the set and gazed around curiously at the huge set. "There's the camera," he pointed at a camera perched on a crane. The detectives carefully walked through the maze of equipment and wires. Jack and Melanie appeared before them as they turned yet another corner, talking and laughing. The laughter abruptly stopped when they spotted the duo and their faces visibly soured as they approached the detectives.

"Can we help you?" Jack asked icily. Melanie's green eyes flashed in resentment as she glared at them.

"We're here to interview Mr. Dane," Silvert answered coolly.

Jack waved his free arm in the direction that he and Melanie just came from. "He's just around that corner," he replied distantly.

"Thank you. Will either of you be available to interview tomorrow?" Graff asked, hurriedly scribbling in his notepad.

The couple exchanged glances. "Noon is the best time for the both of us, I *suppose*," Melanie told them, her voice husky with barely repressed revulsion.

Silvert noted the time in her notepad and nodded. "Very good. We'll see you then," she said crisply. They moved over to the side and the actors walked past them, speaking quietly. Yet another couple, she mused silently as she observed Jack hug Melanie close to him. There must be something in the air here...

Graff consulted his notepad. "Well, at least we didn't have any difficulty getting last names for those two," he sighed as they turned yet another corner.

"That's just because their engagement announcement was in the local newspaper," Silvert remarked. "It's rather hard to publish one with first names only."

Graff chuckled at her terse observation as they turned the corner and his gray eyes glazed over as he saw Alexander Dane reading from a script. A makeup girl finished applying a deep cut to his cheek and said something to him. He looked up from his reading and his rich laughter echoed warmly back to them.

Still smiling, his eyes shifted in their direction and it immediately faded from his face, where it ws replaced with a distant, bored expression. The makeup girl picked up her makeup case and left with a soft, "Excuse me." He nodded curtly, put his script down on the small table next to him and rose to his feet as they approached.

"Detectives," Alexander greeted them. He held out his hand and Silvert shook it briefly. "Mr. Dane," she said softly.

His left eyebrow lifted in disdain as he looked down at her. "I do hope that you plan on keeping this short, Detective," he informed her with cold precision.

"We'll try to keep this as brief as possible," Silvert replied as she let his hand go and glanced at Graff, who bounced forward eagerly and completely missed the ice in the actor's voice. Damn it, Miles, don't you dare...

"Mr. Dane, it's *such* an honor to meet you, sir!" Graff's gray eyes were shining with admiration as he pumped Alexander's arm up and down rapidly.

"Reeeaaallllyyyyy," Alexander drawled, looking more bored by the second. I honestly think he's trying to shake my arm off... Behind Graff, Silvert was turning the most interesting shade of red. Temper, temper, my dear detective. A little bit more and steam will come flying from your ears, he thought to himself.

Again, Graff missed the warning note in his voice. "Absolutely! I'm *such* an admirer of your work on "Galaxy Quest" as Dr. Lazarus. What a wonderful character!" He straightened his posture and with his free hand, he held his hand up in tribute. "By Grabthar's Hammer..."

Alexander pulled his hand away from Graff's grasp as if he was burned by his touch, hazel eyes narrowing in fury. "Don't you EVER say that in my presence again!"

Graff's face paled and his eyes widened in disbelief. "But... but...." he stammered, his posture drooping. "I... I... I... thought...."

"You thought... You *THOUGHT*... Detective, I'm quite surprised that you're capable of any cognitive thinking processes whatsover," Alexander hissed, his voice rising as he continued speaking. "For twenty years, I have had the distinct so-called privilege of being forced to listen to people like YOU at cheesy *science fiction conventions* while I wore a stupid rubber headpiece and signed autographs by the score because I'd be sued for breech of contract if I didn't -" he spat the last words out as if it were a disease. Graff's mouth dropped open in shock as he stared at the menancing figure glaring down at him as if he were nothing more than a bug just waiting to be squashed under his boot.

Alexander saw Silvert's face twist into a grimace before her color returned to normal and settled into the serene expression she displayed during the all-hands meeting. My, my, my. She's absolutely *furious* because I've taken her job away. Some people simply just don't know how to share, he thought to himself with detached amusement. "Do you have any idea at all just how bloody *annoying* it is to hear that EVERY ROTTEN, STINKING DAY WITHOUT FAIL?!" His voice thundered in the now-silent set.

"No sir," Graff mumbled. His eyes were firmly fixed on the floor, cheeks flaming. He realized with a sinking sense of shame that he had just made a complete fool of himself before someone he admired so much. He had dreamed of meeting him for years, and he had blown it all to smithereens with three small words...

"I'm not surprised at that either. Before all that nonsense, I performed Shakespeare. You *have* heard of the man, haven't you?!" Alexander snapped, lowering his voice to a soft purr of disgust. He didn't even wait for the stunned man's answer. He simply averted his eyes away from Graff and fixed his gaze upon Silvert, who returned it calmly. "Are you bloody well going to conduct this interview or not?" he demanded with a growl. He sat down in his chair and gestured crossly at a couple of empty chairs.

"Of course," Silvert replied softly and took a seat across from him, noticing that the background noise and shouting started up again. Graff silently took a seat next to her, avoiding any eye contact with Alexander whatsoever. She asked the questions while Graff scribbled away in his notebook. Alexander answered them grudgingly, occasionally rapping his fingers on the table as a visible show of his impatience.

"I think that's all we have for now. Thank you for your time, Mr. Dane," Silvert closed her notebook and rose to her feet, Graff following suit. "We'll let you know if we need to question you further."

"Yes. Right. Whatever you say," Alexander rolled his eyes and waved them away in dismissal. He stalked away from them, his posture straight and proud as he joined a couple of the actors waiting for him so that the next shot could be lined up properly.

Silvert shook her head and gazed at the dejected form of her partner sympathetically. "C'mon, Miles. I'll buy you a cup of coffee and your favorite doughnut before we go back to the station," she said softly.

"Thanks," Graff muttered, still looking a bit shell-shocked as they left the set to angry stares and mutters - and several derisive snickers. The two ignored whatever was said and shut the door behind them with a loud yet satisfying slam.

"Hey everyone," Alexander said to the small group assembled by the 'river' cheerfully as he joined them. "Sorry I took so long. Ready for the next shot?"

Jack snickered behind his hand. "You thoroughly enjoyed yourself, didn't you?" Roberta asked, grinning wickedly.

Alexander simply returned the grin, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgement before the lighting director told them to move to their marks.

Sandy - presenting Alexander Dane, sci-fi convention appearance burnout
Poor Miles. He deserves a large box of Godiva chocolates after all that...., - Wednesday, August 29, 2001 at 14:08:24 (PDT)

End of Day One of the Investigation
Mary Anne, Sandy, Alexander Dane and Ed have been interviewed
Police Station

Silvert and Graff went over their notes. Graff had transcribed the interviews word-for-word; Silvert opened her notebook filled with jotted implications. Silvert looked over at Graff with disgust. "It must be nice to have an audiographic memory, Miles," she said.

Graff looked up, pained. "Actually, if I couldforget the interview with Dane, I would," he replied.

Silvert winced in sympathy. "You know what happens when we get personally involved with our subjects, Miles," she said. "Bad ju-ju."

Graff nodded, morosely. Silvert jerked her chin at the interviews he held. "Let's get to work. What do we have for... Mary Anne?"

Graff shrugged. "She had opportunity. She may have the ability. But I don't see a motive," he said, flipping through the pages.

Silvert pursed her lips. "You don't know women's clothing, Miles."

"Expensive?"

Silvert flipped through her notes. "Cashmere. Silk. Designer labels. Italian shoes. Haute coutre," she said. "She's doing two jobs, getting paid for one--"

"--well paid?" Graff asked.

"Apparently."

"Hmm."

Nothing else seemed forthcoming from Graff, so Silvert continued. "She could be strapped for cash."

"Hmm."

"That book."

A look of wistful pleasure crossed Graff's bibliophilic face. "Vita Nuova," he said.

"And the Dante? The Michelangelo?"

Graff looked over at Silvert. "Implications?"

"She's a bit of an intellectual. She might not have the same sense of property rights as the rest of society. 'Higher laws' and all that," Silvert said.

"Hmmm."

"She's on the list, then?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "Brandon may be in the clear. Although.... dogs and dead men don't speak."

It was Silvert's turn to "Hmmm." They sat in thought for a moment.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
- Tuesday, August 28, 2001 at 18:17:46 (PDT)

"He smiled now, a quiet glimmer of a thing that lit him up from the inside."

*****SIGH*****

MA
Also chuckling over "the cornflakes du jour," the fanning (not just the oven that's kicking out heat!), and . . . "this is my first." 8-), - Tuesday, August 28, 2001 at 18:12:07 (PDT)

She pulled into her designated spot leaving Mistral to find a place on the street. That ought to give me a few minutes to start dinner and wash up. She thought with some satisfaction. It worked. Even the charmed Mistral had to hunt for a bit before finding a spot and she had washed up, had water on the boil, and was preheating the oven by the time he knocked on her door. “Welcome to Chez Cindie.” She beckoned him in with a flourish and he kissed her cheek. Thinking better of it he kissed both cheeks, must keep to the spirit of things.

“If I had known, I would have at least brought a bottle of wine.” He closed the door behind him and secured the bolt.

“No need. I’ve been shopping, remember?”

“You mean I’m not being served the cornflakes du jour?”

“No cornflake flambé for you tonight, my …friend.” He caught her hesitation and wondered what word she had thought better of using. She continued, “would you like to lounge while I cook or sit here and keep me company?” She indicated to the little table in the breakfast nook.

“Why don’t I set the table?”

“Good plan.” She took out a bottle of wine and poured a large quantity into a saucepan and began to chop mushrooms and shallots. She set the rice to simmer and took out a container of salad from the fridge. She handed Mistral the bottle of wine and he poured them each out a glass. He surreptitiously checked the label before doing so. It would do. She pointed out where everything was and he laid tablecloth and candles, china and silverware. The place was filled with the fumes of sautéing shallots and shitakes in no time. He watched as she tipped those out of the pan and placed two thick slices of filet mignon in the skillet. After one side was seared she turned them over, added back the mushrooms and shallots and the wine sauce, swirled some butter in and popped it into the oven to finish. “I’ll be right back.” She stroked his hand which held the wine glass, “I’m going to slip into something more comfortable.” She’d pitched her voice into a throaty purr and was rewarded with an arched eyebrow. When she emerged from the back, he discovered that she was as good as her word. The loose fitting t-shirt and culottes were probably very comfortable. The sandals were very nice, black strapped and open toed. Not one to be outdone, he stood up and took off his suit jacket and placed it on a hanger in her hall closet and even loosened his tie. When he looked back she was fanning herself.

“That oven really kicks out the heat!” she exclaimed, pulling out the skillet which held their dinner. “I hope you like it,” she remarked as she dished it onto the two plates he’d set out. He brought the rice over and placed some on the plates as well. He’d become quite at home in her little kitchen after their evening of chocolateering. They sat down across from each other and Mistral topped off their wine glasses. She smiled at him, almost shyly and then looked down at her plate.

“Thank you,” he said it very softly and she looked up in surprise. “You are the first woman who’s ever cooked me dinner.” He smiled now, a quiet glimmer of a thing that lit him up from the inside. He reached over and squeezed her hand and his smile widened. As he watched a light pink began to creep up her throat and cheeks.

“Really? I mean, I would have thought…” Whatever her thought was, she evidently was having difficulty giving it expression and she again stared intently at her china plate.

His form of gallantry might not be traditional but he couldn’t leave a damsel in distress. At least not this damsel, and not this particular brand of distress. “My dear, whatever other dinners I’ve shared and with whomever I have shared them, the fact remains that as far as a woman caring enough to cook for me by her own hand… this is my first.”

She felt the pressure of his hand again and squeezed back. The warmth of those words melded with the wine. She looked up at him again and saw the deep glow of his eyes. The ridiculous shyness which and suddenly gripped her fled leaving a diffuse sense of pleasure and belonging. Absurd perhaps, but somehow the thought that her little dinner seemed to touch him, mattered. It mattered that it was a first, a small first, but still something he hadn’t shared with anyone else. She knew her face was still flushed but didn’t care. If he would give her the gift of his consternation and grief, she wouldn’t be embarrassed by her feelings living in her face. She smiled at him and he withdrew his hand. They began to eat.

It was delicious. She’d seasoned the rice with saffron and stirred in some fresh chervil at the end, everything was perfect. As he’d watched, the colour had receded from her cheeks but her skin still shone in the candlelight. She was beautiful, she was clever and candid. She was his.

Cindie
MA -- feel free to leave more anytime!
I just adore Ed all gaga in love!, - Tuesday, August 28, 2001 at 17:23:15 (PDT)

**I'd be more then willing, if only I could actually muster up the courage to call the place...** Miranda said to the cat through her mind almost mumbling the last part.

**I beg your pardon?** Tommy asked her looking confused in a cat like way.

**If only I could muster up the courage to call them, I said!God I hate it when people need it spelled out for them!(homage, my first I guess)** Miranda said to the cat and rolled her eyes.

**Sorry, but it seems as if your upset at something, Will you tell me what? Oh yeah, I'm just a cat, you wouldn't want a cat who can't even talk to anyone else about it to know all your troubles now would you?** Tommy said and walked over and jumped on Miranda's lap.

**No I'll tell you. Since you are a cat...Well, like you said. It's school mostly and Vanessa and Tina. Well, not realy Tina but it's Vanessa. She still owes me that one scene and that one scene has actually put me behind! But school is just a hastle, so much homework, so many people to have to put up with especially because they are all like, 'hey you're that girl from FoF arn't you?' and I have to tell them yes at least one million times before they will leave me alone! And then worst of all they ask to see my wings, which I don't like to show them off alot, it's almost like showing your private parts of to people to us angels... You just wouldn't understand.** Miranda told Tommy and sighed not really sure what to do now.

**But I do understand! But wait a minute, you are an angel why are you going to a mortal school? Don't they have schools in Heaven you can go to?** Tommy asked looking confused in the cat way again.

**Yeah there is but I like going to school with mortals better, much funner then up there. I don't know why either, it's just that way...** Miranda told Tommy and shrugged. At that moment Vanessa and Tina walked in talking and giggling at who knows what, probably just another inside joke that Miranda wasn't allowed to hear.

"Why are you guys so late?" Miranda demanded and gave them the evil look that she usually uses in cases like this.

"We where practicing out cellos in orchestra, God don't be so pushy!" Vanessa told her and sat down in a chair next to Miranda's desk.

** I'll be going now, I think you have your hands full enough.** Tommy told her jumped off her lap and walked out the door, out on yet another kitty adventure.
Miranda
angels, talking cats, and Chinese food, OH MY!, - Monday, August 27, 2001 at 14:04:35 (PDT)

Correction made.
Poor Graff, indeed!
D.o.C.

Whoops! D.o.C., could you kindly change "as neatly" to "as he neatly"? Thank you!
Sandy
*sighs*, - Monday, August 27, 2001 at 09:20:05 (PDT)

FOF, Egyptian Cave/River Set:

Alexander Dane sat quietly in his chair as the makeup girl, Lily, refreshed a large "bruise" over his left eyebrow. "Could you move your head just a bit to the right, Alexander?" she asked softly as she glanced over at a still-shot of his head from a nearby television monitor.

He complied with a quiet, "Of course," and closed his eyes as she delicately re-applied the makeup over his eyebrow. His thoughts turned inward as he contemplated the staff meeting with the two detectives that morning. No, make that the two pains in the necks - one of which is an overenthusiastic FANBOY... UGH... he silently growled.

"Is something the matter, Alexander? I didn't poke you in the eye by accident, did I?" Lily's voice hurriedly broke in and he opened his eyes. He gazed at the young girl in surprise. She looked rather upset and more than a little worried that she had done something to incur his wrath. She bit her lip and moved her hands away from his face.

Oops, mustn't let my temper get the best of me and scare the poor thing half to death.... He blinked a few times to re-adjust his eyes to the brightness of the set lighting. "Oh no! You didn't do anything. I was just thinking about this morning's... meeting..." he reassured her hastily.

"That was no meeting," Lily replied with an angry glint in her light brown eyes. "That was a series of veiled accusations presented in a nicely wrapped package." She sighed as she dipped her makeup sponge into a deep purple base and feathered it across his forehead with expert precision.

"That's a surprisingly diplomatic way of putting it," Alexander muttered. "They've bloody well managed to disrupt everyone's schedule here with their poking around and..." his eyes widened in surprise as Jack came running onto the set at top speed past one of the boom operators heading straight towards him. Not watching what he was doing in his eagerness, he stepped into one of the water puddles on the set floor and slid, his arms waving back and forth frantically as he struggled to keep his balance.

"LOOK OUT! COMING THROUGH!" Jack bellowed as a set decorator almost got plowed over as he slid across the floor. Several people immediately moved away from him, yelling as they got a free shower in his wake. He somehow managed to come to a complete stop without falling on his face and panted loudly to catch his breath. Alexander rose to his feet and stared at him in silence for a moment.

"I never knew that floor surfing was one of your hobbies," Alexander finally drawled, eyebrows raised as he rose to his feet and walked over to the younger man. He could hear Lily attempting valiantly not to burst into laughter behind him.

"Ab..."pant "...solutely. Although... it's a fairly"cough "new hobby that I've taken up. You must try it sometime, Alex..." Jack finished with a wheezy chuckle as he caught his breath.

"I'll think about it," Alexander answered wryly, the corners of his mouth curving up in amusement. "Any particular reason that you came flying in here risking life and limb?"

"Actually there is, believe it or not," Jack said, reaching into his shorts pocket and producing a scrap of paper folded up several times. He gave it to Alexander, who looked at it curiously. "Sandy got interviewed and she asked me to give you this." The deep brown eyes began twinkling.

"She did, did she?" Alexander's left eyebrow raised up and he shook his head slightly as he started unfolding the scrap of paper.

Jack nodded in confirmation, a grin crossing his handsome features. "She had a bit of fun tweaking them," he said as he recalled her final exchange with Graff. Poor man, doesn't have a clue as to what he's going to get into if he says you-know-what...

"I'm sure she had a grand time for herself. She hasn't had a good day if she hasn't tortured at least one poor unsuspecting soul," came the dry reply. The two shared a hearty laugh. Alexander looked up as he finished unfolding the paper and saw Melanie hurrying over to them, her eyes flashing with distress. "I think you're in trouble."

Jack laughed at Alexander's observation. "When *aren't* I in trouble, Alex?" he winked. Alexander nodded in agreement, laughter rumbling in his chest. "Hi Honey!" Jack said cheerily as she approached them.

"Sweetheart, please don't try to kill yourself before the wedding," Melanie sighed as she put an arm around her fiance's waist.

"I should wait until afterwards then?" Jack asked, straight-faced. He laughed and kissed her as she groaned. "I'll try to behave," he promised, squeezing her close to him.

"Nah, don't behave too much. Where's the fun in that?" Melanie replied, returning the kiss and squeeze as the two walked away. Alexander watched them talking and laughing with the faintest hint of a smile crossing his face. He sat down again so Lily could finish her task and began reading Sandy's note. His eyebrows disappeared underneath his bangs as his eyes scanned her neat, precise Palmer script. He suppressed a series of chuckles at her observations and smiled at her final sentences:

"....it's too bad I won't get the opportunity to witness the carnage, but I'm sure I'll be hearing about it soon enough. See you at 7, love."

Sandy

Alexander's hazel eyes gleamed in anticipation as he neatly re-folded the note, placed it in his shirt pocket and sat back in his chair while Lily began coloring a "bruise" on his right cheekbone. He knew exactly what he was going to do and he planned to enjoy every last second of it.

Sandy
Poor Graff... He has no clue what he's getting himself into ;-), - Monday, August 27, 2001 at 09:16:18 (PDT)

Miranda's . . .

The tabby cat blinked at Miranda slowly. **I think you should wait a bit before you go meet Julie for dinner.** Miranda' eyes went wide as she heard the familiar's mindvoice for the first time. As Miranda was an angel, she had enough of a connection to the infinite to hear him, but he usually only spoke to Julie.

**You can talk?**

**I don't usually talk to any one else but Julie. Some people may be able to hear me, but there are few of them. I took a chance on you. I can mindspeak because I'm her familiar, her guide. People used to think that familiars were demons, but a true familiar isn't. We're spirit animals that help people who are open to magic. I was just a little desperate.**

"Why?" Miranda asked out loud.

**Because Julie is about to have a really important meeting really soon, though she doesn't know it.** the cat blinked and Miranda could have sworn that he was smiling. **She has to stay in the mess for a while so all the pertinent people can stumble across her, so to speak.**

**Oh-kayy,** Miranda nodded slowly.

Purring, the cat laid on the floor, curling his tail around his body. **What do you think of Chinese food?**

***

The mess, FoF

Julie had been sitting here for hours, proofreading and revising her own script. It had been nice to get out of her cubicle, despite the fact that she had just finished decorating the place. It was quite good getting a small meal and a candy bar, as well (homage). She tapped her silvery-green gelwriter against her teeth and continued making corrections. Tommy had padded off quite a while ago, but she chalked it up to him just doing "cat things".
Julie <flashcat@csinet.net>
Technojinx, MA. My bad . . . , - Monday, August 27, 2001 at 07:48:32 (PDT)

Double deleted.
Oh, my! Now we have two villains to watch out for.
D.o.C.

And how in the heck did I double post, when I know I didn't hit the Submit key twice?! D.o.C., if you please . . . but it's a mystery to me, this time.

MA
As always, I blame The Interrogator! Or was it Voldemort this time? =8-O, - Sunday, August 26, 2001 at 19:05:58 (PDT)

Oh, and Jutta--WHAT a post! Poor Snape . . . this is going to be quite an adjustment for him, though I don't think he's going to take it lying down. *anticipatory grin* I can hardly wait to see what you'll think of for him next!

MA
- Sunday, August 26, 2001 at 18:02:18 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

"That ‘help', Mary Anne . . . was it yours?"

"Yourrrrs," thinks Mary Anne. The accent always comes out . . . And the words, spoken in that resonant baritone, should be clear enough but it seems to Mary Anne that she hears them from far away, from the end of a long tunnel as her vision grays and . . .

No.

Deliberately, Mary Anne reaches for the polished silver teapot and wraps her fingers around it, wincing a little at the contact with the metal—not hot enough to burn, but still uncomfortably warm, and the shock of pain brings her around. Indeed, she could almost laugh as Dev pushes his chair back slightly and appears braced for anything, even having the teapot and its entire contents flung at his head.

But one glance at Therese cures Mary Anne of any desire to laugh. She cannot help remembering Therese as a guest at the wedding, her face alight with her happiness at being present with Dev and with her great love for him, and the confidence of being well-loved in return; her eagerness to mingle and make friends; her wholehearted enjoyment of life. The woman who had raced through Delaford in her bare feet, looking for the library . . . how can it be the same woman seated on the other side of the table, with that drawn, exhausted face? Frail as bone china, she looks, and this isn’t helping—but if I said so, she’d probably take my head off. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Therese, it’s that she’s a whole lot tougher than she looks . . .

Mary Anne lets go of the teapot and shakes her tingling fingers. "I’m all right," she mutters—though no has asked. And Dev is waiting for the answer to quite a different question.

"Yes." Mary Anne clasps her hands together on the table, beyond caring whether anyone sees them shake. But I won’t faint, and I’ll be damned if I’ll whimper in front of His High-And-Mighty Irishness. Anger, yes, coming to her rescue and overriding her fear, though in some corner of her mind she acknowledges that Dev would not be Dev if he did not ask. "Yes, HE did have my help."

Therese lets out a long breath that is almost a sob. Dev, however, does not stir by so much as a millimetre.

Once again, Mary Anne forces herself to look into his eyes—and this time, not look away. A well-remembered voice, from the deep places of her memory: No, do not look away! Answer!

"Would you like to know why, Mister de Valera?"

"Does it matter?" Tonelessly.

"It might," she snaps. "You have a few skeletons in your own closet, you know. Have you thought about the rattle they might make, before you go digging around in mine? Or have you already tried and convicted me, is that it? Judge, jury, and . . . executioner?"

With as much sarcasm as she can muster, Mary Anne holds out her wrists, and Dev shakes his head impatiently. "I know you’re not a fool, Mary Anne! How can you believe that I would harm a woman? What you must think of me!"

"And what you must think of me!" cries Mary Anne, uncomfortably aware that she is close to losing control of herself. To weep would be too humiliating. "That you could—could think—that I’d ever help The Interrogator willingly—" She looks at him more closely, then, as an idea occurs to her. The best defense is a good offense . . . "And why has this come up all of a sudden, I wonder? Dev, were you in the library yesterday? Is that how you found out?"

The words might easily be pronounced by a machine. "Yes. I was."

"So." Mary Anne settles back in her chair. "Eavesdropping, in a house where you’re a guest—well, a lifestyle of guerilla warfare and all. Old habits die hard, don’t they?"

"I was not eavesdropping!" thunders Dev, even as Therese bangs her fist down on the table, making the china clatter and the teapot ring as she exclaims, "Will both of you please SHUT UP!"

MA--all right, Therese, whatever you say! 8-)
Cindie: "It's tomorrow." A little something for you to read . . ., - Sunday, August 26, 2001 at 17:59:30 (PDT)

Severus Snape was fully aware of his situation. He was without his magical powers, them probably being removed forever, sitting in a muggle house and being taken care of by this muggle girl, who sewed the little scratch on his eyebrow.

Sewed.

What muggles wouldn´t do to get along without magic.

*You are also a muggle now* said a nasty little voice in his head.
Yes, he was a muggle now. A person without magic powers. He thought of last night. Or had it been the night before? He couldn´t tell.

He had been in the Forbidden Forest to get some special plants for a potion. When he had turned to get back, someone had stood on the path: Lord Voldemort, the most evil wizard that ever walked the earth. If ever a wizard had deserved to be burnt at the stake, it was him. Snape had once been a supporter of Voldemort, in his younger and somewhat wilder days when he´d thought the world should look different. He´d wanted to be powerful, with magical powers superior to everyone else´s, wishes Voldemort promised to fulfill. He had learned a lot from Voldemort. But killing people because you thought they were a disgrace to the human and magical race alike was different from killing everyone who crossed your path just for fun. What had been an uneasy feeling at first grew into disgust as the war between the good and evil magical world raged on. He had changed sides. With his help, Voldemort had been defeated. Temporarily.

Before he could react, Voldemort had pointed his wand and had hit him with a paralysing curse which kept him aware of what was happening around him, but made him unable to do anything. Voldemort bent over him:

Hello Severus. How nice to see you again after all this time, a happy time for you, a miserable time for me, thanks to you. Now I´ve come for my revenge.

Snape had rarely been afraid of anything, but there he had been horrified. He hadn´t been afraid that Voldemort might kill him, but what he would do to him before he killed him.

Don´t worry, I won´t kill you, Not now.
I had time to plan my revenge carefully, Severus. What I will do to you will be worse than death. You will suffer, Severus, like I suffered.

Voldemort had staightened up and mumbled something. Snape had been aware that something around him changed. They were somewhere else. He could feel a different ground beneath him.

Here we are.

Again, Voldemort had bent over him.

I thought about what would be the worst for you. Of course I could torture you with incredible pain for years, but I´ve seen that before. People go crazy after a few days and I want to see you suffer longer. So I decided that you will go through what I went through: helplessness.
I will remove your magical powers, Severus.
But I will take more away from you than your primitive magical abilities. You wanted power, being respected, feared and admired. You had that when you were with me. But you threw it away and settled for less.
Now you will have to settle for nothing.

A mercyless laughter.

You were never good at asking. Especially asking nice. You should learn it quickly, for you will be completely dependent on muggles to help you. You will be at their mercy. I will throw you into a world you´ve never been before. No one will respect you.

Voldemort had paused, obviously to let the message sink in.

I will isolate you from the magical world. Every message to a wizard or witch will burn to ashes in their fingers, you will be mute when trying to talk to a wizard, your gestures won´t be understood. Everyone you sent to contact one of your friends will have forgotten what to say and who sent him. No crystal ball or magic mirror will show your picture.
You will be alone, Severus.

Voldemort had staightened up and started his horrible work. He had muttered spells and curses Severus had never heard before. But then Voldemort was a very powerful wizard who knew a lot more that everyone else. Through his closed eyelids he had seen the strong lights which accompanied the spells.
Then it had been over. Voldemort had laughed softly.

I will leave you now. Think of me sometimes. Goodbye Severus.

He had been able to move again and had looked around. He was still a forest, it was still night. But the *lumos* he said had failed to illuminate the darkness and so had the *incendio* to make a fire. He´d tried a couple of spells. Nothing had worked. He´d sat there in the cold darkness and had known what Voldemort had meant with *helplessness*.

„Are you alright?“
The question brought him back to the present: „I beg your pardon?“
„Does it hurt?“ She pointed to his eyebrow, where she had placed a dressing over the sutured wound.
He shook his head:“ No.“
The doctor mustered him with kind curiosity. „Did you have breakfast? Are you hungry?“
Now that she asked...he was hungry. „Yes, I am.“
„I was about to go to the mess to get myself something to eat. Would you like to come with me?“
The thought of having to have her company during lunch wasn´t pleasant, but he had no choice. You will be at their mercy.
So he just nodded and got up.

Jutta
I hope I don´t mess it up this time! Keeping my fingers crossed..., - Sunday, August 26, 2001 at 12:18:16 (PDT)

FoF Sets -- Ed's Rooms

The painter picked at some color staining his fingernails and laid a finger on the name Silvert had written in her notebook. "My parents gave that to me. It's useless. I don't bother with that," he said to the detective. She glanced over at Graff, who shrugged. "Then how do you want to be addressed, Mr....." Silvert trailed off.

"Ed."

Graff suppressed a grin. "Mr. Ed?"

Ed shook his shaggy head. "Naw. Just Ed."

Silvert jotted a note while Graff inspected some of Ed's works in progress. "The artist currently known as Ed?" Graff suggested. Silvert winced.

The painter ran his color-spattered hands through his shock of unruly hair. "Yeah, I suppose."

Silvert watched Graff watch Ed watch Graff. She cleared her throat. "So, is any of your work missing as well, Mist-- uhm, Ed?" Silvert caught herself, but not quite in time.

Ed's eyes flashed. "No. I'm not missing anything. Of mine. Except my next scene. But that's Claudia's work."

Graff smoothly picked up the next question. "Do you get a lot of scenes?"

"Not recently."

Silvert's eyebrows quirked. "I suppose that's frustating," Graff said. No work recently. Need to prod writer? Silvert jotted.

"Claudia's been busy with the boys. She just finished a whole storyline but she didn't back it up. I've told her to duplicate her files, but she just said, 'Security.' Well, this'll teach her not to make daily backups," Ed groused. Silvert added Teach writer a lesson? Ed continued. "Or at least bring the bloody laptop home with us."

Silvert's eyes flicked over to Graff. "How long have you and--Ms. Claudia--been together?" he asked. Silvert wrote Another couple?

"Oh, years," Ed said, grinning. "Bloody fantastic years." Silvert jotted Ga-ga in love?

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Are y'all ready for Sandy to torture those poor defenseless detectives... ;), - Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 22:24:32 (PDT)

Links fixed.
D.o.C.

OH NO! I messed up, stupid thingy.. Well DoC can you please fix it to where between well, you probably know what needs fixing!
Miranda
- Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 17:43:38 (PDT)

Miranda stumbled in through the doors of FoF. School had just been let out and Miranda had walked 2 blocks to the FoF building. She had forgotten her backpack at FoF yesterday so she had to carry everything with her that included 2 books, 2 notebooks, and a violin. Miranda was amazed at how she actually made it to FoF without dropping all of her stuff or falling over and embarrassing herself in front of all those people!

Miranda walked down the halls smiling and saying ‘hi’ to everyone she passed After what it seemed an eternity she reached her cubicle. She stumbled inside and dropped everything, except her violin.

Miranda walked over to her desk and sat down, violin still in hand. She set it on the ground and let out a final sigh of relief. Finally she was back to her home away from home! She sat and took a moment to look around, like she did everyday. She looked at her 3 Dogma posters, 1 FoF special edition poster, 1 Blink 182 poster (a very popular band us teenagers!), and 2 No Doubt posters that where the covers of their two albums Tragic Kingdom and Return of Saturn. She had a blue IMac computer (my dream computer, to bad I don’t really have one. She also had her beloved boom box that has seemed to have survived the elements, including rain, extreme heat, and a hurricane. The worst that was on her desk was papers, tons of them. Miranda even admitted that she was messy so the papers didn’t really bother her.

Now all I have to do is wait 1 more hour before dinner with Julie, Miranda thought as she took her CD case out of her desk. She flipped threw it a couple times before choosing Madonna’s newest CD “Music”. She opened the CD in her boom box and placed the CD in it, she turned to number 1 and put her headphones on, so she wouldn’t disturb anyone. But she couldn’t help herself so she started to sing anyway.

Hey Mister D.J. Put a record on I wanna dance with my baby And when the music starts I never wanna stop It's gonna drive me crazy...

Miranda stopped when she saw Metatron standing at the door with a disgusted look on his face. She took of the headphones and he said, “Stop that singing! You’ll kill somebody with it!” He told her and then laughed as he walked in and stood in front of Miranda’s desk. Miranda gave him an evil look and then gave him a puzzled look. “What?” He asked and crossed his arms in front of him.

“You aren't acting tonight so why are you here?”

“That’s where you are wrong, I was acting today and well I guess I just wanted to stay.”

“Oh, okay. But you need to go home for once. It seems like you’re always somewhere besides home!” Miranda said acting a little to concerned for his well being. Metatron just shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the room.

I’ll never get that angel, Miranda thought to herself and sighed. Miranda was just about to turn on her computer and begin typing up a script when she saw Tommy walk into her room jump on her desk and sit down.
Miranda
Julie I hope it's Okay that I started out dinner scene off with Tommy coming into my cubicle. Thought it would be cool..., - Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 17:40:57 (PDT)

Wow, I need to write FoF tonight but intill then I bring you the best and only Jurassic Park 3/Dogma crossover! Well, here's the link...Jurassic Park 3/Dogma crossover!
Miranda
- Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 16:39:45 (PDT)

Cindie walked over to her car, opened the door and tossed her briefcase in the back seat before sliding in behind the wheel. “Where are you going?” Patrick was leaning on the still open door, swinging it back and forth.

“Home. Are you two quite finished?”

“Quite. Why don’t you let me take you to dinner?”

“Better yet, why don’t you let me take us to dinner.”

It was most definitely a smirk that formed on his lips. “As you wish.”

“Good. Follow me.” He closed the car door and she started it. She waited while he went back into the offices and retrieved his case and walked over to his car; admired the fluid grace of him as he got behind the wheel. Then she led their little parade out of the lot.

They were almost there by the time he realized she was leading him to her flat.

Cindie
MA -- Yipes! =8-O, - Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 14:22:40 (PDT)

BTW, Anjou would be foolish to mix with that pair..snorfle
a rickman admirer
- Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 13:36:12 (PDT)

Magda, you are brilliant-does this mean we get another one tomorrow? "Richard" is starting to appeal to me,BTW
a Rickman admirer
- Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 13:34:28 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

I knew the sun must have climbed to its zenith in the sky because it was shining through the window directly on me as I lay in bed. The insides of my lids were bright orange and my face felt quite hot. I turned my head and opened my eyes.

The room was a mess. Pillows littered the floor. The great fur cover lay in a great heap in the corner by the end of the bed. The shards of a clay goblet had been swept into a small mound. A long gown ripped from neckline to hem was draped over a stool. I smiled. Each and every one a pleasant reminder of a passionate night.

"Well, you're awake at last." The familiar husky voice was behind me. I reacted instantly. Obviously I'd had enough sleep.

I rolled over. Joya waited beside the bed, naked except for my tunic. Wordlessly she held out her hand; across the palm lay four thin lengths of cloth. But as I well knew, not just any cloth. These were made from the finest silk in China, brought by traders from the Central Asian steppes over the great Silk Road to the Holy Land where they were sold and resold for fabulous sums before making their way throughout the courts of Christendom. I'd purchased an entire length of this deep blue silk from the same trader who'd brought the scented oil in the summer. Joya loved the colour blue.

She caught the ends with her other hand and pulled the cloths tight between them. "I was getting impatient. I hope you don't want to eat first?"

For an answer, I merely stretched my arms over my head.

Joya smiled slowly. One strip at a time, she circled the bed and tied my wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Humming softly, she climbed onto the bed and straddled my chest.

For a moment she gazed down at me, reveling in my helplessness. "Ready?"

I tugged experimentally to show her that I was secure. "More than."

"Wonderful." She tugged the laces out of my tunic and it fell open almost to her waist, causing me to swallow hard. She tossed the laces aside. Then she suddenly leaned forward until our noses were almost touching. The scent of perfumed oil filled my nostrils. Her hand darted under my pillow, felt around, then pulled out again and I saw a small section of folded parchment.

"Now then. We can get started." She sat back again and opened it. "Aleysia. Amice. Anne. Avelina. Beatrice. Cecilia. Clemencia. Desiree. Eleanor. Eva. Felicia -"

"Not guilty." I interrupted. "Never heard of any of them."

She ignored me. "Godeva. Gunnilda. Hadewisa. Isabella. Ivetta. Joan. Katherine -"

I tried again. "Excuse me but what are you doing?"

"While you were gone I put together a list of names for our daughter." Joya tapped the parchment. "I wanted to be fair and give you a wide selection to choose from. I would prefer to name her 'Rosamund' after my mother but almost anything you chose will be fine with me."

"I did chose." I frowned. My desire was ebbing fast and if at all possible I wanted to get back to the point of the exercise. "Her name is Richard."

"I said 'almost anything'." Joya flipped her hair over her shoulder and returned to the list. "Laurette. Mary. Margaret. Marion - no, forget that one. Nan. Norma -"

"Her name is Richard." I raised my voice. "And even if it wasn't Richard before I went to Winchester, it most definitely is now."

That got her attention. She looked down at me with a suspicious frown. "Meaning?"

I shook my head. Regrettably playtime was over. "Let me loose and I'll tell you. It's going to take a while."

Joya wasn’t convinced it wasn't some kind of trick but she unhitched the ties and released me. While I sat up and flexed, she stuffed them under her pillow and then swept over to the fireside and took her customary chair. She sat back and regarded me. "Well?"

I pulled on my robe and sat down across from her. No more prevaricating. I told her the whole story. She didn't say anything, just listened all the way through until the end. Her lip curled when I described the king's concern about the alliance with Anjou but she controlled herself.

"So you see," I summarized. "Even though it's only a small gesture, it might just appeal to his royal ego and make him a bit more amenable. So our daughter's name is Richard."

She was still digesting things and didn't respond. Finally she said, "It's an incredible story. Almost miraculous in fact. I don't believe a word of it."

I smiled grimly. "It doesn't matter if you - or I - believe it or not. The point is that the Count of Anjou believes it and therefore so does the king. After two days of using every argument I could think of, I am convinced that any doubts the king has will not weigh much."

"Especially since he knows that you went through some ramshackle wedding ceremony with my cousin Marion." Joya cocked an amused brow at me. "That was foolish."

"What, the ceremony or admitting it?"

"Both." She smiled for the first time in over an hour. "But especially the second."

I let it pass. There were more important things to discuss. "I won't deny it - both of them. But it's water under the bridge right now. We need a plan."

"Yes." The smile vanished. "Any suggestions?"

"You can try talking to him when he gets here. Abelard was expected at Winchester even then and that was over thirteen days ago now. So allowing for rest and ceremonial nonsense, the time it would take to get the king's entourage together and then a leisurely progress through the shires, the very earliest they could be here is thirty days. We have that much time to come up with a plan."

"Yes." She nodded thoughtfully. "And of course we won't be alone."

"What?" I asked.

"Well the king's messenger probably reached Locksley manor days ago." She waved a hand in the air. "You can bet that Locksley and Marion won't surrender to this without a fight. They have a son to provide for."

That reminded me of something. "By the way, where is -?"

Three sharp raps sounded on the door. Joya called out her permission. It swung open and two retainers walked in, carefully holding the cradle between them and setting it on the floor beside the bed. The nurse followed them, a large bundle of cloth in her arms.

"Here we are, my lady. Thanks, lads." She called to the departing men. "All ready for her mum, she is." She waddled across to us, cooing down at the baby. After a quick glance, she ignored me. Obviously in her mind there was a new ruler in charge at Nottingham Castle whose wishes were sacrosanct and desires predominant.

A faint cry rose from the bundle now in Joya's arms. We both looked down at it and then we looked directly at each other as the nurse fluttered around the room. I knew that the grim determination in Joya's eyes was mirrored in mine. We had a major battle ahead of us that we were not going to lose.

Magda
- Saturday, August 25, 2001 at 05:19:28 (PDT)

The conservatory, Delaford:

It is with the greatest reluctance that Dev permits Therese to precede him into the conservatory. But he follows as closely behind her as her own shadow, taking the opportunity to watch Mary Anne’s face as she first catches sight of Therese . . . and then, of him.

What had he expected to see? Fear? Guilt, or shame? Dev catches none of these, though Mary Anne is obviously delighted to see Therese—and at his appearance, there is a flicker of surprise and curiosity, and he makes an effort to focus on what Mary Anne is saying.

"And Mister de Valera, too! A . . . pleasant surprise."

That hesitation. What does it signify? Concentrate, he commands himself, or you’ll be fit for nothing. For now that he has come to this moment, he is balked by the absurdity of the situation. No matter what he had overheard, to suspect Mary Anne of dealings with The Interrogator . . . Well, look at her, man! The thing is preposterous. But Eamon de Valera has not survived so long without knowing that what appears to be purest white can turn out to be dead black. For the moment, he is thankful that Therese permits him to guide her to a chair—one across the table from Mary Anne, while he takes the seat in between them.

"—enough for an army," Mary Anne is saying, as she displays the selection of scones and pastries. "Miss M must have thought you would be starving, or else she’s just hinting that you ought to eat."

"It must’ve been some of both," manages Therese, with a little smile.

"One of the fruit scones, then?" Dramatically, Mary Anne brandishes a pair of silver tongs, then frowns as Therese shrinks back slightly in her chair, and Dev tenses in his.

Mary Anne glances from one to the other, then lowers the tongs. "I’m sorry." Gently. "It’s still too close, isn’t it? No sudden moves, and all that." Carefully, she slips a fruit scone onto a plate and passes it toward Therese, and seems to find nothing unusual in Dev intercepting the plate and passing it along, then doing the same with the cup of steaming tea.

"And for you, Mister de Valera?"

She has her best manners on this morning, not to call me "Dev" in front of Therese. A moment’s hesitation, as he remembers the old adage of "Drink not with thine enemy." (homage) But you don’t know—yet—that she is your enemy. A small curve of the lips, not quite a smile, but a tightening of his expression. And besides, the tea is Irish Breakfast.

"Tea, please."

Two very simple words. But perhaps his control over his voice is not what he thinks it is. He notes how Mary Anne looks up at him sharply, then returns to her pouring with a puzzled frown, before turning to Therese to inquire after her health.

Watching them together, Dev is preternaturally alert, feeling himself ready at a moment’s notice to up-end the tea table and snatch up Therese in his arms to carry her away at the least sign of threat. Despite his determination, however, Dev can feel his protective instincts warring with his sense of the absurd, as Mary Anne relaxes, little by little, her "Mistress of Delaford" demeanour and does her best to draw Therese out in the conversation. It dawns on him, after several moments, that the actual words of the two women have made no more impact on him than the liquid rush of a brook; he has heard little or nothing of what they have actually said to each other. They might just as well have been speaking a foreign language. It is background noise to his study of their faces, especially the innocent face of Mary Anne . . .

There is the smash of a dropped teacup as Therese winces and lifts her fingers toward her mouth, blowing on them, as Mary Anne exclaims in dismay, "I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to splash—" Overlapping with Therese’s, "I’m sorry about the cup! I’m still shaky and I hate feeling this way—"

Dev silently berates himself for being so preoccupied that he had not seen Therese hold out her cup for the refill, even as Mary Anne sets down the teapot and reaches across the table for Therese’s hand, murmuring, "Here, let me see—"

And Dev, hardly stopping to think of what he does, moves to intercept that hand, and only Therese’s shout of, "No, Eamon, it’s all right!" prevents his fingers from closing around Mary Anne’s wrist.

Therese catches his hand in both of hers, with a muttered aside of "Can’t you see she wasn’t going to—"

Slowly, Mary Anne lowers herself into her chair, never taking her eyes from Dev. "I wasn’t going to what?" she demands.

Dev watches the rise and fall of her breathing. Startled, yes. And angry.

No one speaks.

"Therese?" inquires Mary Anne.

Therese looks up. "Eamon, one of us has to tell her; we can’t just go blundering around like this."

"Tell me what?" And when the silence continues, Mary Anne brings her gaze to bear on Dev. "Eamon Vivion de Valera, I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on here, but if you don’t explain to me why you’re acting like you’ve gone crazy—just what is it that you’re supposed to tell me?"

"Mary Anne, I do not believe I have ever told you my full name. And yet, you have called me by that name. Eamon . . ." Painfully enunciated. "Vivion . . . de Valera."

Mary Anne goes white, but remains still. "Yes. I did."

"You might have read about it in some book or newspaper."

"I might."

"Or Therese might have mentioned it to you, as well."

"She might."

Dev leans forward slightly in his chair, settling one hand on the tea table. "But you did not, did you? And she did not."

Mary Anne, too, is looking down at the table. "I did not, and she did not."

Therese shakes her head. "Eamon, just ask her, for God’s sake!"

Dev is not sure of what he had expected to feel at this moment. Exultant, perhaps, at the unmasking of a pretense? Savagely triumphant, to expose another of the enemy’s stratagems? Surely not this feeling, this sorrow mingled with reluctance to proceed—but it is too late to go back, and Dev’s concern for one woman turns him pitiless to another. "It was another who . . . shared that knowledge with you."

Mary Anne’s voice, hardly more than a whisper. "It was."

Now for it.

Dev looks about him in the conservatory. A haven of beauty and bloom, even in the depths of winter. He draws a deep breath.

"Mary Anne—" Her name, a small shock on his lips. "We talked together, here, once." A glance at Therese. "And you honoured me at that time with some very frank questions. I have it in mind to return the favour."

Mary Anne looks up at him then, searching his face, her eyes meeting his steadily, though she lowers them again after one look at his face, his expression hardened by his efforts at self-control.

Dev continues. "When I went into the West Wood with the Alliance and found Therese, I encountered The Interrogator."

Not even Dev’s self-mastery can still that shudder of loathing.

"We . . . exchanged a few words." A grim smile. "And when I mentioned to HIM that I knew he had help breaking out of prison, when he escaped on that other occasion, he laughed at me. And asked me if I knew whose help."

Dev watches Mary Anne’s face, and is oddly moved by her expression: pale as death, but determined upon some attempt at dignity, even if she is gripping her hands tightly together to control their trembling. And so Dev spares her as much as he can, turning his eyes from her to his own right hand, resting on the tea table. He does not beat that hand upon the table, nor does he clench his fist—nevertheless, there is a faint ring of protesting china at the force exerted by that flattened palm.

Ask now, and there is no turning back.

"That ‘help’, Mary Anne . . ."

No turning back. So be it. "Was it yours?"

MA--yes, the thread resumes at last . . .
Cindie: "She'd been watching too much FOF, perhaps?" *giggle* No such thing as too much! And LEIGH!! Good to have you back! 8-), - Friday, August 24, 2001 at 20:49:55 (PDT)

“We have here a conversation, Mistral.” The senior Gruber looked up and the two men eyed each other. Mistral moved to stand closer to Cindie, his eyes never leaving Gruber. Gruber’s eyes followed him and narrowed. “What did you think it was?”

“I think you and I need to have a conversation. Now.” His eyes were the merest slits.

Gruber stood. He suddenly seemed very tall. “Perhaps this is a conversation best held …off premise?”

At this Cindie jumped up holding up both hands, “Wait just a dog gone minute here folks! Did you two just decide to take this, this,” she sputtered, “whatever it is, outside?”

Mistral spared her a glance then his eyes were back on Gruber. His next address was to her, however, “I’ll handle this.”

“Handle what?” Cindie’s puzzlement was segueing into exasperation.

It was Gruber who responded. “You will find me harder to handle than you might suppose. After you.” He gestured for Mistral to exit the office space.

“Stop this!” Exasperation was giving way to her own anger. Compounded by the fact that her presence seemed to be utterly superfluous as the two men began to head for the door.

At the door the two men seemed to carry on a brief war of politeness. Ultimately Anton walked out the door first. Cindie thought of following but wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be in the middle of those two just now. They were both used to being at the top of the food chain and she wasn’t sure that she might not be the tidbit at issue. After a brief deliberation curiosity won out. She walked over to the double doors and peered out, half expecting to see the two going at it. They were, but verbally from the looks of things. She looked at the clock, it was late. Mistral was pacing now, agitated, but neither of them appeared to be ready to pounce on the other. She went back and collected her things and went out to the parking lot.

“Of course I will.” Anton was saying. “Don’t be daft. I can’t believe you thought…”

Their voices were lost as Gruber’s pacing took him out of earshot. Cindie continued to watch the two figures, both tall and straight pacing and gesturing, but both controlled. Perhaps she’d been silly to think Mistral had been calling Anton out. As if for a duel! She’d been watching too much FOF, perhaps? Besides, he had no reason. Whatever they had to talk about they were welcome to it. She was going home.

Cindie
- Friday, August 24, 2001 at 17:39:01 (PDT)

After asking what people would like to see on Solo Flights, I have at last got up and running a place to post your poems, and somewhere to post your short stories directly to the site.

As I will be going away on holiday in 1 week, I thought it a good time to let you know its there. I trust you to post sensibly. Stories will eventually be moved to their own page on Solo Flights, but this way you don't have to wait for me to action an e-mail.

Stories Page

and Poems
Claudia <claudia-riley@xtra.co.nz>
- Thursday, August 23, 2001 at 23:21:25 (PDT)

*pout*

But but but... Magda! I wanted him to be listed as "Notty, George".... ;)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Is George Curious, or just Naughty? :), - Thursday, August 23, 2001 at 09:33:14 (PDT)

The long-lost author of the Hart & Grace thread begs your indulgence for the following as a way of explaining her absence:

"Dear God, how long does this go on?" she wailed.

"Don't be such a baby. Stop whining and move your leg. The way I showed you." Juan's voice was clipped, exasperated, as he mimicked the movement he wanted. It was awkward from his position kneeling at her feet. She moved, covering his face in a swath of silk.

"That's so much better, my little dove," he muttered sardonically through the folds of creamy fabric.

"Honestly, all this fuss, all these acrobatics, all this sweat, what is it even for??" Her tone slid up the scale to highly annoying.

"The future of the human race, pigeon, nothing less." Juan could be highly ironical at times like this. But she knew him to be a strong proponent of procreation.

"No more. You have to stop for a minute or I'll die. Right here on the spot. I swear I will."

Juan knew female hysteria when he saw it. And he had seen plenty. "All right, take a little rest, my little Scarlett O'Hara. But you were not such a drama queen when I first met you." She moved away from him, panting slightly. She wished it was all over, but it wasn't. She murmured, "I know. I used to be a rational woman. I'm a lawyer, for goodness sake, with a serious job who used to be able to conduct a serious conversation about art, politics, Bush's tax cut, whatever. But now look at me. Reduced to a walking talking two-headed bridal monster. I almost wish I had never agreed to this."

"But you did, you did, and now you have to pay the piper." Straightening his back with some effort because he had been on the floor so long, Juan picked up his appointment book. "Next Saturday, the same time?" he asked, his pen hovering over the blank spot for September 1. "The very last fitting. It is, as you say, crunch time." His elegant Argentine accented English caressed the very American cliche. "Oh, and you owe me $500 more than we talked about before. So sorry but it could not be avoided."

She did not answer him right away. That was the last straw, she thought to herself. Suddenly months of frustration bubbled up to the surface and exploded. She stamped her foot hard, forgetting the beautiful dyed-to-match Jimmy Choo pumps were so fragile. She looked down briefly to make sure the shoe was all right, and it was, then commenced her tirade. "All of you. You're all to blame. You florists and caterers and musicians and cake bakers and parking valets and photographers. . . and even you couturiers," she said shrilly, narrowing her eyes at Juan. "You're all part of this insane cartel, this farrago of fuss, this tyranny of tradition. . . " she briefly paused for breath ". . . and you even wanted someone to give me away when you know good and well that splendid old tradition comes straight from the English common law transfer of property rights over women who were nothing more than chattel!" She self-righteously tossed her head. "It isn't even religious. I looked it up. And you parasites of the bridal cartel get rich while we do all the suffering. Any sane person would object."

"A little late for the Marxist analysis of wedding economics, isn't it, my little Bolshevik? And you might be right that it's wrong, but by the time you get far enough into the process, you're not sane anymore, so you can't object. Can you?" Juan's eyes twinkled mischievously at her.

She shook her head in confusion. "What did you say?"

Juan could only laugh. "You prove my point." He tilted his head and looked critically at her dress. "But you must admit, you are getting a beautiful dress. Some of my best work. Despite your whining."

She had to agree. The dress was exactly what she had hoped for but hadn't been able to articulate. But Juan had talked to her at length, understood her and designed a timeless confection of silk and lace equally at home in the 18th century or the 21st. Cream shantung silk made a narrow A-line skirt. The same silk shimmered under re-embroidered Alencon lace covering the simple, almost severe bodice. The lace flowed seamlessly up and over the shoulders to form fitted sleeves. But Juan was most pleased with the train, a stark blade of gleaming silk, the end cut off at an angle and softened slightly by a hint of lace at the very tip.

"For a fairly smart person, you can be awfully slow," he said, tapping her forehead playfully. "Don't you get it yet? The bridal cartel -- and I agree, that's exactly what we are and it's very profitable -- isn't out to make you suffer or waste your precious time. We're here to teach you something. Something that so many of you haven't learned. Frankly, I had expected more of you." He pushed out his lower lip in a dramatic display of Latin disappointment. "When you first came to me, all I knew is that you wanted a dress. But we talked, about the poetry of Borges as much as about dresses, we laughed and we became friends. I learned what you wanted; after a while I knew it as well as I know my own name, but not from the pictures we drew or by talking about fabrics or seams or Alencon versus Battenberg lace. I knew because I knew you. It's the same with the florist, the caterer, the photographer, all of us conspirators in the evil wedding cartel. We talk to you, get to know you. We show you it's possible to learn about someone else and to give them what they want without having to ask."

He sighed at her blank, uncomprehending expression. "You need me to spell it out? OK, we're teaching you to communicate with someone else to create something extraordindary together. Heeellloooo sleeping beauty, we're teaching you a little tiny bit about marriage."

Her mouth formed a surprised little "o". He saw she couldn't speak and plunged on. "I can design a wedding dress. In my sleep I can do that. But it wouldn't be yours. Ours, more precisely. You agree that it's extraordinary. But I couldn't have made it without you and you couldn't have made it without me." He shrugged his shoulders. "I know you're going to say that people are slightly more complicated than fabrics -- and I'll agree, with the exception of Alencon lace -- but you understand. It's about hope, that you can be more together than you are separately, but only if you make the effort. If you learn that through this dress, or through flowers or music, so much better to see that it can be done, no?" He lifted his shoulders but couldn't keep his face as serious as he wanted to.

She recovered enough to smile back. "I don't know whether that's the truth or a very good line to get me to part with $500 more."

"Of course, it could be both, my charming bridal monster," Juan replied. "It is up to you to figure it out."

Leigh <chilly46@aol.com>
Just wanted to thank everyone for the wonderful work on the thread. Hope to rejoin you and the real world soon., - Wednesday, August 22, 2001 at 22:19:50 (PDT)

George and Joya are fictional characters and don't have last names. I'd prefer that you didn't.
Magda
- Wednesday, August 22, 2001 at 05:28:40 (PDT)

Magda, how can you say that they won't be? I just haven't gotten to them yet. ;)
Barbara the Wallpaperer
C'n I give Actor George the last name of 'Notty' ? , - Tuesday, August 21, 2001 at 18:32:47 (PDT)

Thanks muchly. If you liked the bath, you'll enjoy the bondage scene next Sunday which takes place the next morning.

Doesn't look like George and Joya are going to be interviewed by the detectives.
Magda
- Tuesday, August 21, 2001 at 16:30:28 (PDT)

Actually, I prefer twice a week, myself...
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, August 20, 2001 at 21:27:15 (PDT)

Thanks for the exquisitely steamy scene Magda! You certainly know how to set the mood and tantalize your readers, always adding a touch of humour. Thoroughly enjoyable! It sure put a smile on my face!

One of the elements of your story that I love is George's fatherhood. It gives him a kind of vulnerability which is very appealing.

Looking forward to the next chapter. Next Sunday?
Christine
- Monday, August 20, 2001 at 17:08:57 (PDT)

He stopped by his dressing room to return his robe and slippers and then headed to his office cubicle. If he happened to run into Cindie on the way so much the better. If he had to make a detour or two in order to achieve this end, that would be acceptable. On his way he passed the Director’s office, slowing his pace and cocking an ear, he heard the sound of the detectives who had been investigating the thefts in the office. It was taking them bloody well long enough. The idiots had been at it, disrupting the set, wasting everyone’s time and still seemed no closer to catching the perpetrator. Worse, they’d been nosing into his private life. Deucedly annoying.

He resumed his normal pace and shook off his consternation at the interlopers. He was determined to maintain the benefits of his session with Jutta for as long as possible. As he rounded the corner to Cindie’s cube he knocked and stuck his head in the door. She wasn’t there. He pursed his lips and went to his own work space. He made the necessary phone calls and then focused on the pages he needed to memorize. As he flipped to some of the upcoming dialogue it occurred to him that he and Mary Anne ought to discuss how to approach some of the material. It had been sometime since they worked together and some of the scenes could be somewhat …volatile. He was focused on his work and didn’t realize at first that the offices were quiet. Very quiet. He strained his ears, listening for any sign of activity. Then he heard it, the sound of two voices in intimate conversation. One voice was low and rumbling with a thick German accent, the other was soft and light, mellifluous and …Cindie. First she had danced with the senior Gruber, then he’d found her watching him, now she was working after hours seemingly alone with him. It was after hours, if only just barely. He stood and slowly followed the voices through the maze of cubicles.

“Just a professional relationship, right?” He heard Cindie ask, “Perhaps friends?”

“Ja, at first. Then perhaps more.” Gruber. What did he mean, perhaps more?

“I’m still not sure.” She sounded faintly afraid.

“You’ve nothing to fear.” Mistral realized he’d made a wrong turn and corrected his direction to hear, “…a shame to waste your talents.”

“You don’t know I’ve got any!” Of course she did, Mistral thought to himself, but they weren’t going to be used for Anton Gruber’s pleasure.

“You do, and I can help you to develop them, bring them into full flower.”

“I’m a little scared you know.” How dare he try to force her. . .

“I’ll look after you. Partners do that for each other.”

Partners! She wasn’t going to be anyone’s partner but his. Where were they? He turned again, sure he was honing in on them.

“It might help, if I brought in someone I knew, trusted.” That was better, she was going to turn to him. “Perhaps Chandos?” Chandos! At this he felt stung.

“If you wish, but it is not necessary. You can trust me.” Hrrmff, trust that Teutonic tiger. Over his … He found them, in what must be Gruber’s office, sitting nose to nose as Gruber was about to place a hand on her knee and say something else.

“And what have we here, Gruber?” His question was posed in a chillingly even tone.

Cindie
Busy day!, - Sunday, August 19, 2001 at 18:27:25 (PDT)

FOF—Conservatory, Delaford set:

Mary Anne blinks as a light meter is suddenly thrust too near her face.

"Sorry!" exclaims the tech as he withdraws it a few inches, then turns to the lighting crew, lowering his hand and calling, "Take it down a little," as the lights dim a fraction in response. "Perfect."

Meanwhile, the Continuity Girl—"C.G." as she is known around the set—is checking over Mary Anne’s costume and general appearance from slippers to hairpins, consulting her notes and making a few small adjustments, alert for anachronisms that have not actually been written into the script.

A wry grin as she smooths the cuffs of the gown. "This will certainly have to go," she chuckles, removing Mary Anne’s wristwatch and setting it aside.

Mary Anne flushes. To forget something like that, after all her time on the series!

"I hope the interview wasn’t too upsetting."

Mary Anne looks up as The Director pulls another chair close to hers, and shrugs, displaying her wrist and trying to smile. "Only so much it made me forget to take off my watch before I left Costume."

"That is shocking," exclaims The Director, raising an eyebrow. "Practically a spell of hysterics, for you."

Now Mary Anne has no trouble with her smile, and her heart warms to him.

"I am sorry," continues The Director, "about those interviews. I’m sure you can see that they’re necessary, but it’s probably going to be awkward for us all. For a while. We’re—" He glances around at the bustle of the Conservatory set. "It’s a very close group here, and I’m sure the detectives have noticed it. It makes them dig harder than they might, otherwise, because they feel we must be protecting each other."

"I can see how they got that impression," murmurs Mary Anne.

Something in her tone alerts The Director, who turns in his chair to look at her. "What did you tell them?"

"The truth." Quietly. "They asked questions, and I answered them—and just happened to give Christopher an alibi for the time we were away from the party."

The Director chews on that for a moment. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Just this." Still calm, with a little smile, but The Director tenses in spite of himself. "I think they’re wasting their time with the people here. As you said, we’re a close group. Like family. Some of these people are . . . very dear to me." A pause. "And if those two—" Scathing. No names. "—bring any harm to anyone I care for, then they’re going to wish they’d never made it out of the delivery room."

Knowing Mary Anne as he does, The Director is only mildly concerned. Her emotions readily find vent in words and once she has found that relief, she is usually content with verbal retaliation. However, he says none of this aloud. Angry people do not enjoy having their anger taken lightly, however they may choose to express it, though he’d be far more worried if she had not spoken. Thank God it isn’t Brandon. When he gets that angry . . . things happen. In fact, when was the last time Brandon was angry on the set? The Director cannot remember, and uneasily ponders what Brandon might do if the detectives should accuse Mary Anne . . .

He stands, then, and makes an effort to put it out of his thoughts. They have work to do, and they’re behind schedule as it is.

"Try not to mind it more than you can help," he advises, knowing how easy it is to give that advice and how hard it is to follow. "It will be best for everybody if work goes on as usual. And take that look off your face. You’re supposed to be looking forward to having a nice, leisurely mid-morning tea with Therese, so don’t be sitting there looking as if you’d like to take a machete to the entire conservatory."

"Yes, sir, Mister Director, sir," quips Mary Anne, grinning at him and touching two fingers to her forehead in a playful salute.

He rolls his eyes at the gesture, but is smiling back at her as he steps away to take up his position behind the cameras, and Mary Anne takes several deep breaths to calm herself. The scene will call for her to be upset, true enough, but not at the very beginning, and she closes her eyes, running over the lines one last time and imagining how the scene should play, start to finish, as the set goes quiet and The Director pronounces, "Action."

Mary Anne has heard footsteps, and turns expectantly toward the door. "Therese?"

MA--Congrats to the Writing Project winners! Magda--that scene will be really appealing to all the "sworded" minds around here.
As for Therese, this is an All Points Bulletin: has *anyone* heard from her? Is she all right?! Speak to us, Therese! I'm worried about you! 8-(, - Sunday, August 19, 2001 at 17:04:50 (PDT)

Further entries from the obtained journal, submitted to the Board of Commission Investigating the Recently Completed Disturbances in the Shire of Nottingham During the Reign of Our Glorious King Richard Lionheart

As I ran up the tower stairs, I couldn't deny feeling a little annoyed with Joya for not being in the hall to greet me. Granted that we arrived late but surely it's a wife's duty to see to her husband's comfort. I pushed open the bedroom door and stepped inside, none too pleased with Madame Wife.

I stopped on the threshold. The room was empty. A low fire crackled in the hearth. A flagon of wine and two goblets stood on the table. My sword lay on my folded cloak on the great chest against the far wall. Everything was in its normal place.

With two exceptions: the cradle beside our bed was gone and a large tub stood in front of the hearth. As I looked around, I was bumped from behind.

"Oops! Begging yer pardon, sir." A maidservant pushed past me, the handle of a full bucket in both hands. She waddled across the room, huffing in her efforts to keep the contents from spilling and tipped it in. Steam rose as the water splashed into the tub. She straightened up with a sigh, bobbed a curtsey in my direction and skittered out the door. I dropped into my chair and pulled off my boots, suddenly aware that a good soak after a week in the saddle and a hard fight in the woods would be wonderful. But where was Joya?

Twice more the servant returned and poured water into the tub before pulling the door shut behind her on her final departure. I pulled off my garments and tossed them on the bed. The steam was a veritable mist now. I stepped into the tub, hissed at the heat of the water and lowered myself into it slowly.

To my annoyance the water barely came up to my lower chest. It would be impossible to indulge in a good soak. I frowned. That idiot servant girl would find out the hard way that I was not pleased with her services. A week spent in the dungeon would teach her a good lesson.

"Good evening, my lord." The husky voice rasped against my nerves and sent my body temperature climbing. I looked around. Joya leaned against the door, carefully holding a glass bottle with both hands. She wore the same shapeless gown she'd worn during the last weeks of her pregnancy, but now it hung loose in deep folds around her body. Her unbound hair cascaded around her shoulders and down her back. The light from the torches turned it a rich molten gold.

She came all the way into the room and pushed the door shut behind her. The bar fell easily into its brackets after a small nudge from her elbow. Humming slightly, she floated across the room and stopped beside the tub. She pulled the stopper out of the bottle and poured a thin stream of oil into the water. The musky scent of perfume rose on the steam. I remembered the small chest of gold I'd had to part with to buy the bottle for Joya in the summer. It was money well spent but once more I felt a flicker of irritation that there wasn't enough water.

I watched her cross the room to her private chest beside the bed. "You shouldn't have barred the door. I need more hot water."

Joya lifted the lid and carefully put the bottle away. "There's enough water." She took a long strip of cloth out of the trunk, then dropped the lid.

I lifted one brow, surprised. Surely she'd looked in the tub when she'd poured. "What did you say?"

"I said there's enough water." Keeping the cloth in one hand she reached around and pulled the great mass of her hair over one shoulder. Two quick twists and it was a thick braid; another and she'd secured it with the strip of cloth until only a few wispy tendrils hung loose.

"I beg to differ with you. The greater part of my anatomy is quite chilly." I tried to slide lower in the tub but it didn't work.

"Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we?" With a final pat at her hair, Joya sauntered back, a slight smile curving her lips. She slid her arms out of her sleeves, shimmied slightly until she could grip her hem and with one graceful movement pulled the gown up and over her head. It fell to the floor behind her. Completely naked, she stepped over the side of the tub and sat down between my feet. The water rose quickly until it lapped against our chins as we faced each other. "There. Is that better?"

"Uh, yes, much better." I stared at her through the steam. Her huge blue eyes gazed at me with a limpid innocence belied only by her smile. I swallowed hard. Her smile widened.

"Are you going to tell me what happened in Winchester?" She shifted position, causing small waves to ripple over the surface of the water.

I hesitated. I had given a great deal of thought to the best way to tell Joya about her royal half-brother's plans. It would be a great shock were I to announce that we weren't married. A roundabout approach would be best.

"The king received a letter from the Count of Anjou. A very momentous one." I cleared my throat. The fire was burning low in the hearth; it must have been the musk that made me feel so hot. "There was news that threatened the alliance in France."

"Alliance!" Joya rolled her eyes. Small wavelets slapped the sides of the tub. "Ah, yes the all-important alliance. How well I know about it. The reason I was married off - twice! - while I was too young to object. So what was this great news that threatened the Alliance?"

"Well, apparently the Count received a visit from somebody he thought was dead." I paused. There really wasn't any way to postpone it. "Someone from your past, actually."

"My past?" She stared, her brows raised. "I find it hard to believe that. My life has been spent well away from courts. And besides, the Count of Anjou is a great military leader. I have known few soldiers in my life."

"Really?" I took a deep breath. It was now or never.

"Really. Military men bore me." Joya shrugged and displaced more water. "Always talking about their horses and their castles and their weapons. I believe some of them would marry their swords if they could figure out a way to get children off them."

I felt that this was something I could speak to with some authority. "A man's sword is sometimes all that stands between him and death. Few other possessions are as vital to him. A really good blade is almost a part of him."

"Indeed?" She looked into the water between us. "What part of him?"

I frowned at her. "An integral part." I approved of the interest but we had things to discuss.

"Ah, I see." She looked up and met my gaze, total innocence in every way. "And I suppose that different men have different blades?"

"Yes, they do." I tried to maintain a stern stare to show her I mean business. "And that is quite enough of that."

"How fascinating, George. You must tell me all about swordplay. I feel that I have much to learn." She leaned forward. Tendrils of hair slipped loose and floated on the water. "For instance, I suppose a longsword is essential for warfare but I'm not too clear on what a longsword is. For instance how long is it?"

"It varies. Difficult to say." My breathing was slowing down.

"Is it," Her hands moved in the water. "this long?"

"Much longer." I croaked. "Not comparable at all."

She looked up, her eyes round in pretend surprise. "Really? That's amazing. But I suppose that it's really not length that matters so much as skill, isn't it? I mean you've got to know how to handle it?"

"That's right." I whispered, beads of sweat on my brow.

"Hmm." She considered my response, lids half-closed but her gaze never leaving my face. "Perhaps I would have made a good swords-person. What do you think?"

"Your skill is amazing." It was all I could do to keep breathing. If the tub were any larger, I might have slipped under and drowned. I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the rim.

"Poor George. You must have had an awful trip. I heard about that terrible attack in the woods. You must be looking forward to a good night's sleep." Her voice did wonderful things to my senses. "I thought - if you felt like it - we could have some sweet wine by the fireside, maybe play a nice game of strip chess like we used to but if you're too tired for that -"

I'd had enough. Swordplay was one thing but implying that I too tired after my journey was something else. I put my hands on the sides of the tub and hauled myself up and out. Water cascaded around me back into the tub and on the floor. Then I bent down and seized Joya. Before she could react I lifted her out of the water - flooding the floor completely - and slung her over my shoulder. In two strides I was beside the bed. I dropped her on the furs. She bounced once, her gasp of surprise choked off by laughter. I leaned over and blew out the candles on the chest.

And for the rest of the night until just before dawn, we thrashed out the subject of swordplay to our mutual satisfaction.

Magda
Right here - see Suzanne? No "bad words", - Sunday, August 19, 2001 at 16:43:18 (PDT)

Great fun reading the results of the Writing Project Claudia! Congratulations to the winners! A Sheriff of Nottingham mouse pad!!!! Maybe I should try putting pen to paper!

Magda, where are you!?
Christine
- Sunday, August 19, 2001 at 15:50:13 (PDT)

I know you've all been waiting for this, so Solo Flights is happy to present:

The Writing Project authors revealed, and the stories you chose as your favouries win a prize!
Claudia
- Sunday, August 19, 2001 at 15:09:37 (PDT)

Italics fixed.
No prob, calm down and have a candy bar.
D.o.C.

Ohh, Suzanne, I'm so sorry! It's been so long since I've put anything in italics that all the slashes to close things have been in the wrong direction! I've really made a mess of things.
Julie
Arrrgh!, - Sunday, August 19, 2001 at 11:05:46 (PDT)

Julie's Cubicle, Fof set:

The orange tabby purred, flexing his paws and stretching. He upset Julie's dragon candlestick in the process and watched with little interest as it dropped to the floor. The candle she used for centering herself so she could work without having a million new inspirations hit her at once fell from it and broke. It was no matter, she wouldn't need it now, he would soon be a working familiar, well, sort of. He was quite tired of being off duty with his chosen witch. He was meant to be her guide in her script and her real work alike, and it tended to drag on the nerves to simply be "Tommy Aquinas the cat".

Julie began frantically straightening her hair, exceptionally nervous at having to confront Alan again. Not that the last time she had actually talked directly to him had truly been a "confrontation". It had been more like his casual acceptance of her presence, a very informal pitching of the job to her, and her leaving because he had better things to do, and she knew it. Truth be told, she was terrified of him. Julie had always thought it best to approach him with a little trepidation, should she ever have to be on the receiving end of his temper. Julie then, as was her usual way, blew this respect for his darker side all out of proportion . . .

She collided with someone, sending her script flying all over the place. "Oh d*mn it-" Julie drew herself up short in the middle of a second curse when she saw who it was. None other than Graff and Silvert. "Oh, I'm sorry, it was my fault, I wasn't looking," she babbled, wishing, not for the first time that her Wiccan and nature magic-oriented books contained a spell to ward off nosy strangers. Even as she spoke, she knew it would arouse the detectives' suspicions.

"And where are you headed in such a hurry," Silvert queried, remembering the name, "Miss Hodges?" The young woman's alibi of being home with her mother during the theft had checked out, but still, she was curious as to what may have been bothering any of the cast. It may, after all, have had some bearing on the case.

"I wasn't really aware of hurrying," Julie didn't bother to look up at either of them as she was reordering her script. "I was just nervous about pitching this script idea to the Director and was walking fast. You see, the movements of my body have a strange way of mirroring the thoughts, and my brain was going a mile a minute. I have a nerve disorder, you see, and the twitchiness might have something to do with that. I can call up my medical records if you want to see." Julie's first thought was Offer these people anything they want to to see. I don't want, don't need trouble.

Director inspires fear? Nervousness, at the very least? (homage) Silvert noted.

"That's not necessary," Graff nodded at Julie as she came up with the script. "May we take a look at that script for a moment?"

Confirming it is a script, was Julie's first thought. "Yeah, sure."

Graff took a look at it. What he skimmed was the beginning of a fascinating journey into a magical realm, through history itself, a woman on the run from the very dark forces she was trying to heal and the tortured souls, usually men, she met along the way. Silvert had to tear it away from him, as fantasy was a second cousin to sci-fi, after all. She, more sensible than Graff, handed it back to Julie.

"Thanks," Julie gave them a quick nod, and left for the Director's office. Surprisingly, she found he had actually stayed there for more than a few minutes. Unfortunately, he was really looking the worse for wear. "Umm, sir . . ." she ventured quietly.

The man that she'd been so afraid of irritating looked up from the papers on his desk. Always fiendishly neat, even now, she thought. "What is it?" There was the deadliness, the authority. nothing, it seemed, could destroy the Voice, even though its wielder was under cracking stress.

"I thought, maybe, you could look over the script I've been working on since I've been gone."

Amber glare fixed her, reassessed. Not foolish, just afraid. Always afraid, this girl. She's right, of course. He shouldn't let this investigation grind the show to a standstill, which it hasn't, but there has been a threat. Perhaps throwing himself into more pleasant work will lift his spirits a bit. "Let me take a look." He flipped the pages, skimming as much as Graff had. There is a yearning for an escape from the real world here, but he might have expected it from her. Passion there too, but not lust, more like a depth of emotion. The main character never really fell in love with anyone whose path she crossed, anyway. Magic . . . he chuckles. Her version of Hogwarts School will give him an excuse to do some good fantasy, the department of which has been somewhat lacking since Chris took her holiday, and since Miranda was balancing FoF and school. Most of the other storylines fell into the "Drama" category, historical periods notwithstanding. "This is quite good," a smile crossed his face, though brief. "I've seen your acting, but are you sure you can handle this kind of job, IF I decide we can film?"

"Yes, Sir." Quite, overjoyed undertones. Julie was practically clutching her hands together in delight.

"We'll discuss it," the Director nodded at her. "The Outback plot needs a little work. I don't see how it's necessary." He h*nded her the middle section of the stack of paper. "Make me believe it."

"Yes, sir! Of course," Julie smiled, hugging her script to her. "I'll get right on it."

Breezing off to her cubicle and mareveling at how relatively painless that was, Julie hummed the opening bars to "We are the Champions." she was so happy that she never noticed the shattered candle. She found a message from Miranda asking her to see her for dinner that day. After calling back, she looked at Tommy. **You were right.**

. **Things can only get better.** He butted his head against her hand.**

"Right," Julie smiled, only to heve her peacefulness broken by the nasty beginnings of a headache. She knew this headache, and did not welcome it at all. It meant her blood sugar was dipping again.

**Have you eaten?**

Tommy was as intuitive as her friends back home when it came to this matter.

**I think we could both use a snack, what say you, cat?**

**I say, after what you just did, you could use a half hour just to calm yourself down,** Tommy blinked.
Julie <flashcat@csinet.net>
***Gasp, gasp (running!) whew!! I'm sorry I'm so late. Jutta, the Director is approving my script as we speak! Oh, Miranda, don't worry, you still have friends in Tommy and myself. , - Sunday, August 19, 2001 at 11:01:08 (PDT)

I made another FoF doll page, here is the link. I hope you like these too.
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Saturday, August 18, 2001 at 18:45:02 (PDT)

“I just don't think Metatron’s apology was for real. You can’t just forgive someone that quick, especially for what I did!” Miranda told Vanessa and Tina after a silence of about 10 minutes while the 3 had eaten tier ice cream.

“I can’t believe it either. I think you should go and talk to him and most of all straighten all of this out. Okay think about it this way, imagine that you where Metatron and you saw Miranda coming towards you with a knife and threatening to cut your wings off, would you be able to give her for what she did?” Vanessa asked Miranda.

“Um, no...” Miranda said and frowned. She felt horrible for what she did and she felt even worse that she listened to Vanessa and Tina in the first place. When Miranda had heard the plan she thought it would be just like another practical joke, but she wasn’t even close. What she did, if she would have finished what she started, would have practically been murder.

Murder, wow I didn’t even think about it that way. I didn’t even think about it anyway! I especially didn’t think about Metatron. About how it would affect him. Obviously it did, and it wasn't good. Miranda thought to herself, almost beating herself up for what she did.

“I can’t believe what I did...”Miranda said not even knowing she said it out loud.

“What, Miranda?” Tina asked looking confused.

“It’s all your fault that Metatron’s mad at me! If I would have never listened to you, everything would be OK now. I can't believe you guys. You probably made me do this plan because you’re jealous!” Miranda yelled angrily and began to walk away from Vanessa and Tina.

Vanessa got up and stopped Miranda by grabbing her elbow. Miranda gave her an e