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 evil look and tried to get away but Vanessa just tightened her grip.

“We’re not jealous! We made you do that plan because we wanted Metatron to hate you and never want to come back and see you. Anyway, Metatron is way to old for you. At least Tina and I have boyfriends our age.”

Miranda’s mouth was open from shock and disgust, this was her best friend and she was telling her this! She had known Vanessa and Tina since she was 4 and now this was probably the last time she would ever see them.

“In your dreams Vanessa and Tina. Even they don’t compare to Metatron. Go ahead with your silly dreams, girls, I'm out of here.” Miranda said and stuck her tongue out at Vanessa and Tina. Miranda snapped her fingers and in moments she was back in Heaven and just her luck she appeared right in front of Metatron.

“Hello, Miranda. I heard what you said about me.”

“You where spying on me? Well, I guess you should seeing as I’m an angel killer now.” Miranda said and started to cry, of course.

“Yes I was spying on you and no I wasn’t doing it to make sure you didn’t kill any angels. I just followed you to make sure that Vanessa and Tina didn’t do anythign to you because you didn’t finish the mission they gave you. And well, I guess since you guys aren't friends anymore I can tell you something about them. You may not want to hear it but I think you should.” Metatron said and looked concerned but unsure whether or not he should tell Miranda this secret.

“What, wait let me guess, they are really fallen angels and for the past 12 years they have been using me for an evil plan to take over Heaven?” Miranda said and laughed through her tears.

“No, not quite. Are you absolutely sure you want to hear this?” Metatron asked her still sounding unsure.

Miranda could tell that he really didn’t want to tell her but now that he had brought it up she wanted to know.

“Yes, but me, Vanessa, and Tina are still friends but I think that we just needed sometime apart.”

“Well then, I won’t tell you.” Metatron told Miranda and tried to get past but Miranda stepped in front of him.

“You can’t get past until you tell me.” Miranda said in a singsong voice and smiled.

“Ok, fine. But I’m just warning you this is something you might not want to hear. Well, you know Azrael of course...”

“Eww, don’t tell me, Vanessa and Tina are his daughters?” Miranda interrupted and sounded a bit mad.

“No but that’s close. He raised them like I raised you. Every time they told you that they hated them, they were lying.”

“They lied to me for 12 years!? That’s not very nice. I can’t believe this, why is it everything in my life is going wrong? Let me guess you have another secret to tell me, something that will make my life even worse?” Miranda said angrily.

“No, Miranda. Now stop acting like a baby about this, I though you were 16 years old but I guess I was wrong.” Metatron told her and tried to get through. Again Miranda stepped in front of him to block his way.

“I’m not acting like a baby! I’m acting like myself” Miranda said and started to cry again.

“Oh yeah sure. Miranda, just go to your room and stay there for today. I don’t feel like seeing you for the rest of the day.”Metatron told Miranda and finally got past.

“You can’t tell me what to do Metatron! I’m not a little girl anymore!” Miranda screamed at Metatron through her tears.

Metatron turned around and walked back towards her. He didn’t hit her or anything he just picked her up and carried her to her room. When they got there he opened the door and threw Miranda on the bed.

“Next time remember to listen to me." Miranda told her and slammed the door.

Miranda buried her face in the pillow and cried even more.This is horrible, Metatron never used to be that mean! Miranda thought to herself and sniffed. I wish he wouldn’t have left. Oh if only I were a human...
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
so you finally decided to post at FoF, 101 ways to make sure that all the women there like your writing, - Friday, August 17, 2001 at 10:41:18 (PDT)

FOF Set, post Mary Anne interview:

Miles Graff frowned as he checked his notebook again to see who was next on their list of people to interview. "Ah. At least this one is willing to give her last name," he muttered. His lips pursed together and a little crevice appeared in the middle of his forehead as he glared at the list of names scrawled on the paper. "She's a staff writer named Sandra F...," he sputtered, shaking his head. "How on *earth* do you pronounce that?"

Ekaterin Silvert's ice-blue eyes flashed. "No clue." Her lips curved up in the slightest smile as she recalled the directions Mary Anne had given them. "Just follow the scent of coffee and listen for squeaky toys and Eric Clapton..." the willowy blonde grinned before excusing herself for her next on-set call.

The two detectives made their way through the maze of cubicles in silence, not caring that they were being glared at by several staff members as they walked past them. "Just doing their job, my foot. Being bloody nosy is more like it - and I don't like what they're implying either," Silvert heard one of the gofers grousing to a co-worker as they moved down the corridor. Her left eyebrow rose briefly at the remark, which was obviously meant to be overheard.

"Protective bunch, aren't they?" Graff growled, his nostrils twitching as he caught the faint smell of coffee.

Silvert nodded. "We're invading their 'turf'. Are you surprised that they're feeling resentful of us?" The smell of freshly-brewed coffee was getting closer and they could hear high-pitched squeaking noises up ahead. Accompanying the squeaking noise was the sound of someone typing ferociously on a keyboard in perfect time to the rhythm of a guitar solo. The two exchanged glances before they stopped in front of the cubicle doorway.

"Sandra..." Graff began saying when a black miniature poodle shot out the doorway and stood in front of the detectives, tail wagging furiously. Startled, the two moved back a few steps. Soft laughter emerged from the cubicle and the two moved away from the doorway as the dog's owner walked outside. "Heel," she commanded quietly. The poodle immediately obeyed her and gazed up at the two with interest.

"I see you've met my official greeter, Oliver," she said and sighed. "I suppose you're here to question me as well," the blue-gray eyes rolled up as she took the appearance of the two detectives in - Silvert cool and contained, Graff rumpled and care-worn. "I still haven't gotten this blasted ink off my fingers and I just got a manicure yesterday," she grumbled.

"We're just doing our jo..." Graff said when she interrupted him. "Yes, I know. Please, have a seat," she invited them inside and she leaned against her desk, arms folded across her chest after she turned her CD player off. Oliver followed them and walked over to his bed, circling on it three times before settling down and chewing on a toy shaped like a hamburger.

"Thank you, Sandra," Silvert said easily when the writer held up her right hand, the fingertips still slightly stained black. "Sandy, please. I'd like this session to have at least some semblance of friendliness," she replied quickly.

"Very well," Silvert scribbled in her notepad. "I understand that you write Alexander Dane's storyline," she continued. Graff's face lit up at the mention of the actor's name.

"That's correct," Sandy confirmed, watching Graff's reaction carefully. "You might want to wipe the drool off your chin," she remarked laconically as she reached over, grabbed a tissue from a box and offered it to him. Silvert's face grew stony and Graff's cheeks stained a deep crimson. The writer smirked as she put the tissue down on her desk. "I'm kidding. I see you haven't been appraised of my rather... offbeat... sense of humor."

"Indeed," Silvert retorted softly, glaring momentarily at her partner. It was then that she saw the miniature dartboard with the picture of Jim Carrey pinned to it. Damn him and his sci-fi obsession, she thought to herself angrily. She shifted position in the chair and stared directly into the highly intelligent blue-gray eyes. This one doesn't miss a trick. "I understand that some items were stolen from you as well..." She scanned her notepad for confirmation and raised a perfectly shaped dark eyebrow. "Three history texts, your Crossroads II CD box set, and a rough draft of a printed script..."

Sandy nodded and took a sip of her coffee, the green tourmaline and diamond ring on her right ring finger catching in the fluorescent lighting momentarily. "The items are replaceable of course and I always keep a back up copy of my scripts on a floppy disk that I take home with me, but the CD box set was a birthday present from my sister, so it has sentimental value," she finished.

The detectives nodded. "So, what is your working relationship with Alexander Dane and the rest of the cast for your story line like?" Graff asked eagerly. "Not withstanding Mr. Dane's reputation for being 'difficult' on occasion." Silvert's lips pursed together at his question, but she kept silent.

Sandy rewarded them with the first genuine smile that they had seen all day. "It's a pleasure working with Alex and the rest of the cast. I don't find it difficult to work with any of them at all," she told them sincerely.

"So you socialize off-set," Silvert stated, writing in her notebook hastily.

"That's right. I do," Sandy agreed easily. "I'm attending Jack and Melanie's wedding in two weeks - and Chris and I worked for the same company before we joined here within months of each other."

Ah, yes. She's the one on holiday in the Greek Isles... Another one who's protective of her last name... Actors... "But you are *particularly* friendly with Mr. Dane," Silvert fixed her with an eagle-eyed glare.

A blonde eyebrow rose up in acknowledgement. "Yes," Sandy answered softly, blushing slightly.

"Is the Director aware of your relationship with him?" Graff asked suddenly.

The blush grew deeper and the blue-gray eyes sparkled. "I'm sure that he is. Sometimes I swear that the man has eyes in the back of his head," Sandy chuckled.

Hmmm... The Director has a Big Brother complex? Silvert jotted down in her notepad. "Exactly what does my off-set relationship with Alex have to do with the thefts?" Sandy asked curiously.

"Nothing, of course," Graff replied hastily, scribbling away.

"Monkey muffins," Sandy retorted tartly. Oliver immediately stopped playing with his chew toy at the tone of his owner's voice. Silvert's and Graff's postures stiffened in their chairs at her words. "I didn't just fall off the turnip truck yesterday. You're trying to establish motives - and I realize that's your job to gather as much data as possible. After all, the cause is certainly sufficient," she added in, brushing an errant lock of hair from her forehead wearily. "My apologies. You've caught me at a particularly bad time, I'm afraid - working on a deadline."

The two nodded. "You're one of the earliest people here on set, I'm told," Graff noted.

"It's a habit from long ago and I've discovered that I like it that way. I'm left in relative peace and quiet to do my writing until the rest of the crew shows up," Sandy explained. "Then the day's pretty much shot with all the meetings I attend."

"Have you observed any suspicious behavior, seen anybody that doesn't seem to fit in, or you've heard about odd things happening in general?" Silvert asked, steering away from the subject.

Sandy's eyes lit up at her last words. "Come to think of it, there was a rather curious incident reported just before the party. Morrison, one of the security officers, said that there was some trouble in the woods behind the Delaford set. Something about the flood lights being fooled around with, if I remember correctly... Otherwise, I really haven't seen anything else. In fact, I've never even seen the suspect before you showed the videotapes."

More scrawling in their notebooks and they exchanged glances. Graff bit his bottom lip and the two stood up. "I'm afraid that's all the time we have for now but we may come back to ask you more questions later as this investigation continues," Silvert told her.

"Of course. I'll be glad to cooperate in any way that I can," Sandy replied smoothly. She shook hands with the two detectives. "Mr. Graff, may I ask you a question in private?" Silvert's eyebrows rose again but she left without a word.

"Certainly. What is it?" Graff asked.

"Are you a Galaxy Quest fan?" Sandy asked with a gentle smile.

Graff's eyes glazed over. "Why yes, I am. I'm so excited to be interviewing Alexander Dane," he confessed quietly. "It's such an honor."

Sandy nodded. "Make sure that you mention that you're a fan. Alex always appreciates any acknowledgement of his work as Dr. Lazarus," she told him.

"Really?" Graff's voice almost squeaked.

"Yes he does," Sandy confirmed. "Thank you for coming by again."

Graff's head nodded up and down eagerly. "Thank you! Thank you so much! I have one question for you - purely off the record," he reassured her.

"Of course. What is it?"

"How do you pronounce your last name? It's so... unusual." She told him. "Oh. I never would have guessed," he mused.

Sandy chuckled. "I get that all the time. It always gets mangled. Hans and Jutta were the only ones who said it correctly the first time."

Silvert stuck her head inside the cubicle and cleared her throat loudly. "We *do* have other people to interview, Miles," she reminded her partner icily. Looking chagrined at Silvert's sharp rebuke, Graff left the cubicle and spoke in excited, hushed tones to his partner as they walked down the hall. Sandy watched them for a moment, shaking her head before re-entering her office space.

"Sandy!" a male voice suddenly hissed. Sandy looked up and grinned. It was Jack peeking over her cubicle from over the other side, his brown eyes flashing merrily. Oliver immediately jumped up from his bed and attempted to climb up the bookcase. His face broke out in a huge grin. "Hi Ollie!" he waved to the excited dog and turned back to Sandy. "Alex is going to kill him if he says you-know-what."

"I know... I thought that it would be a nice present from me if Alex got a chance to torture someone for a change - plus it'll crack Ms. Silvert's "I'm oh-so-cool" facade like a mirror. Listen, can you do me a huge favor?" Sandy quickly scrawled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to the actor. "Give this to Alex - and take the shortcut to the set."

Jack glanced at what she had written in her neat handwriting and his grin widened tenfold. "You are *so* bad..."

Sandy's eyes widened innocently. "What are you talking about? I'm just a *writer*, after all. I can only imagine what they think about you *actors*."

Jack snickered as he put the piece of paper in his shorts pocket. "Alex will have definitely have a great time for himself. I only wish that we'd get a chance to witness the carnage... Melanie and I will see you and Alex at the rehearsal dinner tonight?" he asked, eyebrows raising up.

"With bells on," Sandy assured him with a wink. He returned the wink and hurried away, chuckling under his breath.

Sandy
Whew! I think I went for broke on this one...., - Thursday, August 16, 2001 at 19:25:59 (PDT)

*waving my magic wand* Italics fixed and corrections made.
Detention in Potions class, I presume?
D.o.C.

D.o.C., I´m sorry! Could you magic that away? Thank you!
Jutta
50 points from Slytherin and detention for me!, - Thursday, August 16, 2001 at 12:57:02 (PDT)

Oooops, of course Snape´s outfit looked as if he spent a night in it.
And I think ears are remarkably good, aren´t they?
Jutta
I need a beta-reader! Any volunteers?, - Thursday, August 16, 2001 at 12:51:49 (PDT)

Jutta had just finished her morning list of patients, when there was a knock on the office door.
"Come in!" she called.
The door opened and three people entered. Two were members of the lightning crew she had seen before. They basicly dragged in a third person between them who was protesting: "I´m feeling fine, I tell you!"
That he wasn´t quite that well she could see: blood trickled down his face from a wound over his right eyebrow. The two men placed the stranger on the chair in front of her desk.
"Er... doc, could I have a word?" said one of the two, gesturing towards the corridor. Jutta nodded curiously and followed him outside. After she closed the door she saw another man waiting there.

"I found him," he said immediately. "He was wandering around the premises, I´ve observed him for quite some time. He doesn´t seem to know where he is or where he wants to go. He´s a bit…er…weird to say the least." He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, obviously uncomfortable.
"I asked him who he is and what he´s doing here. He said that he´s a professor and got lost in the forest. But to get lost there he would have had to climb the fence that surrounds the entire outdoor set. I told him that this is a film set, that he should go into the building and then leave through the main entrance. So he walked up to the wall, pointed this little stick at it, said something foreign and walked forward against the wall. That´s how he hurt himself. He even passed out for a minute or so. I went to Victor"- a nod towards the other man- "and he and Pete helped me to bring him round." He coughed nervously.
"He asked us what we did with the wall. If we´d," he leaned closer and pronounced the word carefully: "cursed it. And he got really nasty when he discovered that Vic had kicked his stick into the bushes. He wouldn´t come until he had it again.
We thought about telling the police, because of the thefts and because he´s funny in the head. Pete thinks he´s escaped from somewhere."

Jutta didn´t really know what to do with this kind of information.
"Well, he´s bleeding. I will care for the wound and I will have a little chat with him. And then we´ll take it from there. Alright?"

The men nodded. "We´ll stay here, so if he´s causing trouble, just call."

Jutta smiled: "Thank you very much, that´s very kind of you."

She went back into her office. The stranger still sat on the chair, his arms folded in front of his chest and looked suspiciously at her when she re-entered the room. The other man stood next to him. She smiled at him: "Could you leave us alone, please?"

He looked at the stranger, then at her and said slowly: "Alright." in a way that made absolutely clear that he didn´t like leaving her alone with him.

After he´d left she extended her hand: "Hello, I´m Jutta, I´m the doctor here. And you are..?"

He shook her hand briefly: "Professor Snape."

He looked more than a homeless than a professor in that black outfit of his. He wore what was known to her as a Djeballah, pyjama trousers and a long-sleeved shirt over it that went down to his shins. She´d seen asian men wear it in white. But his was dirty and it looked like he spent a night in it. Apart from that he could do with a shower and a shave.

"Well, Professor, I´ve heard you had a little accident -"

"Your ears must be remarkably good." he interrupted coldly.

She decided to just overhear that remark and continued: "What I would like to do is clean your wound and sew it."

"Sew it?"

"I think so. But it also depends how deep it is. To know that I have to clean it first."

He just stared at her.

"Would you step over here, please?"

He stood up and went into the adjoining room, still silent.

*My goodness,*she thought,* he´s so laid back, he´s almost horizontal!*

Jutta
Cindy and Barbara, I hope this answers your questions!, - Thursday, August 16, 2001 at 12:43:08 (PDT)

It was time. He gathered the required articles and proceeded down the hall. Although generally such things were considered pleasant he was not looking forward to it in the slightest. Not one to dwell on decisions already made, he’d long ago admitted to himself that it was due to a certain form of vanity that he’d agreed to the procedure. He did not want anyone to think this was a thing from which he would shy away. That was a bit ridiculous, he admitted to that as well, to himself, but that is how it stood. In any event, he knocked upon the office door and went in.

The physician Jutta was tall but very young looking. The eyes which peered at him from behind the round spectacles, however, obviously missed very little. He imagined she was a gifted diagnostician. On her home territory, she appeared relaxed and very much in command of herself and the situation. They went through the litany of questions as she made notes on her chart. It was difficult for him to suppress a smile when she asked him if he had any health conditions of which she ought to be aware. “No.” he replied. Fortunately that was a characteristic which he did not share with HIM.

Jutta led Mistral to the Fango room and left him after instructing him to strip down to his knickers. She found it absurdly disconcerting to say *knickers* to him. Don’t be ridiculous, she muttered to herself as she closed the door. After giving him a sufficient length of time to reduce his attire to the bare essentials she rapped on the door and reentered the room. She walked over to the warmer and removed the Fango sheets, keeping up a running commentary on what she was doing as she unwrapped the sheets and indicated for him to lay down. He did so and an expression of surprise leapt onto his face. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” she asked her patient.

“Yes. It does, quite ….soothing.”

“We have not yet begun to sooth,” Jutta quipped, and proceeded to wrap him, mummy style into the copious sheets which stood at the ready. When he stiffened at this, she told him he could leave his hands on the outside of the sheets and she would cover them in towels. He nodded and she proceeded, pulling the towels from the warmer. She took the terry cloth robe and house shoes he’d brought and placed that in the warmer. Lowering the blinds to about half mast she put on his CD and left him with instructions to simply, “Relaaaaxxxxxx.”

In the warmth of the Fango wrappings and the muted apricot of the room Mistral had no difficulty complying. He was deliciously warm, something he found very comforting. The fondness for rooms on the cool side was something he did share with HIM, though not to the same extent. However this was, indeed, quite relaxing. The addition of Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11 made it even easier for him to follow Jutta’s advice.

In Mistral’s case this meant thinking of only three or so different things at once. His job, his mother, his … what? Girlfriend? Too trite. His love? Perhaps, but too soon yet. His lover? That couldn’t come soon enough, he thought wryly. His significant other? He snorted, glad no one was there to hear, a silly term so politically correct as to be meaningless. At length he ceased trying to categorize her. Them. There was a them, at least it seemed so to him. He offered up a silent prayer that she thought so as well. She must, her presence after he’d spoken of things to Brandon and Mary Anne had been true and sure. He’d started out holding her but it quickly seemed to turn the other way around, despite her diminutive size. He’d let her comfort him like he was a child. He found there was much he would allow her to see of him… That in itself was a wonder to him. His thoughts drifted now, blended into a sea of random ideas and pictures. Pleasant and pointless.

Jutta knocked lightly and walked into the Fango room. She had wondered if Mistral would be able to relax at all, he seemed a bundle of tensions to her practiced eye. She was surprised to find him in a half doze and gently awoke him to return to the present. Not the real world just yet. He blinked, and though he did not show it, Jutta thought he was surprised that the twenty minutes had gone so quickly. She turned off the CD, she approved of Mozart, a good choice for relaxation, she thought, and began to unwrap him, slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb the calm. When the towel and sheet had been removed she wiped down his back to remove any traces of the Fango mud. His muscles rippled under her steady hand but were already markedly less tense. She removed the slippers and his gown and he donned them. She motioned him into the next room and gathered up his pile of garments which had been carefully folded. Placing the CD on top she also adjourned into the next room.

She motioned for him to lay down on the stretcher, instinctively realizing that the silence was as much a part of his relaxation as the Fango had been. He took off the robe and laid down and she covered him with it. She normally asked the client to chose a scent, but in this case she thought it best if she didn’t ask him, instead she chose rosemary from among the jars. After turning on the CD Jutta returned briefly to the Fango room, readying it for the next patient, before she returned to Mistral.

Though a professional, Jutta could not help but appreciate the form of Mistral laid out on the stretcher. His long muscular body was there for her services as massage therapist, however, and she quickly shook herself free of any other thoughts. Mostly. She made sure the rolled towels under his ankles were comfortably in place and dipped her hand in the scented glycerin and began her work. She had already ascertained he was experiencing no pain or inflammation of any kind and she proceeded with her ministrations. Still he did not speak but Jutta could feel the results of her efforts as she was rewarded with occasional grunts of appreciation as she worked out the tenseness built up in shoulder muscles too used to carrying burdens alone. The muscles in his legs were surprisingly tense as well and she worked those, deftly releasing tension and easing tautness.

Mistral for his part was very much aware of the changes taking place as he lay on the table. Possessing an acute awareness of his own body he would not have thought himself a candidate for this form of relaxation therapy. Yet here he was and the benefits were undeniable. As she massaged his feet he felt a release of tension more complete than he would have thought physically possible. Only when Jutta had finished and indicated that he could dress did he break the silence. “And how am I to be expected to stand, let alone dress, with all of my muscles turned to limp noodles?”

Jutta laughed, his riposte proof she had done her job well, “Now Mistral, I’m sure you must have at least one muscle that isn’t ready for the soup pot.” She indicated to the door which led directly into her office, “If you wish, you may sit in my office for a few minutes if you’d like time to reacquaint yourself with the outside world.”

Mistral dressed and bundled up his robe, slippers and CD. He thought briefly of taking Jutta’s offer but decided that would be postponing the inevitable for no reason. He exited directly into the hallway and closed the door behind him, hearing the lock click into place. He had scheduled this appointment after his shooting for the day was over. The thought crossed his mind that a relaxed Interrogator simply wouldn’t do.

Cindie
Jutta, Thanks for the massage/Fango info -- will we see S.S. soon?, - Wednesday, August 15, 2001 at 18:24:06 (PDT)

FOF set, Mary Anne’s cubicle:

"—all this fuss," growls Mary Anne, or at least it is as close to a growl as her contralto voice can manage. "Since the security tapes show the guy actually holding the goods, why aren’t you out looking for him instead of harassing all of us?" Disgustedly, she examines her fingertips. "I thought that ink was never going to come off."

"Just doing our job—" Graff manages to get in edgewise.

"Yes, well, we’re trying to do ours and it isn’t easy under these circumstances. And all this bother about names, for heaven’s sake."

Graff tries again. "Yes, some of the cast members seem rather protective of their names."

Mary Anne’s face lights up momentarily with the first gleam of humour she has shown in the interview. "You haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until you get to Ed! He really does paint, you know, and that’s how he signs his work. Just ‘Ed,’ the way Van Gogh signed his work ‘Vincent’—"

"Yes, but we do have a full name for Vincent Van Gogh," interposes Silvert.

Mary Anne waves her hand dismissively. "Sometimes the first name is plenty. Look at Dante. And Michelangelo."

Silvert has her notepad out, balanced on her knee. "Good examples. Is that why you felt as you did, about disclosure of your full name?"

Mary Anne raises an eyebrow. "Well, now you have it for your precious records—but I’ll say this. Right now, I feel remarkably similar to Dante and Michelangelo."

"How so?" Silvert records Intellectual on her pad, followed by Something of an academic; slightly out of touch with reality.

"Like Dante, because this is starting to resemble a guided tour of Hell. And like Michelangelo, because I’m being forced by a higher authority to do what I’d very much rather NOT do."

"You’re a fan, right?" puts in Graff.

A sardonic smile from Mary Anne, who clearly does not need to ask what sort of fan. "Yes, I am."

"Then you’ll remember this. The needs of the many--"

"Do not," interrupts Mary Anne, "always outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one." (homage) She leans back in her desk chair, her crossed arms clearly signalling her indignation at the whole procedure. "But this isn’t getting us anywhere. Go ahead and ask your questions."

Graff and Silvert exchange glances, and Silvert gives a fraction of a nod. Mary Anne has been marginally more friendly to Graff, though the margin had been very narrow, indeed. Had she somehow overheard the remarks about actors? Perhaps that sharp hearing is not entirely an invention of her scripts.

At any rate, Graff takes that glimmer of cordiality as a signal to proceed. "When the materials in question were stolen—"

Silvert waits for a moment until Mary Anne is clearly absorbed in answering Graff’s queries as to her whereabouts at the time of the theft, then allows her eyes to wander about the cubicle, taking in the evidence of a pronounced and very individual style. And, perhaps, evidence of another sort . . .

Details. The folding Oriental-patterned screen in the corner, and the sweater draped over the top of it, with the label clearly visible: Italian import, and cashmere.

"—and then Christopher and I were in the dressing rooms together getting ready for the party. We were going in costume—"

Silvert eyes Mary Anne, who is still frowning, but not particularly at Graff: it is the frown of concentration as she recalls the events leading up to the Anniversary soiree. Today, Mary Anne’s out-of-costume ensemble is a suit of rich grey with shimmering undertones of slate blue, in the so-called "menswear" style that is anything but. Silvert scribbles on her pad, half her mind intent on Graff’s questions and Mary Anne’s replies; the other half taking note of Mary Anne’s butter-soft leather loafers, her pearl necklace, her silk shirt. No, not what most would call a ‘blouse,’ but a shirt, generously cut and elegantly draped to soften the lines of the suit. Whose jacket, coincidentally--is it coincidence?--lies on the chaise. Another label. This one, Armani.

Expensive, that. Of course, Mary Anne’s well-paid; it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but . . .

"Well, of course there are times we’d all like to strangle him, of course—"

It is a mark of Silvert’s professionalism that she does not drop her notepad.

"—but I’d never do anything to hurt The Director! He’s the best boss I’ve ever had. Oh, he’s a bit overprotective sometimes, but I guess he thinks it’s for the best—"

"Overprotective?" Graff carefully avoids looking at Silvert, not wishing to draw Mary Anne’s attention to how she and her surroundings are being observed. "How do you mean?"

Mary Anne is clearly amused now, and there is a sly note to her laughter. "Oh, he thinks my eating habits are a bit unhealthy. If he had his way, I’d be stuck with a diet of tofu and bean sprouts—"

Silvert jots down Director controlling?

Graff returns Mary Anne’s conspiratorial smile. "So he isn’t having his way, then?"

"Hardly. Oh, well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt me."

Then, as if thinking better of what she has said, she adds, "In the way of my eating habits, I mean."

There is a wary atmosphere in the room now, and Silvert picks up the questioning, fearing that her very silence has made Mary Anne suspicious. "So, where were we? You and Brandon were preparing for the party—"

"Yes. We were together in the dressing rooms, and then we were together at the party—"

Another look between Silvert and Graff, and then Silvert probes gently, "Then if you were together all evening . . . but the two of you disappeared from the party, I understand. Still, if you were together even after you left the party . . ." Her voice trails off, and the rest is understood: Then you’re each other’s alibi.

Mary Anne is silent for long moments, biting her lip. Finally, with the air of making a decision, she leans forward and admits, "There’s something you should know—you’d find it out, anyway, so it’s better if I go ahead and tell you." A pause. "After Christopher and I ‘disappeared,’ we went back to the dressing rooms—and he gave me a birthday present. Here it is."

Mary Anne reaches over to her bookshelf for the Vita Nuova and passes it to Graff, who inspects it with a soundless whistle at its beauty before handing it over to Silvert, who nods in appreciation at the fine cream paper and delicately-tinted illustrations. Intellectual, and then some.

"While we were in the dressing rooms," continues Mary Anne, "Therese’s dog, Tory, came in and found us. Before we went back to the party, Christopher took Tory back to Therese’s cubicle. Therese can tell you that Christopher was there, but—" Mary Anne looks squarely into Silvert’s eyes. "—I was alone in the dressing rooms for several minutes while Christopher was away." Her eyes flick briefly to Silvert’s pad. "So you can make a note of that, if you like. For those few minutes, there’s no one to prove where I was or what I was doing. Except me. And I say, I was sitting in front of the mirror brushing my hair."

Mary Anne leans back, her gaze troubled and defiant; detectives Silvert and Graff are silent, pondering this . . . No thinks Silvert, better not to call it a confession. Not yet. A little selflessness . . .

Impossible at this time to gauge Mary Anne’s motives. The woman is an actress and has reputedly perfected the art of the innocent look; the wide blue eyes betray nothing but concern and, naturally, some defiant irritation. Which could be an indicator, meditates Silvert. A guilty person might try to appear more cooperative.

Detective Miles Graff has risen from his chair and nods to Mary Anne, issuing the usual polite warnings about potential further questions, as Detective Ekaterin Silvert decisively closes her notepad, exiting the cubicle with her partner and recalling the words of the most famous detective of them all—that it is a capital error to theorize without data. She barely refrains from a grimace, recollecting Alexander Dane’s remark about the android.

Data. Solid information. Facts. Here, then, is a fact: Mary Anne had just given Brandon an alibi and left him neatly in the clear.

Is that what she had intended to do all along? And does she realize that she may have just placed herself on the list of suspects?

MA--here it is, Barbara! Plumped it up just a bit, with a few tweaks here and there. 8-)
Ah, nice to post again after an RL hiatus . . . , - Monday, August 13, 2001 at 19:38:38 (PDT)

Liebe Jutta
Please email me.
Danke
Barbara the Wallpaperer <vanlook@yahoo.com>
Sorry 'bout the private post..., - Monday, August 13, 2001 at 19:21:49 (PDT)

A quick reminder to come and read Solo Flights latest Writing Project stories, and chose your favourite. The story with the most votes will win a prize, so your votes are important! Click on the link on my name to take you to the page.

I'll get the results up at Solo Flights by the end of the week.
Claudia
- Monday, August 13, 2001 at 13:52:15 (PDT)

Barbara, you are welcome to write my interview, if I have one. I'm a bit to busy to, so go ahead if you want to.
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Monday, August 13, 2001 at 13:45:39 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Nottingham Courtyard Set
Shortly after the meeting

"What did you think you were doing?" Silvert hissed at Graff, after they'd dismissed the gathered employees back to work.

"What?" Graff said, eyebrows canted slightly in surprise.

"You've just turned them into a monolith with that comment about "other options"," Silvert replied, her voice taking on a shade of Graff's tone and inflection. "Now they're all going to be looking after one another, rather than telling us everything." She looked at her partner with exasperation. "Dammit, Miles, why can't you resist the urge for dramatics?!"

Graff shot her a look of asperity. "I think we just divided and conquered. I think everyone will be more than willing to voluteer anything to keep themselves out of trouble."

Silvert sighed. Graff idealized people's survival instinct too much -- he always had. He never could understand that, sometimes, a little selflessness was in one's best self-interest. She didn't think she could convince him now. "You underestimate the power of employment, Miles," she said, "not to mention simple loyalty. It's not a murder, after all. It just seems to be either a disgruntled employee or some industrial espionage." She shrugged. "It's not life and death, Miles, you've seen it happen in our Department..." She ended with a suggestive rise to her voice.

Graff grimaced and nodded. "True." A sour look crossed his face, as if a distasteful thought had filled his mouth. "Who do we have on next?"

"Well, the only name they gave me for her was 'Mary Anne.'"

Miles snorted. "The last time I saw anyone as uptight about their names as this bunch was when we had to question Cher and Madonna about the thefts from the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame."

Silvert rolled her eyes. "What do you expect, Miles? They don't have anything better to do. They're not business leaders, firefighters or MP's, after all. They're just actors."

Barbara the Wallopaperer
I dunno if y'all want me writin' your interviews.... , - Monday, August 13, 2001 at 12:03:26 (PDT)

The longer, the better, I always say.....
a Rickman admirer
singing Ode to Joya now, - Saturday, August 11, 2001 at 16:54:43 (PDT)

Miranda: I sent you a rather large email. I had a very difficult time getting it to work so let me know if you don't get it. Apologies for taking up space with a private post.
Magda <mgrantwich@yahoo.com>
- Saturday, August 11, 2001 at 13:23:16 (PDT)

Correction made.
D.o.C.

DoC: please change to coursers they were called. Thank you.
Magda
- Saturday, August 11, 2001 at 10:59:30 (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

His name was Leofric and he was a Crusader recently returned from the Holy Land. I didn't have time to get more out of him as we rode into Nottingham. He lounged on the seat beside the wagon driver; the ox handler and the fallen man-at-arms lay moaning in the back with the chests of gold. Three of the attackers stumbled along in the wagon's wake, bound, gagged and tied to the cart tail with stout rope. The other three lay on the road where we left them. The wolves feasted well that night.

I kept a firm grip on my curiosity until we cleared the town gates. Although the fight had not lasted long, night was now upon us and we could only steer by the torchlight up ahead. The men were eager to get behind the protection of the castle walls as quickly as possible. Not until we'd trotted over the drawbridge and the portcullis rattled down behind us did they relax in their saddles.

We dismounted in the courtyard. Although my bones were aching from the long day's ride, I jumped down from my horse with alacrity and threw the reins to a stableboy. An idea had been turning over in my mind. I looked around. Leofric was leaning against the cart, watching the servants unload the chests and picking his teeth with a piece of straw. In the clear light of the torches he loomed like a castle tower come to life. Some of the servants cast nervous glances at him; all seemed awed by his size.

"Leofric, you must be hungry." I pulled off my gloves and slapped them against my tunic to lift the dust. "I know I am. Join me at my table tonight."

He tossed the straw away and turned slowly to face me. "That's kind of you, my lord, but if I'm to find a room tonight I'd best be getting to it."

"No need to worry about that." I dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand. "After the most timely service you gave me tonight the absolute least I can do is give you a good supper and a bed for the night. And I warn you, I won't accept 'no' for an answer."

He stared at me, the seconds dragging out most uncomfortably. I was hard pressed not to fidget under that steady regard. Finally he spoke. "Aye, I'd heard that about you, my lord. Only the way I was told, it was the women who didn't get to turn you down."

"Ha!" I laughed, although I did not feel like it. "Well, I can't deny it but all that was some time ago. Past history. Water under the bridge. Now then, shall we go in?"

He nodded, adjusted his baggage under his arm and lifted the club he'd acquired in the fight. "Lead on, my lord."

We proceeded into the great hall with its long table and huge fireplace. Servants were laying out trenchers and goblets. The remains of a couple of geese were roasting over the fire. Except for the servants, the hall was deserted.

I took my seat at the head of the table and ordered the steward to place Leofric's chair in the place of honour on my right. He surrendered his the meager bundle that constituted his baggage to a servant and laid the club on the floor. Another servant brought him a basin and a cloth. I watched him dip his hands into the water and dry them; his movements were surprisingly graceful. Then the cook laid a goose in front of me and I turned my attention to carving portions of meat for both of us.

It took a while but Leofric eventually opened up and began to talk. Under the guise of being a generous host, I plied him with goblet after goblet of good wine while contenting myself with sipping from the same drink for the entire meal. There wasn't a lot to tell. He'd been born in Sussex and spent his childhood and youth working on his father's farm. His father died when he was too young to take over the tenancy and his older sister's husband took over instead. Herding cattle and goats for his brother-in-law hadn't appealed to him but there was no opportunity on the local lord's manor or in any of the small villages close by. He'd joined the Crusades the very first time the local priest preached that it was every true Englishman's duty to help retake the Holy Land from the infidel. But he hadn't had any illusions about the matter.

"I didn't believe in any of that sacred duty nonsense." Leofric tossed back his fourth cup of wine and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "It wasn't points in heaven I was interested in. It was land on the ground. Either here or in the kingdom of Jerusalem that was going to be set up. And I wasn't going to be greedy about it either. Every lord and prince in Christendom had his snout deep enough in the trough. All I wanted was some of the scraps that slopped over the sides."

I surreptitiously topped up his goblet. "A good plan."

"Yeah, I thought so too." He stabbed a piece of goose with his dagger and lifted it to his mouth. After a moment's chewing and reflection, he continued. "But you never know in this world, my lord. You just never know. We made it there in one piece - the pirates around Cyprus were something fierce but we got past them - landed in Tyre and commenced marching down the coast. Got barely ten miles in one week thanks to the heat and rocks. Then we got our first taste of heathen warfare."

He grimaced and drank some wine. "One minute we're alone in the desert. Next minute thousands of them come over the sands like demons let loose from hell. They have these short bows with thick arrows - hit us like bolts out of the sky. Our own weapons were useless; they were too close for a longbow to hit. We dropped our bows and pulled out our swords but that weren't much good either. We were on the ground, trying not to slip in the hot sand, trying to get a good purchase to brace ourselves. They were on the fastest horses you ever saw; coursers they were called. Just darted into our group, their scimitars flashed in the sun - one, two, three! - and out again and you looked around and six of your mates were on the ground with their throats cut or their arms hacked off. And then they were coming again...and again...and again..."

He stared unseeing into the middle distance, then shook his head and came to with an effort. "Well, that did it for me. Suddenly working on my brother-in-law's farm wasn't such a bad idea anymore and I couldn't wait to see it again. I went looking for the first heathen to surrender to and it wasn't long before I found one. He was looting some of the dead. I walked up to him, threw down my sword and threw up my arms. He looked surprised at first, then sort of disgusted, but he nodded and beckoned me to come on. He tied my arms and hands good and tight and dragged me along behind his horse back to his camp. And then I found out it would have been a good idea to know more of the lingo before I jumped ship. Because it turns out the heathens didn't have much use for hostages on account of their having to move fast on their horses so he sold me to a slave dealer. And I spent the rest of the Crusades working for a slaver in the markets of Tyre."

"Fascinating." I was rivetted in spite of myself. "And how did you get away?"

He shrugged. "That wasn't difficult. I did good work for my master and he came to trust me considerable. So the years passed better than they might have. Then I heard that a peace had been worked out between King Richard and Saladin. I bided my time until my master made one of his regular trips down the coast and then I helped myself to some gold, a sword and dagger and took off for the docks. I found a skipper willing to try for Cyprus on short notice and I paid him gold to take me there. I got there just in time to get on the last ship bound for France. Told them I escaped from a prison. Didn't see anyone I recognized. It worked. We landed in Marseille, I walked due north for three months, took another ship over the Channel and here I am."

I propped my chin on my hands and contemplated him. A thrilling story but I couldn't help feeling that something was missing. After a moment, I asked, "What about your family in Sussex? Did you go there first?"

"I did." He paused. "But things had changed. My brother-in-law and sister were dead, killed by the plague that went through the area a year earlier. Someone new was on the farm and they were nobody I knew. So I kept walking. Did enough work so that I wouldn't starve on the way. Didn't really know where I was going but I figured I'd know it when I got there."

"Fascinating." I repeated. A man who served his patrons loyally but put his own interests first. I could appreciate a man like that. He was perfect for what I had in mind. "So what are your plans now?"

He shrugged again. "Don't really have any. Fact is, wandering is fine in the summer months but it's past harvest time now and winter's coming closer. Farms don't need any extra mouths to feed until the spring planting. Thought I'd come try my luck in the towns and find some odd jobs to tide me over until next year."

Perfect. I leaned forward. "Leofric, I have a proposition to make. You look like a man who knows something about military organization and the proper way to hold a sword. I need a lieutenant to take charge of my men-at-arms and keep them primed. I'll give you ten pieces of gold a month, your own room and a comfortable bed, two horses and a new suit of mail if you'll take the job. Next spring we can discuss the matter again and if you want to move on, you'll be able to. You can buy a farm outright anywhere in the Midlands for five gold pieces. What do you say?"

His eyes were round with amazement. "What can I say, my lord? Yes! Where to you want me to place my mark?"

I waved it away. "I'll have my scribe draw up a contract in the morning. The steward will find you a room tonight and something more permanent tomorrow. Now if you don't mind, I must leave you. There are important matters that I must discuss with my wife - you'll meet her tomorrow too - and I cannot put them off any longer. No, don't rise. Be comfortable and help yourself to more wine if you like."

I took the stairs two at a time, the sound of his "good night" echoing off the walls behind me. This was an intelligent move on my part. I had a new lieutenant over a year after I was forced to, er, remove my cousin Guy of Gisbourne from the position. For the first time in months I wouldn't have to worry about training and drilling my men every morning. And more important - I had an eye-witness who could swear that Will Scarlet had tried to kill me. A former Crusader would stand well in the eyes of King Richard and would ensure that Robin of Locksley's bastard brother paid the price for attacking me. He'd be swinging from the end of a rope soon.

And now up to my bedroom and break the news to Joya about her marriages.

Magda
kind of longish today, - Saturday, August 11, 2001 at 10:43:45 (PDT)

Mistral opened the door to his dressing room. It was, perhaps, not large in comparison to the demands of the Hollywood stars, but it was ample to his needs and he knew that by the standards of his chosen profession it was lush. He had worked hard to hone his craft but knew that skill alone did not ensure success. That he had a role which suited his talents and provided endless opportunities for exploration and, he had to admit, occasional introspection, rendered him a fortunate man. He sometimes wondered at the myriad of choices which had brought him to this particular point.

His wardrobe for the day was hanging in the closet space. He pulled it down and carried it into the inner room. Shoes and socks and glasses were in a bag hung round the hangers’ neck. He completely stripped off his own clothes, carefully hanging his jacket, pants and shirt, and placed his things in a drawer which he’d designated for that purpose.

While the larger outer room held a matching couch, easy chair and ottoman, lamp and the long make-up table, this inner room held only a small desk and a chair to assist his dressing and the small bathroom. He took his contacts out, put them in their case and placed them in the bathroom cabinet. His things tucked away he began to don the attire of his character.

As he dressed his thoughts strayed to a day from many years ago. His father was due to return from a business trip which had kept him away for an unusually long period of time. He remembered his mother admonishing him before she left that morning not to get his hopes up. But he did hope. He couldn’t help it. He’d been very good and knew that his father would be proud of him. He was six. The man of the house while father was away. He kept watch from the branches of the large willow tree which grew near the house and afforded a view of the long winding drive. He was disappointed when the first car he’d seen after a morning and afternoon of keeping watch turned out to be his mother returning. Finally, he spotted his father’s approaching car. He scrambled down the tree, he’d left it only for dinner at his mother’s insistence, took up his position in the entrance way, just beside the door, and stood, tall and proud. His father came in, looked at him and nodded, then, in that voice said only, “shouldn’t he be in bed?” His father brushed past him and proceeded into his study.

He followed him and peered into the door of the forbidden room. His father’s inner sanctum. “I waited up Father,” he’d said, willing his voice not to waiver. Willing his father to smile at him, to hug him.

His father looked up from where he was standing, sorting through a stack of mail. “Did you. That’s nice.” Nothing else. He ought to have known better. His father never touched him. Not ever.

He knew his mother had seen it all, but she did not mention it as she took him upstairs and kissed him goodnight. He saved his tears for the pillow.

The clothing was simple and it took little time to dress. Shoes, socks, shirt and pants. The shoes didn’t even require tying, no shoelaces nor anything else left to HIM. Nothing else to create the mantle of the Interrogator. Nothing else needed. He took the glasses out of their case and put them on. Fully dressed as HIM, Mistral headed to hair and make-up.

He sat down in the make-up chair, nodded and wished the technician a good morning. Conversation was minimal as his thoughts returned inward, readying himself for the day’s work, running dialogue through his head. The make-up technician worked in silence save for an occasional request for Mistral to turn his head or present a certain aspect. In truth there was little of that as they’d worked together to create HIS look so often it was nearly rote. The eyes were deepened, the lips were thinned, the angles of his features sharpened. HIS hair was recreated as well. A bit of the compound which he so hated and a few brush strokes and that was done. He surveyed himself in the mirror. HE would do.

He moved to the set, script in hand as he mulled over the scenes, blocking them in his mind, subtly shifting emphasis and nuance, massaging the material until he was satisfied he could convey what he needed to. He stood on the set, alone, among the first there, and looked into the mirror. As he looked at himself the features shifted until it was clear it was not himself he was looking at – not at all. Mistral was looking at HIM. Whatever was in his mind at this moment was unreadable on his face. Unreadable on HIS face.

Cindie
This would be flash forward to whenever the detectives have allowed the cast to return to work., - Saturday, August 11, 2001 at 06:36:07 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Nottingham Courtyard Set

Detective Ekaterin Silvert shook her head silently. She hoped no one else recognized the star struck glaze in Graff's eyes. Alexander Dane. Of course Graff would be going ga-ga. Every third word out of his mouth was a quote from some science fiction novel or programme.

"What about Solo Flights?" one of the camera techs asked. "Does this affect them, too?" Silvert glanced over at the Director. Rickman looked surprised, as if struck by a sudden thought. Silvert wondered what it was. She scribbled a note to ask the man later. She cleared her throat.

"What I'm going to show you now are a series of frames from the security tapes from Ms. Claudia's office during the time of the theft." All eyes swung to Claudia, who was focused on the detective.

"Hope it doesn't catch me scratching anything improper," Claudia quipped. Nervous twittering from the rest of the room, a soft snort from the Director.

"Lights, please," Silvert asked. One of the techs hit a switch.

The transparencies had been made of black and white stills from the security video, but the gathered employees could still see the skinny frame of the perpetrator.

"'Airtight security,' you said," murmured the Director to the security chief, not entirely successful at supressing a wheezing laugh. "'The most expensive yet devised.' And a teenager wafts right through it?"

Goaded, Keene, the head of security, snapped, "I didn't promise it was idiot-proof!"

"Ah, yes, the human factor." (homage)

The same skinny young white male was shown in the Wardrobe and Properties Departments, in some stills with his hands in people's desks, or with stacks of papers in his arms, leaving the building with... the set dressing crew detailed to set up for the anniversary party.

"So that's how the little blighter got out," muttered Security Head Keene.

"Lights, please," Silvert called. She eyed the assembled crowd of cast and crew as the set lights came back on and everyone blinked their eyes clear. "Now, the next time we see him, on the security tapes from the set for the party setting, his arms are empty. So, either he hid his stolen objects here, hoping to come back for them later, or he'd already passed them off to whomever had hired him."

"Was he hired then?" the FoF Director asked, his eyebrows shooting up to his bangs.

Graff cut in, smoothly. "We're leaving that option open, should the data support it. We're also keeping open other options--" and her partner scanned the room suggestively "--should the data support any of them." Silvert stood silent, with an intent, angry set to her mouth. Miles had put his foot in it again.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
So, Ms. Claudia.... whaddya think? ;) Oh, people, have I got plans , - Thursday, August 09, 2001 at 17:59:45 (PDT)

Star Trek: The Next Generation was a good science fiction series!
Cindie
Putting my two pence in., - Thursday, August 09, 2001 at 14:58:48 (PDT)

FoF Sets ~ Offices

"We will be fingerprinting everyone, regardless of their status here, to match the prints we uncovered in Ms. Riley's office," Detective Miles Graff heard his partner Detective Silvert say. Silvert continued. "It is not an accusation of guilt. It is not a personal opinion about anyone's character."

"Don't you have any personal opinions about this?" a tiny blonde woman asked. That was, ah, yes, Therese Gellert. Her co-star, Eamon de Valera, named after the legendary Irish leader, loomed glowering behind her. Graff watched them closely.

"Permitting my personal judgement to affect my information search would be like getting just a little bit pregnant--the consequences would very soon get beyond me," Silvert replied, shuffling her transparencies. (homage) The room of twitching employees laughed nervously. "We are conducting this investigation with the best science can offer us."

"The laws of science are implacable lie-detectors. Men may fool men. Men will never fool the material," Graff said. (homage)

His partner nodded and added, "Data is king." A murmur from the middle of the room, followed by a flock of snickers. The temperature of Silvert's facial expression dropped to sub-arctic. "Would you care to share with the rest of the class?" she asked, icily.

One of the male actors stood up and cleared his throat. "I said, 'I thought Data was an android from a bad science fiction programme,'" he enunciated clearly. Another set of snickers, more quiet, from the entire room. Graff glanced over at the FoF Director. A tightening of the man's lips was the only reaction Graff could detect.

One actress turned around and smiled, impishly. "And you would know, Alexander Dane," Mary Anne said, teasingly. Graff looked closer at the actor. Alexander Dane. Graff's mind gibbered. Alexander Dane. Graff adored Galaxy Quest.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
That's the problem with fandom.... we are everywhere, - Thursday, August 09, 2001 at 13:44:00 (PDT)

Welcome back Julie! So glad to hear that your mom is doing well.

I would have posted today, but it was the first day back to school. You think I would be happy because it's my last year at junior high(8th grade), but I'm not. Frankly, I don't want to go back! They changed so much over summer that it doesn't seem fun anymore, like last year. *sigh* But what do you expect from a public school!?

I've got planned out for my story what's going to happen, but I'll wait and take it slow.
Miranda <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
- Wednesday, August 08, 2001 at 16:26:22 (PDT)

FoF Offices: Julie returned to her cubicle carrying a large box. She'd shown the two investigating detectives that they were only things for her office, and Barbara had vouched for her, so they'd let her and Tommy pass without being questioned. Despite the investigation, she was relieved and happy to be back.

Julie's mother was doing well after her surgery, but she'd needed to stay with her for quite a while, since she couldn't do much around the house. Even so, Julie's mom was expected to make a full recovery. Julie had eventually convinced her of the fact that she needed to get back to work. That was good, because, in these past two weeks, the atmosphere in the house had become absolutely stifling. Julie loved her mother very much, but going back to FoF would actually be like a vacation.

Between working around her parents' home, Tommy had been goading her to get the first part of her script done, and the cat, too, had been giving her no respite. He still was deliberately cryptic about the "journey" she was going to be making, but Julie assumed it was the special one her character was making in her script. Tommy did nothing but purr when she suggested that, so she assumed she'd guessed correctly.

Now, she was back on set, with a box of things to make her office more "homey", a large stack of script, and Tommy in tow. "So much for escaping hectic, furball." Julie gently put the box onto her desk and began unpacking.

**Bound to get worse before it gets better, I'm afraid,** the orange tabby yawned and stretched. Julie shrugged at the cat, placing a smiling nature faerie doll, a candle holder that looked like a bamboo lamp, and her essential oil diffuser on the desktop.

**You're not helping it any by suggesting that I hand this script to the Director right away. He's busy with everything that's happening. He doesn't have time, and might even get mad.** Julie tacked her Chinese "luck" plaque and her phoenix and dragon dagger onto the cubicle wall. **Why did you ask me to bring the knife? I could have gotten busted for it. The thing is functional. Aside from that, it's not a ritual knife, which means I'm not forbidden to shed blood with it.**

**Script. Witch hunters. Russian mob. Spanish Inquisition." was all Tommy replied.

**Well, I'm going to take it down to Props later and have it blunted. If I do get filmed, I don't want anyone getting hurt.** Julie placed the healing wand that she'd made for herself on top of the computer. "That's a big 'if', " she muttered out loud. Picking up a silver gel writer to make corrections, she started skimming through the stack of scripts in her inbox.

**Take the script to Alan,** Tommy mindspoke as he rubbed around her ankles. **Take the script to Alan. T-a-a-a-ake the sc-c-cript to Alan. At le-e-e-e-e-ast drop it in his o-o-o-office.** Julie shifted in her chair, effectively ignoring her feline companion. He batted hard at one of her long curls. She placed her work aside and shuffled her tarot cards. Three of the Major Arcana cards fell out of the pack, face up: The Emperor, The Magician, and the Tower. The cat ignored her as much as she was ignoring him. **TakethescripttoAlan! Now! Nownownownow,** he started to yowl along with his demand.

The voice in her brain grew too annoying for the proofreader to handle and she slammed the cards onto the desk. **ALL RIGHT. D*mmit, Tommy, I'll go, but I'm sure he's not going to be happy about it. At the very best, he won't have time for it.** Sighing, she picked up her script and left the cubicle, the large cat leaping to perch, satisfied, on her shoulder.

She had not seemed to notice the three serious cards on top of her desk, or the way, the magician card seemed to slide beneath her keyboard by itself.
Julie <flashcat@csinet.net>
Returning after my absence, - Wednesday, August 08, 2001 at 09:22:33 (PDT)

FOF Anniversary Party: (the last flashback)--

Mary Anne and Brandon again exchanged a glance and rose as one from the couch. Brandon stepped over to Mistral and placed a hand on his shoulder, a solid presence in the face of adversity as always, but the other man did not turn around. “I’m sorry, Mistral. You will let me know if there is anything I can do.” Mistral nodded acknowledging his friend’s words. Brandon stepped back and waited near the door.

Mary Anne, as Brandon had known, had something she wanted to say to Mistral as well and she moved in next to him. “I am very sorry, Mistral. This must be very difficult for you and if you ever need anyone to talk to. . ., well, you know where I am.”

Mistral turned to acknowledge her words and found himself being the object of a tender kiss on the cheek and an accompanying hug. He exclaimed, “Mary Anne!” in mock dismay and gave her a sidelong look.

She patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I’d never do that to you in public, your reputation and all.” Her smile was broad but her eyes still held their sympathy and compassion, rendered all the more apparent by the simplicity of her attire.

“I am quite relieved, I assure you.”

“Then I’ve made my contribution to your peace of mind.”

“You’ve been known to give me a piece of your mind on many occasions, Mary Anne. Perhaps tonight it is particularly welcome.”

“Good night, Mistral.”

“Good night, Mary Anne.”

Mary Anne moved over the join Brandon and Cindie followed adding her goodnights.

After Mary Anne and Brandon departed, Cindie walked up behind Mistral, who had resumed his spot and stared, unseeing out the window. One hand rested on the top of the window frame, the other hung loose at his side. She placed her arms around his waist and laid her head against his back. His body let go a tremor and she held him tightly, willing him to know she was there. For him. His hands covered hers and he squeezed tightly. He turned then and leaned back on the window frame and pulling her tight to his body. Her hands were under his jacket and he felt her stroke him through the fabric of his shirt. “There now,” he heard her say, “it will be all right.” He thought that he ought to have found it absurd, that she was trying to comfort him, but he didn’t. Instead, he held tight to her and let her murmur sweet lies.

Cindie
Thanks to MA for ideas. I should probably put that at the bottom of every post!
Barbara, the reserved and secretive Mistral, eh? Suspects abound, what fun!, - Tuesday, August 07, 2001 at 15:39:55 (PDT)

Indeed. Her every need deserves my personal attention.
George
Coming home., - Tuesday, August 07, 2001 at 14:38:57 (PDT)

Re the new sound file: Ode to Joya?
Magda
- Tuesday, August 07, 2001 at 07:40:07 (PDT)

FoF Set ~ Offices

Barbara watched the detectives work their way across the office floor. Everyone was being questioned, it seemed, from the Director on down to Sveyn and Geoff, the interns. The male detective was short, with a hint of a hunch, and a lined face, marked by pain. The female detective was one of the most beautiful women Barbara had ever seen, with gleaming dark hair, sky blue eyes and an expression of serenity.

The Director had called a company meeting that morning for 10 a.m. It was only the third meeting of such scope Barbara had attended in her three years at FoF. The last FoF-wide meeting the Director held had been to discuss the departure of Renie and Hans and how that would affect people's assignments and employment; the rumors when those two left FoF had run so wild that no one knew what was going on. It looked like the Director was being careful to nip this rumor mill as close to the bud as possible. Barbara sighed and went back to work. The trial scenes were requiring some flashback filming, as well as some never-before-seen parts of Brandon and Mary Anne's respective histories. After that, Mistral would be on a hectic filming schedule with the Interrogator's defence, with its own set of flashbacks and new footage. Between designing and dressing the sets, Barbara was going to be too busy to tackle that November project. It was just as well, with the emergency sabbatical Julie had to take because of her mother... Barbara sighed and jumped at a knock.

"Barbara Vanders?" The male detective. "Detective Graff. This is my partner, Detective Silvert." Graff's grey eyes scanned the cluttered room. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

*************************

The entire FoF cast and crew gathered in the Nottingham courtyard set. Metal folding chairs had been placed in straight rows. Some crew members stood, some sat crosslegged on the flagstone courtyard. Detective Miles Graff glanced over at his partner, who was flipping through some transparencies in a folder. She was always more organized than he was. Silvert was the one who'd organzied the projector and the transparencies. Graff looked out on the crowd.

There were the actors, some of which he recognized from talk shows and charity benefits. He assigned names to the faces as his eyes passed over them. The willowy Mary Anne _____, sitting next to the redoubtable Christopher Brandon. Brandon was, Graff had been informed by his partner, the most popular male lead on the programme. His popularity was threatened only by the next actor, the reserved and secretive Mistral, who Graff had put out feelers on in Wales. The man hid too much for Graff to be comfortable with his statement. Mistral's eyes followed the Director--no, Graff corrected himself -- the Director's administrative assistant around the room. The woman's name was -- Graff flipped back though his notebook -- Cindie _____. Graff scanned down the lists of names. The actors: Kari, Achilles, Charlie, Jamie, Joya, GeorgeThere was the bold Claudia _____, who had been the target of the theft, if theft it was. One hardly knew, these days. The Director called the murmuring crowd to order with a few quiet words.

The Director. Now, he was a puzzle. A man who made his money playing villians and claimed to hate it; a man who spent his off-set hours running a critically-successful but financially marginal company like FoF. How much, Graff wondered, did he really hate playing villians? Did the man want to get out of the villian business by getting the publicity this would garner for his brainchild? Graff remembered what his old partner Hawkins had told him, when she'd been promoted: People give themselves to you in their talking, if you're quiet and patient and let them. (homage) He was going to let these people keep talking and see what they gave him.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
The plot thickens.... are you prepared?, - Monday, August 06, 2001 at 18:18:26 (PDT)

“I must tell them.” Mistral was assisting Cindie with her wrap, a black cape which absurdly made her remember a toy cape she’d seen in a store once. It had had a warning label admonishing that it did not imbue its’ wearer with the power of flight.

This statement from Mistral brought her back to the circumstances of the present with a vengeance. He meant his mother of course. After his reaction to Brandon as Sirki she’d half expected it. This fact did nothing to lessen the deep sense of dread she felt for his sake. It would be difficult for him to speak of this thing, even to Mary Anne and Brandon, who were probably the people closest to him on the set. They were but a few yards from them, in the process of saying their goodbyes and getting ready to leave themselves. Though whatever feelings the sight of Death, in the guise of Brandon/Sirki had evoked from him tonight had been well hidden, it threw him off balance and Cindie knew it. That he didn’t mind her knowing was still a source of awe and a deep pleasure. He didn’t reveal himself easily and for all his hard angles she found she wished to be held in such regard by him. This gift of his silent consternation was one she would keep in trust.

As to his wishing to tell Mary Anne and Brandon, if she noticed the subtle shifts in his demeanor it was likely that his friends did too. They had known Mistral a long time and were front and center for his non-display of feelings. And he had to know they would sense something amiss. That he’d kept things to himself for so long seemed a sad thing though, and she was glad, even for what it would cost him, that he had friends with whom to share his troubles.

With so much going on in her head she simply nodded and asked, “Do you want to be alone when you tell them?”

His eyes glinted, “If I’m alone, I can hardly tell them, now can I?” He cut off the beginnings of her retort with a squeeze of her hand. “No, I do not wish to be alone. I would have you there with me. If you would.”

“Of course I would.” She squeezed his hand in return. A hint of the pain he was feeling shone through and she wanted nothing more than to cradle his head in her arms and tell him everything was going to be all right. She settled for smoothing back that stray lock of hair which always insisted on falling onto his forehead. Everything wasn’t going to be all right, but he didn’t have to be alone.

“Wait here just a moment.” She watched as Mistral walked over to Mary Anne and Brandon and said something. They nodded and Mary Anne indicated to a nearby room. Mistral beckoned to Cindie and she followed. It was a small lounge. Mary Anne and Brandon were settling themselves on the couch and Mistral indicated Cindie to the only other chair in the room. She sat in the overstuffed chair and Mistral perched on its arm briefly before standing back up to gaze out the room’s only window which overlooked the auxiliary parking lot. He watched the retreating figures for a moment, and smiled, pensive. Mary Anne and Brandon exchanged a look that bespoke the knowledge that they were about to be taken into confidence. Their uncertainty was also apparent. Mistral finally faced them, his back to the window, and his lips turned up into a vague smile. “I suppose you’ll be wondering why I called you all here.”

Mary Anne took up the gauntlet and remarked, “usually this is where some sort of plot twist is revealed, isn’t it?”

Mistral flickered a smile in return, and seemed someone eased by the humour. “Yes, it is. The twist tonight is that I wish to tell you both something which is personal in nature.”

Mary Anne and Brandon exchanged a quick look again but said nothing. At this point Mistral returned to where Cindie sat and took up position on the arm of the chair again. “You will, of course, be aware that I have a mother.”

Brandon said smoothly, “That is usual, Mistral.”

“Even for me? There are some who might beg to differ.” The banter of his friends was as a balm to the open wound. He continued, “She is, however, very ill.”

Cindie resisted the impulse to reach out to him, uncertain as to whether that might make his revelation even more difficult. She saw Mary Anne draw in her breath and Brandon nod. They looked sympathetic, but not surprised. Mary Anne hesitated, then made up her mind. “She isn’t expected to recover, is she?”

“No, she is not.” Mistral continued, he’d started, but would have this over as soon as could be managed. “It seemed likely that you might have noticed something in my manner this night, and…” he paused gathered breath and proceeded, “I wished to guard against future lapses on my part. Should you have sensed something,” he looked at Mary Anne now, “it seemed best if you knew what it was. It is not my intention to allow this to affect my work, but it is possible that I may be called away for a few days at some point …soon.” He shrugged and stood abruptly and gazed out the window once again.

Cindie
Still snorfling over "jolly whizzy". , - Sunday, August 05, 2001 at 15:59:18 (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

For two days I argued with King Richard - to no avail. I could not shake his conviction that the dissolution of my marriage to Joya was a jolly whizzy idea that would solve everything. He nodded agreeably when I pointed out that there were implications for the estate of Joya's second husband: after all, if she wasn't married to me, she hadn't been married to him either and then what about the funds she'd given to the king's Crusade from her widow's portion? He clucked sympathetically when I told him how complicated it would be to disentangle the various properties I'd bestowed on her as part of the marriage settlement. He even sighed romantically when I described how happy we were together; this last one he apparently felt he could do something about and he offered to commission a ballad on the subject from one of his troubadours as soon as he returned to France. Which he would be doing, he pointedly added, when he accompanied the newly remarried Abelard and Joya to their home in Anjou.

"Look, George," he finally said, very late on the second night, as the candles guttered in their holders and I wracked my brain for more ammunition. "What you don't appreciate is that I do understand all your arguments and I am in total agreement with you. And if it were any other territory involved I wouldn't have bothered opening the damn message. But it's Anjou we're talking about, old man, and I need that alliance. It's crucial to all my plans in France and to the long-range security of the kingdom. Matters of state come before any personal consideration, including my own. I mean, look at me. Do you think I like being married to-" he broke off with a grimace. "Well, never mind that. My point is that while I'm more than willing to make it up to you for any inconvenience or pain this causes, you have to understand that it's going ahead. End of chat."

And with that final statement ringing in my ears I went to my chamber for the night.

I was up early the next day to leave for home. That was one concession I got out of him: that I could precede the royal party to break the news to Joya myself. There was no telling when Abelard would arrive and I was determined not to sit around the court waiting. Arrangements for a kingly visit took time to prepare and he agreed that it would make more sense if I were on the spot to see to it. So the gray dawn light found me waiting in the stableyard for my horse to be saddled and brought out. It was a clear sunrise that promised a crisp autumn day. Good riding weather. I would make excellent time before the early dusk.

The stablelad led my horse out, handed over the reins and bobbed his head deferentially. I had just set my foot in the stirrup when a voice halloed my name.

"There you are, my lord." It was one of the king's scribes, red-cheeked and out of breath. He skidded to a halt beside me. "We were afraid we missed you. The wagon will be here in just a moment. The oxen gave the driver some trouble this morning."

I stared at the man. "What wagon?"

"Why, to carry the gold, my lord. Back to Nottingham." He waved his hand at something behind me. "There it is, sir. All ready to go."

I looked over my saddle in time to watch a heavy two-wheeled cart lumber out of the stable pulled by two huge oxen. A driver and a handler sat on the seat, yawning and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Sitting in the cart were two large chests, fastened with thick chains. Three men-at-arms loomed up behind them, armed with javelins and swords.

The scribe was talking again. "The king said that royal visits are expensive and he is determined that you should not be out of pocket for it. He bids you make whatever preparations you desire and to keep any surplus funds."

A bribe is what it amounted to. My lip curled. Be a good boy, George, and kingie will give you a nice treat. "How thoughtful of him. Please express my thanks for his gracious gesture. You can assure him that I am grateful." I swung up into the saddle. The sooner I was on the road, the better I would like it.

We trotted out of the stableyard at a good clip, the scribe waving us goodbye as we turned onto the road. Although I was maintaining an outward calm, internally I was seething. Oxen are ponderous creatures. We would be lucky if we reached Nottingham in twice the time I could have made it alone.

It was easily one of the most frustrating trips of my life. The oxen were prime animals and kept a steady pace but of course they could not match the speed of a horse and I kept my mount reined tight to accommodate the slower pace. With rather less success than the rein on my temper, I must confess. By the time we reached Nottinghamshire's southern border, twelve days later, everyone had learned to stay well away from me.

We were just outside the town gates when it happened. I'd been pushing the driver hard to keep the oxen going so we could make it to the castle by dark. The sun was setting over the low hills and dusk was coming on as we rode through the woods. The men-at-arms had had their swords in hand, looking uneasily at the trees closing in on the path but they relaxed as we cleared the trees and could see the land spread out in front of us again and the castle in the distance. Everything was quiet - almost too quiet - and I had just turned in my saddle to harangue the driver again when they struck.

They came at us from all sides. Masked, with dark clothes to blend into the forest, and armed with clubs and staves, there were at least a dozen of them. The ox handler screamed as he was yanked off the seat and tossed into the undergrowth. One soldier was down, blood streaming from under his helmet; another slewed sideways in his saddle, clinging to his horse's mane in an effort to stay seated. The third was slashing at four men surrounding his mount and trying to dodge blows from several clubs at the same time.

I had my own weapon out and was using it with great effect on at least two men who fell in the first assault. Out of the corner of my eye I saw more coming and I reared my horse to keep them away while I swung at another marauder by my side. That one fell too but three took his place. My horse was spooked by their presence and I couldn't control him and fight off attackers at the same time. I hauled at the reins with all my might just as a hand reached up to grab my mount's bridle.

And then the hand vanished. Two men who'd been standing beside my horse also disappeared. I stabbed at the remaining ones and looked around. I couldn't believe the sight that met my eyes. Standing in the road was one of the largest men I had ever seen. He lifted his arms and I saw that he held a man in each fist. As I watched he brought their heads together with a loud crack and dropped their still bodies on the ground. Then he casually reached over and repeated the action with another couple of marauders.

The sudden appearance of the giant seemed to have a similar effect on some of the villains; they grabbed their wounded and retreated to the trees, leaving fewer than five behind to continue their assault. The two men-at-arms who weren't wounded rode up and between us we kept the wagon safe. The giant paid no attention to any of us; he'd appropriated a club from one of his victims and was using it with great skill.

I looked around to check that the path was still clear and shouted an order at the driver. White with fear, he slapped the reins against the oxen's backs and geed them forward in a shrill voice. I turned back to repel another offensive and heard the wagon lumber past to safety. Seeing the object of their attack disappear had a disheartening effect; the rest of the attackers vanished into the trees.

By this time, there were at least six attackers on the ground in various conditions. Some lay still and bloody but others moaned and cursed, struggling to get to their feet. The giant leaned against the nearest tree and checked the skin on his knuckles. I had a strong desire to know this man better but first things first. I examined the fallen marauders carefully. "That one." I pointed with my sword. "Get him on his feet."

The giant stepped forward and yanked my selection up and over to my horse. His clothes were filthy from the ground but they seemed, even in the fading light, to be of better quality than the near rags of the others. He fought his captor's grip with maddened fury but he shook him as one would a dog and held him tight. I reached down and tore the scrap of cloth from his face.

For long moments we simply stared at each other, motionless. Shock kept me speechless. Then I sat back in my saddle and gestured with my sword again. "Bind him well. We'll take him into town and hang him in the morning."

The words were barely out of my mouth when the prisoner gave a frenzied lurch and succeeded in tearing free of the giant's grip. He hit the ground running and with one bound was into the forest and racing away through the trees. I watched the darkness swallow him whole.

No matter. Plenty of time for catching him and giving him his just desserts. Yes, indeed, Will Scarlet would rue the day he'd led an attack on me in my own shire.

Magda
- Saturday, August 04, 2001 at 12:41:11 (PDT)

FOF dressing rooms—slight flashback, before the party closes:

It is some time before order is restored in the dressing room.

After Mary Anne’s lunge at Brandon, they had spent some moments in playful scuffling and sparring, accompanied by many lunges from Tory, who apparently thinks it her duty to jump at the principals in the mock-struggle and lick their faces as often as possible.

Finally, however, the commotion is stilled as Mary Anne slips reluctantly out of Brandon’s arms. "They’ll be shutting down out there, if they haven’t already," as she nods toward the door. "Maybe you should take Tory back to Therese’s cube. I’ll finish up and wait for you here."

Brandon nods. "Tory, come."

Left alone before the mirror, Mary Anne brushes out her hair and, catching up the lengths in a flexible comb, re-sets the pins—most of them, at least. Mindful of Phil’s admonition about over-tensioning her hair, she is careful not to draw it back so tightly. The look is gentler now, less elegant but better-suited to the soft lines of her gown. She studies herself in the glass, and smiles at what she sees reflected there: the ethereal slimness and snowy gown an odd contrast to the face of this woman, flushed with laughter and yes, glowing with happiness and affection, her eyes brilliant with it. I’m no more like Grazia than Christopher is like Sirki, thank heavens. Nothing diaphanous or insubstantial about me, not when I look like I just got back from a ten-mile hike. But the roles were fun, after all. We had a good time.

We learned a few things, maybe . . .

And Brandon has returned, stepping quietly into the room. "We timed it very well. Therese was just leaving her cubicle when she saw me with Tory." A pause. "Speaking of timing, it’s just as well Tory arrived here when she did." Brandon favours Mary Anne with a mischievous smile—mischievous for him, that is. "Or there would have been nothing left of us but ashes, there on that bench . . ."

"The half-achieved Harfleur?" quips Mary Anne, rising from the bench and shaking out her gown, as if she does expect to find some traces of smoke upon it.

"Quite. And there would have been no remains to identify us—except, perhaps, one or two of your hairpins, or the medals upon my coat—"

"But you weren’t wearing it," laughs Mary Anne. "Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered if you had been. They’d have all been melted into a puddle!"

"Till in her ashes I lie buried."

*She* lie buried, thinks Mary Anne, but does not trouble herself to make the correction aloud as Brandon steps toward her to settle her wrap around her shoulders . . . his hands lingering, then turning her to face him.

"Mary Anne."

"Yes, Christopher?" Watching him demurely through her lowered lashes. "Did you have something you wanted to say to me before we were . . . interrupted?"

"I did, but now I have to revise it to exclude the terms—what were they?--oh, yes. Beast, brute, and barbarian."

"I meant what I said about biting you on the leg, you know—"

"Shhhh." A finger laid against her lips, tracing the curve of the upper and then lingering on her cheek. "I’ll say this, instead." He pauses, as if waiting for the proper words to take shape. "I know that some would consider my views . . . old-fashioned."

"Our views."

"Yes. I know you share many of them, and we’ve discussed such things before. But let me finish. I’ll have no regrets about my role for this evening—it was an enlightening experience." His eyes, that curious shade between amber and emerald, his gaze directly upon her. "In more ways than one. And it does not appear to have harmed either of us . . ."

Mary Anne shakes her head. Reassuring him.

"However," Brandon concludes, "I don’t think I’ll have any desire to play Prince Sirki again." Brandon lifts Mary Anne’s hands in his, planting a kiss in each palm and then closing her fingers around that lingering warmth. "And while you are in this world, Mary Anne—I hope it shall be a long time before I meet the Prince. Again."

Greater than illusion, and strong as Death, thinks Mary Anne as she moves wordlessly into Brandon’s arms and allows him to hold her through several long minutes as she breathes in the scent of him through the starched whiteness of his shirt, pressing her face into that crispness and then, feeling the tremor of his body, stepping back to spare him any further . . . further . . .

But he appears perfectly calm. Or would, to anyone who does not know him so well as Mary Anne. Silently she retrieves her bag as Brandon makes certain they have left nothing else in the dressing rooms—and, last of all, Brandon hands over her gift of La Vita Nuova and smiles.

Happy Birthday, Mary Anne."

MA--yooowwwwl, Barbara. *fanning* I see what you mean about warm!
Okay, do we start singing "The party's over"? ;-), - Friday, August 03, 2001 at 18:35:35 (PDT)

Magda, I just read your last post of the adventures of George and, my oh my, I can't wait to read what's going to happen next! What an excellent twist to the story!

Have printed out the "writing project" which I will read tonight. It looks like fun!

I just saw The Princess Diaries and had to think of Phil during the make over scene. He would have done a much better job!
Christine <ckofler@hotmail.com>
- Friday, August 03, 2001 at 18:20:50 (PDT)

Anniversary Party Site

Barbara watched, thankfully, as the last FoF employee left the site. She and the caterers had rushed around, sweeping and wiping madly. FoF, she'd learned, was notorious for leaving a location cleaner than how they found it and she fully intended to have her party live up to such high standards.

She'd urged Phil to catch a ride with someone else to get home, like Sue or Isabetta, because she knew she wouldn't be leaving for a number of hours -- and probably not get home until the wee hours of the morning. But Phil had refused, on the grounds that he always left a ballroom with the same lady he'd entered it with. She'd snorted in reply but was grateful, too. She'd have someone in the car with her to keep her awake for half of the drive home.

She'd had no compunction about using Phil's presence, either. Phil checked both gents' restrooms while she did the ladies'. "Found this," he said, handing her a bit gleaming metal and stone. A gold and onyx? button stud. Nodding, Barbara slipped the shining piece into a small plastic zip-top bag and placed it in the box already marked "Lost and Found."

At last, they were ready to go. Kevin, night security "and valet extraordinare," Barbara teased, locked the doors behind them and walked Phil and she to her car, sitting in lonely splendour next to Kevin's white pickup under the parking lot lights. Barbara tucked the Lost and Found box into her back seat, along with her tall fruit hat, let Phil and herself in and drove off. Kevin locked the FoF gates behind them, climbed into his pickup and started his rounds.

Barbara and Phil drove in silence, on the way to his flat. Barbara could feel her eyelids start to sink. "Phil, talk to me, please?"

"You're getting tired, are you not?"

"Phil, I am tired. Now I'm getting sleepy and I need to get you home," she said, irritated. The irritability kept her awake, at least.

Phil looked at her, concerned. "Are you sure you're not being too tired to drive all that way?" he asked. "You could be catching a few hours at my flat."

"No, I'm fine," she said.

Phil looked at her dubiously but said nothing.

They drove in silence for a few more kilometers, Barbara irritated and growing more so, as Phil just watched her. "Would you stop staring!" she snapped.

Phil's head jerked backward. "Sorry." He turned to look out the windshield but his eyes kept surreptiously darting her way.

"Phil," she said, warningly. "You're being a worrywart."

Phil sighed but said nothing.

*************************

Phil watched out his window as Barbara's car pulled away from the curb. He hadn't pushed the offer of somewhere to sleep, but he wished she'd taken him up on it, nevertheless. He had cajoled a promise out of her to call when she got to her house and let him know she had arrived safely. Irritably, she'd agreed.

Phil peeled out of the borrowed tuxedo and dropped his cufflinks into the sleek mahogany box on his dresser. He pulled out the stalks of lavender from the inner coat pocket. The flattened flowers looked sadly the worse for wear, though they gave out the warm, welcoming scent he'd come to realise made him happy.

Phil wrapped a strand of wire around the stalks and hung them from the kitchen window. They hopefully would dry well there. He toodled off into the bathroom to prepare for the night. Pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, he was brushing his teeth when he thought he heard a soft knock on his door. He stopped and listened. Was that it again? He went to the door and opened it.

Barbara leaned against his doorframe, half-asleep on her feet. When he opened the door, her eyes slitted. She gave him a guilty look. "I'm sorry, Phil, I just couldn't make it. I tried, but I couldn't. Does that offer of a sofa still stand?" A jaw-cracking yawn took over her face, she tried to hide it behind a hand but was unsuccessful. Phil nodded and gestured her in, toothbrush forgotten in his hand. Barbara took a look at it and smiled tiredly. "Phil," she said, "you've got a toothbrush leaking on you."

Phil looked down and strode to the bathroom, where he quickly finished his evening abulations. When he came back out to the living room, Barbara was draped across the sofa, trying to keep her eyes open. When he touched her shoulder, she stirred.

"Phil?" she asked blearily. "Oh, I'm sorry." Another yawn.

"Here," he said, handing her a set of pajamas. "You'll want to be getting out of that."

"Oh, right," she said, not moving.

He grasped her wrists and pulled her to her feet. "C'mon, then," he said. "Or I'll be changing your clothes for you." He tried not to be pained by how she'd given him a tired, disbelieving smile, a smile that said You? Ha! Phil tucked a toothbrush unto her hands, ushered her into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. A few moments later, she came out of the bathroom and wandered around, brushing her teeth and staring longingly at the pillows and blankets Phil was laying out on the sofa. He glanced over at her. He'd forgotten that Barbara was almost half a foot shorter than he was. The pajama bottoms were only a little too long. The top, however, hung to about mid-thigh. She looked, for all the world, like a lost little girl in her big brother's clothing. No remnant of the fiery and flouncy Carmen remained. He watched as Barbara wobbled back to the bathroom to finish. "Phil?" she called.

"Yes?"

"Do you have any rubber bands?"

"For your hair, aye?"

"Yes," she said, wandering back into the room, combing it out of the tight twist she'd had all night under the kercheif and fruity hat. Parts of her dark hair flashed red-gold under the incandescent bulb.

"No. I've not been needing one at the flat, so they're all on set," he apologized.

"Oh."

"I've got a bit of wire you might be able to tie it off with," he offered.

"Oh?" Interested.

"Braid it down and I'll be getting it for you," Phil said, tucking sheets. He watched Barbara out of the corner of his eye. She really was exhausted -- her fine coordination was going. Phil pulled out a straightbacked chair. "Sit," he ordered, taking the comb from her hand. Barbara sat without arguing. Phil blinked in amazement. She really was tired. He pulled the comb through her hair. Her head wavered a bit and fell forward with a soft thump, her forehead resting on the top of the chair.

*************************

Barbara felt Phil's fingers comb through her hair. Her scalp tingled and a quiver ran down her neck. She hoped Phil didn't feel it. He wouldn't tease her about it if he did, but still... He never teased her, really, he just gave her these sidelong glances, disappointed or exasperated. It was like having a schoolmaster again. She thought about laughing but she was too tired to be amused. Her scalp tightened as Phil combed through another hank of hair. Two days in a row and somebody was playing with her hair. Barbara sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes. The last person to play with her hair was Bernard, the morning before he -- her eyes slid open. She thought about crying but she was too tired to weep. She sighed again, bleakly.

"Hold that." Phil handed her a braid. She heard his steps retreat to the kitchen, heard him rummage around, heard him come back. "Thank you." He manuveured the braid around and dropped it lightly on her back. "To bed with you," Phil said, tapping her arm. Barbara staggered to her feet and headed toward the sofa. "Not," Phil said, gripping her shoulders and steering her toward the bedroom.

"But, Phil," she protested, "I thought I was --"

"I know," he said, "but allow me the rights of the host, to be sleeping on my own sofa when I've guests." He got Barbara under the covers and tucked her in. "And you'll be all right here," he added. "Sleep tight; don't be letting the bedbugs bite."

Barbara gave him a thin, exhausted smile. "And if they do, bite back," she whispered

A half-lidding of his eyes and he turned off the light, closing the door behind him.

"Phil?"

He leaned back in through the doorway. "Yes?"

"Please leave it open."

He stared at her a moment, then nodded and left the room.

Barbara buried her face in the pillow and tried to sleep. It smelled like Phil, like his handkerchief had, like his tuxedo coat had when they danced together. He wore some scent like bay, that always seemed to clear her head, something all high-toned and clear. She was exhausted but she suddenly couldn't sleep.

*************************

Phil had tucked Barbara under the covers and she'd given him a tired smile. "And if they do, bite back," she'd whispered. He'd made to leave the room and she'd called out to him, asking that the door be left open. He looked back at her.

She's in my bed, Phil thought. She seemed so much smaller lying there. The blue smudges under her eyes made her skin even more white. She looked so much more like a lost little girl. And when she's being tired, her eyes are grey. He swallowed, nodded and fled to the sofa.

*************************

Barbara must have drifted off to sleep at some point, for she woke with an urgent need to use the WC. Crawling out of bed, she discovered that Phil had not tied her hair as tightly as he should. It flowed down around her with a mind of its own, strands lifting in the wind of her own passage down the hall.

On her way back, she ducked into the living room, where Phil lay, snoring lightly on the sofa. He looked so much younger, asleep. She could see the man Shelley had loved and married, the man who'd had the creativity to take The Scissors twice. It was all there, in his sleeping face.

Barbara felt a wave of tenderness unfold from her belly as she watched him sleep. Phil deserved to be happy. He had been so unhappy for so long. He deserved happiness; he deserved someone.... someone to take care of him, to take care with him (homage). I'll find you someone yet, Phil, she thought, sturdily. Barbara Vanders always takes care of her friends. And she went back to bed, ignoring that her fingers had itched to push the flopping hair off his forehead. I'll find him someone yet. She made the thought into a mantra as she curled her body around Phil's pillow, breathed in the scent of it and went, feeling safe and contented, to sleep.

*************************

Phil woke with a start, teetering on the edge of the sofa. He wasn't used to sleeping so narrow anymore. He sat up, feeling like he creaked a bit, and headed for the WC.

On the way back, he peered into the bedroom. In the pre-dawn, he could see Barbara's white arms twined around his pillow. She'd half-kicked off the covers and he could see her bare legs; the pajama bottoms hung over the footboard. Her hair had come loose and flowed around her, behind her, over her, creating shadows across her arms and legs.

He leaned in the doorframe and watched her breathe. Then he turned and went back to the sofa for a few more hours of sleep.

Barbara the Wallpaperer
Sandy, I was *serious* about that.... MA, good to chat... hey Anne! come to the darkside and post ;) Clods... funtimes ahead!, - Friday, August 03, 2001 at 13:20:31 (PDT)

"Hush, Hush" Stroking the outstretched hand in the same rolling rhythm of the wagon O'Hara shifted position to better accommodate his frame between the pallet and towering furniture of their worldly possessions. "Sinclair is in the driving seat for until noon. You are all mine .." he smiled benignly " ... even with padded extras."

It was hard to ignore the poultices. Warm, slightly bitter, their fragrance tinted the air, while their bulk gave her small frame the muscles of a pugilist.

Once more PL made a mental note to seek out Running Bear and proffer more thanks. Or would a gift be appropriate? From the moment he had staggered with this blooded bundle back to the camp the Indian had been there, according to Sinclair. Not in the melee of concerned fellow travellers, but seeking out information on the cougar attack to ascertain the injuries.

Again as they bathed the ripped flesh, Running Bear had materialised with a bowl of thick yarrow paste he insisted be smeared on the prepared strips. Their healing content was plain to see two days later, in the healthier pallor of her cheeks. His was the willow tea they spooned from the first night to ease the pain. Yes, O'Hara mused, he owed the Indian guide.

"Comfortable still?" he queried, touching bandaging. The prizefighter parallel was obviously not lost. "Did I ever tell you the one about Liam Sullivan, fastest fists this side of Kerry?"

Dana smiled up at the animated face transported to the lush green pastures of Ireland, enhanced by the hues of childhood memories.A thousand times she could have replied, but now her desires centred on being sleepily enveloped by the rich velvet timbre.

"Go ahead Scheherazade." She murmured, eyes closing under the spell of the gentle lilt.

Claire
Gold Rush set filming again !, - Friday, August 03, 2001 at 11:14:49 (PDT)

Anniversary Party Site

Phil took advantage of Barbara's dance with Mistral to walk about in the garden. The air was cool against his face. He flushed, thinking about how he had almost kissed her. He could still feel the curve of her shoulders in his palms, smell the lavender of her hair. He stopped in his tracks and rubbed his palms down the sideseams of his trousers. The scritch of fabric made his hands tingle. He took a deep breath and discovered that the lavender was not memory. A large patch of it grew at his feet in the dark soil of the garden. He crouched by the stalks and plucked a few to slip into the inner pocket of his jacket. Every time he moved, he could catch the scent of it.

He had never realised, in the years he spent resenting Shelley, the pleasures of pining. How alive it made him, to feel again. It was safe, to pine. He could feel, without risking everything.... As he wandered the gardens and the ballroom, he overheard snippets of conversation.

Sandy and Alex :
"Honestly, my face might as well be a window," Sandy said, looking up at Dane with an almost-shy, softly curving smile.
"Not at all. Your face is more like--like water. All reflections and shifting lights--I never know what's lurking in the depths," Alex replied, lowering his voice. "Usually, it means more trouble for me, but I can never be sure."
Sandy laughed. "You should be sure by now!"

Dev and Therese: "It has your personal signature. My grandmother had a phrase for it--something about late, and a dollar..."
"A day late and a dollar short?" suggested Therese.
"Yes, that was it." Dev bit an ironic twist from his lips. "A very appropriate remark--I begin to see why. Was I, ah, short?"
"Uhm, no. Not at all. I was just dithering around, wondering what to do next," Therese said.
"You could dance with me."
"Yes, I could, couldn't I?" She smiled archly at him and pulled him onto the dance floor.

Suzanne and Rupert:
"I am not in love with him, you low-minded twit; I merely admire his brilliance," Suzanne said, tartly.
"Those cloak roles get you every time, don't they?"
Rupert was laughing.

Chris, Hamlet and the Director:
"You know what they say, Alan: 'Those who can, do; those who can't, teach,'" Chris said.
"Those who can't teach become critics," the Director returned.
"The rest go into administration," Hamlet murmured. The Director winced.

Barbara and Jamie:
"You consider the government an illusion?" Jamie asked.
"I used to. Now I would call it a creation, which, like any living thing, must be continually re-created. I've seen it be awkward, beautiful, corrupt, stupid, honorable, frustrating, insane and breathtaking. It gets most of the work done most of the time, which is about average for any system," Barbara replied, "inflicting less injury to the individual than it could."

What a splendid group of people, Phil thought.

An extended homage to my favorite author: Lois McMaster Bujold. Ignore the cover art. Read these books.
Barbara the Wallpaperer
Cindie-a hoot?! ;-D MA, it's a little hot in this room....*thud*, - Wednesday, August 01, 2001 at 06:35:49 (PDT)

Dressing room, FOF set:

Before Brandon can speak more than a few hesitant words, Mary Anne thumps down the brush she has picked up and turns toward him with a look that could startle The Director, or might cause even Mistral to step back a pace or two.

"Christopher Brandon," she says evenly, "you didn’t do me the least harm, and you weren’t going to, and I won’t have you thinking that you did. Or would."

Brandon, thoroughly taken aback by this abrupt declaration, realizes that he is sitting with his mouth open in surprise, and closes it. For a moment they stare at each other, before Mary Anne turns back toward the mirror and begins drawing the brush through her hair—though she does not turn in time to conceal the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"So," she continues. "Finish saying what you wanted to say, but I warn you: if I hear the terms ‘beast’ ‘brute’ or ‘barbarian’ even once, then I’ll—" She casts about, at a loss for some appropriately bloodcurdling threat, and Brandon’s face begins to relax into a grin as he watches her.

At that moment, Mary Anne’s eyes fall on Tory, who has staked a claim to one of the area rugs and lies watching them, her chin resting on her paws.

"I’ll tell Tory," she exclaims, "to come over here and bite you on the leg!"

Brandon raises an eyebrow as he looks over at Tory, who, seeing that all attention is on her, raises her head and grins, dog-fashion, running out her tongue and thumping her tail eagerly on the floor.

"A most dire threat, indeed," drawls Brandon, turning his gaze back to Mary Anne and trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laughter. "I can see at a glance that I am in grave danger."

Mary Anne’s eyes narrow as turns toward him. "In that case, I’ll bite you on the leg."

"Now, that is a peril I am more than willing to face—"

Without further ado, Mary Anne flings down her brush and launches herself at Brandon, laughing, baring her teeth and pretending to growl and howl in a manner that would do credit to the Hound of the Baskervilles, and Brandon is laughing as well, making some effort to fend off his attacker, but not particularly caring whether he is victorious, as Tory leaps up from her carpet and dashes toward them, barking madly, to join in the fun . . .

MA--having a Monty Python moment. "I want to face the peril!"
Down, girl! Down! (You too, Tory!) ;-D, - Wednesday, August 01, 2001 at 05:56:23 (PDT)

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