Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

FOF lunchroom:

“You’d probably only need the one bottle.” Mary Anne’s own wry smile answering Cindie’s.

Nibbling on her peanut butter cookie Cindie reclined back mulling over all that Mary Anne had said. There was much there to think about. Her mind however, kept drifting back to one crucial aspect of the story. “Mary Anne,” the slightest pause, “how Full *was* the Monty?”

Her face composed and tone serious as befitted the enormity of the subject matter, “Cindie,” Mary Anne replied, “as Full as a Monty can be.”

“Oh.” Heavy sigh. “I see.” Her eyes took on a glazed cast as she considered the variations on a theme. One variation in particular. One very sardonic but compelling and wonderfully tender variation. One variation with whom she was pondering spending the weekend.

Smiling to herself Mary Anne settled in and enjoyed a few bites of her treat. She could hardly blame Cindie for her momentary lapse into reverie. In fact, she found her thoughts wandering to other aspects of the evening as well. One golden *stud* in particular. Eventually rousing herself, Cindie commented, “Of course, you’re quite right. There is no way I’m simply going to go along with him and let him run rough shod over me.”

Now Mary Anne returns to the present as well, “probably for the best. But as you said, you don’t want him to keep you from doing something you want to do.”

“No. I won’t do that either. As we know, he certainly isn’t anything approaching being cruel. But wouldn’t you think he’d have learned somewhere along the line to ask nice?”

“Perhaps he’s unused to being in the particular situation where he needed to.”

“Oh,” this gave her pause, “yes, I see what you mean.” Momentarily slipping into her own thought again, then suddenly, “You mean really full don’t you?”

Mary Anne was quite unable to contain her laughter. The laugh, however, altered tone as the two women looked up and noticed the approach of the Director. It changed from merely slightly wicked to something well beyond it.

Cindie
I'm sure I must be mistaken about that laugh..., - Saturday, March 31, 2001 at 16:51:14 (PST)

Somebody has been reading this guestbook=Minion, indeed.
a Rickman admirer
- Friday, March 30, 2001 at 14:40:50 (PST)

I thought Minion's boss was currently, um,indisposed.
Cindie
- Friday, March 30, 2001 at 08:58:34 (PST)

Hi, everybody--

Normally something like this would go next door in the Guestbook, but you'll see in a minute why I had to include it here. Check this out, from a review of the new film Spy Kids:

"Rodriguez' kiddie spy caper ivolves a couple of super-duper secret agents named Gregorio (Antonio Banderas) and Ingrid (Carla Gugino) who met on the job, got married, had children and decided to get out of the spy game.

"But after they're lured back in for old time's sake, they're kidnapped by the bespectacled Minion (Tony Shaloub) and his boss . . ." (Italics added)

Minion. Capital "M." Proper name.

*grin*

Tony Shaloub, hmmmm? Not exactly how I'd pictured Minion, but I suppose he'd do . . .

MA--started off my day on a surreal note!
Thinking of Sherlock Holmes: "My collection of M's is a fine one . . .", - Friday, March 30, 2001 at 04:45:32 (PST)

FOF set, lunchroom:

Mary Anne laughs heartily at Cindie’s expression—so woebegone, but still comical as she tugs at her own hair, pretending that she is about to pull it out by the roots. Still, Mary Anne is sympathetic. "Cindie, he isn’t ‘impossible.’ As to what you’re going to do, I’d say that depends."

Cindie pauses in her mangling of the peanut butter cookie crumbs. "On what?"

"On what you want the most." Placidly, Mary Anne helps herself to a bite of cheesecake before continuing. "You can let him do exactly what you’ve described: make plans for you without consulting you, behave as if he has only to say a thing and it’s done, and not fight him. And things will run very smoothly between you. For a while."

Cindie considers this. "Or? I just know there’s an ‘or’ in there, somewhere."

"Of course. Or . . . you can resist. Either tell him what you think, or else just refuse to go along with his plans."

Cindie grimaces. "I could—but you know, he has that way of looking at you like . . . well, he made me feel silly because I’d made a fuss about trying to find out more about him."

Mary Anne sips her tea. "Are you afraid of him, then? Mistral him, I mean, not HIM him."

This verbal scramble is good for some more laughter between them as Cindie thinks it over. "No, not afraid that he’ll do something to me. Something unspeakable, like you said." This makes for a few companionable chuckles, before Cindie proceeds. "He just . . . has this way of carrying everything before him. You know that."

"I do." Quietly. "But might does not make right. He’s a strong personality, so strong that I doubt whether it even occurs to him how it appears to other people unless someone points it out. I don’t think Mistral is cruel, or a bully, or anything of the sort—though if he set out to be, he’d be fierce at it. I’d hate to see him in action."

"Me, too." Cindie shivers a little as she pours fresh hot tea into her cup. "It’s odd, isn’t it? It isn’t as if he’s going to hurt me; I just hate to think of him with that look on his face, as if he’s . . ." She taps the table in agitation, unable to find the right word.

"Humouring you?"

"That’s it. Exactly. I don’t want to lose him, especially not when it seems we’ve hardly even started to know each other. But I want to keep my self-respect, too."

Mary Anne sets down her teacup. "You may not have to choose. Listen, has anyone ever told you about the cast party we had for the first anniversary of the show?"

Cindie blinks at the sudden change of topic, but then she grins. "That was the FOF Full Monty, wasn’t it? I wish I’d been here for that!"

"Yes, well . . ." Mary Anne blushes. "It was memorable, I’ll say that. But part of that whole business was that they turned it into a birthday party for me as well. Listen: after all the hoopla, a fire broke out in the kitchen—"

"Fire must’ve been breaking out everywhere!" smirks Cindie.

"Hush, you bad thing. Well, Mistral didn’t wait for the fire crew; he went charging into the kitchen and put the fire out himself. There was a stack of napkins too close to a sterno can."

Cindie’s eyes widen. "He went in there? How bad was it?"

"Not too bad, but it could have been. Well, when he came out—" Mary Anne looks down, picking up her fork and idly slicing at her cheesecake. "It had been a crazy night for me. I was just floating on everyone’s good will and happiness and camaraderie . . . and champagne. And all I could think about was that our Mister I had done this thing that could be incredibly dangerous, and I was furious. He’d been in character a good bit that night, too—you know, the way he teases people with it? Not like what he did with you," she adds hastily. "Not that extreme, but—"

Cindie nods; she does understand. "Right. Just to give the fans a thrill on the set tours."

"Exactly. More like that. Anyway, I was really aggravated with him—and I walked right up to him—" Mary Anne lets go of her fork and reaches out. "—and grabbed him by the lapels—" Clenched fists. "—and shook him!" Suiting the action to the word.

Cindie is delighted, abandoning her cookie crumbs to applaud. "And I wish I’d seen that, too!"

"Oh, that wasn’t the half of it. I gave him the rough side of my tongue, for certain. Called him a—" Mary Anne frowns, trying to remember. "I think I called him ‘a stiff-necked thistlehead,’ among other things. (homage) And do you know, he took it all in good part—yes, he grinned at me and made a few witty remarks and acted as if he brushed it off, but do you know, I’ve always been able to speak my mind with him, since then. He never held it against me, either, as far as I know. Perhaps he blamed the champagne."

Cindie is smiling in wry appreciation at the story. "So, if I understand you correctly, perhaps I should confront Mistral—but only after I’ve polished off a bottle or two of courage!"

MA--thanks for the info you sent, Jutta--very complete. Just what I needed to know.
Cindie--would you say that we're getting our "just desserts" in this scene? *grin*, - Wednesday, March 28, 2001 at 20:28:08 (PST)

That afternoon Cindie sat with a cup of tea and a very large peanut butter cookie in a corner of the lunchroom. Mary Anne appeared shortly with a cup of tea of her own and a generous piece of chocolate cheesecake. “That looks good,” Cindie commented, “let me know.”

“It is good, trust me.” Mary Anne smiled warmly and Cindie felt a bit better about imposing on her this way. But she had to talk to someone, Mistral’s invitation had her in a state of … well a state of some sort. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know really,” Cindie broke off a piece of the cookie, “Mistral has invited me to visit his family home this weekend. No, that’s not it, if he had it would be easier! He has assumed he’s taking me and made all the arrangements, I don’t think an invitation was ever actually extended. More on the order of a command performance.” Looking down she realized the piece she’d broken off was now snapped into much smaller and barely recognizable ones.

Mary Anne glanced at the glorified pile of crumbs, “Is it the idea of the weekend that bothers you or the command performance?”

Cindie sighed, “good question. The weekend actually sounds appealing. Not a romantic get-away, but a chance to get to know him outside of work. You know what I mean?”

“Of course. I wasn’t even aware he had family. Where is he from?”

Frowning, Cindie answered, “I don’t know. He didn’t say where. He didn’t even say if he has family, or just the home!” It occurred to her that Mary Anne, who’d been working with him for years, didn’t even know these things. The man was a sphinx. She looked dejected, “this is impossible.”

Mary Anne’s tone took on a gentle understanding, “I know, he is very guarded. But perhaps that makes the fact that he wants to share this part of his life with you mean all the more.”

“Do you think so? I don’t know. He hasn’t been exactly eager to share personal information with me. He didn’t even answer when I did ask him where we’d be going.”

“If your concerned, I’m sure he wouldn’t drag you off and do unspeakable things to you.” She said this in a slightly teasing tone but her look offered reassurance.

“Yes. I mean no, I don’t guess I’m really concerned on that score.” She blushed slightly. “We, um… Remember our last talk?”

Mary Anne nodded. “You said you were going to face the Interrogator.” A statement in the words with a question in the eyes.

“I did.” Cindie paused only briefly and found herself telling her new friend about the Valley of the Moon, and how Mistral had become HIM before her eyes. The account was not quite complete but she conveyed the tone of the evening without compromising the emotions or their privacy.

“So this isn’t about your being nervous about him as much as his high handed attitude?”

“Yes! He is just a bit too sure of himself and for all his tenderness he seems to think that all he has to do is decide how he wants things and I will naturally comply. The man is positively maddening!”

“Yes, he is a strong personality. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have insecurities like the rest of us.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Cindie was going to add that it would be nice if he showed them occasionally, but it occurred to her that he actually had, for a brief moment. “It wouldn’t make much sense to allow his manner to keep me from doing something I want to do either.”

“But you don’t want him to think its o.k. to be cavalier about your wishes, or assume your compliance with his.”

“Exactly.”

“And a romantic get-away would be nice too?”

“Arghh!” Cindie buried her face in her hands. Her distress was real but the effect was comical. “What am I going to do? He makes me crazy!”

Cindie
Jutta, See you next Tuesday. Although I'm not sure when that will be in FOF time!, - Tuesday, March 27, 2001 at 16:19:41 (PST)

Jutta sat in her office and went through the appointments for the coming week. Lots of work. People literally queued to get a massage or advice for healthier living. She had heard of the demanding workloads for the cast and crew of her favourite show before, but now it had the palpable quality of tensed muscles.

Her mind wandered to the beginning: a simple phone call by one of her closest friends, Therese, telling her about a newly-created post for a doctor with an interest in relaxation therapy. She'd sent her application and had had an interview with The Director, a man who-- despite being serious and matter-of-fact--had made her feel warmly welcomed. Obviously there hadn't been as much competition as she had thought.

On the day of her arrival, when she had visited her "office" for the first time, an out-of-breath directorial assistant had summoned her to the set. Worried, she had taken her doctor's bag and followed, wondering what could possibly await her: a heart attack, a stroke, some serious injury…
But then The Director had told her that the actress who should have played a doctor had called in sick. Would she be so kind as to step in? "But I'm a doctor, not an actress," she had argued. "Exactly." came the reply. "Just be yourself."
So before she had time to get nervous about it all she had been introduced to the other actors, Suzanne the Empress and Mistral the Interrogator. The scene had been explained to her and rehearsed a few times, then taped. She had gotten compliments from the actors and The Director. Obviously they hadn't noticed how nervous she had been, how her hands had shaken when she had bent down to listen to HIS heart.

She had been glad when it was over and felt mortified when she saw it on the screen. "Does my voice really sound like that? God, I look horrible!" she had moaned to Therese. Therese had just laughed and pointed out that she had had problems too at the beginning. "But you get used to seeing yourself on screen." she'd said.

"Not me, though." Jutta thought and went on going through her notes concerning the patients for tomorrow.
Jutta
Please keep your appointments, everyone! ;-), - Tuesday, March 27, 2001 at 07:28:55 (PST)

Chris sighed with relief as they moved away from the rec area. She had not been back there since finally finding a job. She shuddered involuntarily again. 3 years, and it still frightened her to be back. In those 3 years she had tried so hard to put her past behind her, yet as soon as she came back, it was right there, as clear as day, almost as if it was yesterday.

Ki’li sensed her new friend’s worry, but could not probe any deeper without Chris knowing, and then she would be pushed out again. She swished her tail slightly in annoyance and worry. Hamlet had not noticed, and Zi’el would not know a worried human unless he thought it was afraid of him. She sent another gentle thought to Chris, with lots of reassurance and gentleness. But Chris had shut her shields down so tightly, that the equine doubted she’d even been aware of it. Ki’li was surprised. She had never encountered such strong shields on a human. She worried about the tasks ahead. So much depended on them working together, being able to communicate fully and being open to each other. She thought for a little while longer, before raising her ‘voice’ and directly asking the woman “Are you alright?”.

Chris tried to tell Ki’li that she was fine, but somehow, the thought wouldn’t form in her mind. “I’m not ok,” she thought, to herself and Ki’li. “Something happened in that rec ground, before I came to the farm. Something I’ve been trying to forget, and apparently not succeeding. I can’t talk about it, Ki’li, not yet.”

“Don’t talk, just let me in when you think,” the equine mare responded.

“I don’t think I can do even that, yet,” the admission came quietly, almost grudgingly. And suddenly the shields slammed back down.

They continued walking in silence for another couple of hours. Soon, they realised that the security was getting tighter. They were getting closer to an Exit. This was Controller country, some of these dwellings even had windows to the outside.

As they rested in an alcove, they overheard a Blast bulletin. Two humans, a white male, tall, light build, dark hair, and a woman, tall, slim, blonde hair, answering to the names ‘Hamlet’ and ‘Chris’ are the main suspects in the disappearance of two of the valued Equine herd from Farm 22. There was an uprising at the farm after an announcement was made regarding our new allies the Sh’rin, presumably started by these two terrorists, and in the melee, they and two Equines disappeared. The animals are one mare and one stallion. The mare is a black, pretty one with a glowing red horn and hooves, and good breeding potential. The stallion is pure white, with a gold horn and hooves, and is getting on a bit. It is unknown what the two humans want with these valuable creatures, but ransom has not been ruled out. Until they are found, all Privileges are curtailed, and a curfew of 9pm for everyone except shift workers will be enforced rigorously. Thorough room-to-room searches will also be carried out. A substantial reward of one dwelling upgrade and 10000 talers will be provided to anyone giving voluntary information to the police leading to the capture or killing of these terrorists, but only if this involves the safe return of the Equines, at least the mare. THAT IS ALL.

Hamlet and Chris stared at each other in shock. Terrorists? Chris found that she had tears in her eyes, unexpectedly. She didn’t know what to make of this. She knew they ought to be in trouble for this prank, but this seemed an unbelievable reaction to two people disappearing, even if it was with two equines. After the shock in the rec area, she didn’t know what to do now.

“We should go back,” Chris started, thinking quickly at her companions. “They clearly mean business! We all know we’re not terrorists, all we have to do is explain what happened. Don’t we?” Her thoughts faded as she realised how silly that sounded in the light of what they’d just overheard. They were never going to listen to her and Hamlet. They would be made examples of, whatever the reason. Terrorism was a crime which had only one punishment. Death. In these times of paranoia and iron control over the populace, they would never be listened to.

She sighed in resignation, as she heard agreement coming from all three companions. “OK, so what do we do now? And where are we going? And why?” She could hear her own ‘voice’ increasing in volume, until she almost sounded as loud as Zi’el.

“We will explain, but when outside. We must hurry, there is not so much time to get out. The longer we delay, the more difficult it will be to get out,” Ki’el’s thoughts tried to send her pictures of the reason for the urgency, military police gathering, checkpoints getting stricter and stricter. Gradually, a calmer part of her took over, and she allowed herself to be talked into it.

They came up towards the path to an Exit. The equines had been right, there were almost a dozen guards at the gate, scrutinising everyone’s papers closely before allowing anyone through the gate.

“We’re going to have to do this in turns,” Ki’li thought to the group. “Only one of us can fit through that double-door at a time, especially if we’ve got to be in there with a couple of people without being noticed!”

The others agreed, reluctantly. They hated to separate for even a moment at this critical juncture, but Ki’li was right. They would never fit two equines into the little space between the two doors to the outside. It was quickly decided that Ki’li and Chris would go first, as the smaller of the two, to test the way. If it was too small for them, then the other two would definitely not make it through, and they would have to come to some other arrangement.

Chris swallowed nervously as they moved up to a single man in the queue, standing near him, but not too close. They moved forward with him, ensuring that they were close enough to hear anything told to him, so that they were constantly on the alert for what might happen.

They shuffled forward slowly, nearing the guards. Chris held on tightly to Ki’li’s mane, apologising in her mind, but needing the security. Her world was turning upside down, and now she was sneaking OUTSIDE, escaping from guards, and generally living like the terrorist they said she was. “NO, do not believe this,” Ki’li thought vehemently. “We do not hurt, we are trying to save.” Chris conceded the point, and calmed a little. She wasn’t doing anything really wrong, after all. She had not ‘taken’ the equines, it was more like they took her! She certainly had not started the riot. She shook her head gently. She still didn’t understand what happened, why the riot had started.

Suddenly they were next in line. The man’s papers were being scrutinised under a microscope and spectrascope for any signs of forgery, and he was being searched. The guards, finally satisfied with his legitimacy, waved him forward, and he hurried through the first set of doors. Ki’li had to lunge forward to keep up, and they passed through the doors in the nick of time, just as they were about to shut.

Once inside the first doors, Ki’li stood still. Chris watched the man changing into OG, or Outdoor Gear. She had not been out for a while, and wanted to make certain she did not miss anything. Still keeping an eye on him, she got her own things out of the pack. Goggles, breathing mask, and the loose poncho-style covering. She put on the poncho first, leaving the goggles and mask till last. As she saw the man moving towards the second set of doors, she put on the goggles. Suddenly the doors opened, and she was caught unawares. Gasping, she pulled her mask into place. The air is getting worse and worse, she thought sadly.

Ki’li moved out of the way of the doors, and they waited anxiously for Hamlet and Zi’el. It had been a tight squeeze for them, although not as bad as they had feared. Zi’el was so much bigger, they hoped he would be ok.

After about half an hour of anxious waiting, despite being in close mental contact with their friends, Chris and Ki’li were both relieved when the two males burst through the door, almost knocking over their legitimate human. The man looked about him suspiciously, but could not see anything out of the ordinary, although Ki’li checked his public mind for any problems. She shared this probing with Chris, who chuckled quietly after they had withdrawn. “He thinks he’s overworked, and needs a holiday!” she exclaimed to her friends. “I know the feeling,” Hamlet smiled at her, mentally. She was sure she saw his eyes glinting behind the goggles too. His smile seemed to fill her mind, and she felt herself blushing as she turned away.

Chris
Whew...finally finished with that project...maybe I'll have some more time for enjoying myself now!, - Monday, March 26, 2001 at 08:39:54 (PST)

Feeling a bit out of sorts, Cindie decided that a few laps in the pool would help her sort things out. When she’d first started here she’d considered the pool a major perk. But she’d been so busy getting up to speed that she hadn’t really taken advantage of it. Time to stop and do the breast stroke.

Actually she varied her strokes to keep things interesting and soon fell into an easy rhythm as she negotiated the length of the pool, back and forth, until she felt deliciously exhausted. She got out and, wrapping a towel around herself, headed for the sauna. She’d tried to get an appointment with Jutta today but she’d been booked almost solid for the next six weeks. She did set up a consultation and massage for next Tuesday, virtually the only slot open. Jutta had explained that she has to limit the number of massages she could do on a given day because of the strain on her hands. It made perfect sense and Cindie had felt a bit chagrined that she hadn’t considered that before.

Wrapped up in a fluffy white towel she now leaned back and let the heat penetrate her body. Whoever came up with the sauna? Was it the Swedes? Whoever it was they knew what they were doing. At one point the door opened and someone else came in. Cindie opened one eye just wide enough to determine that it was Mary Anne and raised a hand in greeting. Mary Anne smiled and sat down, settling in and arranging her towels. The two sat back soaking in the heat like cats basking on a garden wall for some time. Finally Cindie spoke, “Mary Anne?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Are you free later? There’s something about which I ‘d like to get your opinion.”

Mary Anne’s eyes opened wide. The look in them, almost alarm. Cindie couldn’t see this from the angle at which she sat. “My opinion?”

“Yes. I’m in a quandary and I really need someone to talk to. Do you mind? I could talk to the Director I suppose, but…”

“No. No, why don’t we meet in the lunchroom later and we can talk.”

“Great. I’ll see you there later.”

Cindie
MA -- glad you're taking a break. That last scene was a doozie., - Sunday, March 25, 2001 at 17:00:36 (PST)

Delaford. Brandon’s chamber:

The words have been spoken.

Mary Anne stares at Brandon. Christopher, how could you? You say I must go and—I wouldn’t have believed this of you!

It is only when she abruptly withdraws her hand from Brandon’s grasp that she realizes her thoughts must be plain upon her face, for Brandon makes no attempt to keep his hold upon her.

Brandon turns away to stare at the fireplace, but not before Mary Anne catches one glimpse of his expression—rigidly under control, but plain enough to her, and the sight is enough to tighten her throat with tears of shame, though her anger will not abate so quickly. Why? is all she can think, as she drags one hand across her eyes and fights for control of herself.

Hudson, meanwhile, is speaking to Brandon. "Colonel . . ." Doubtfully. "There is nothing in those orders about you accompanying Mary Anne to the Palace . . ."

Brandon’s gaze does not leave the fireplace. "Neither is there any command that I remain at Delaford. Is that correct?" Coldly formal, his voice taut with the self-mastery that allows a man to converse politely, even with a knife in his heart.

"That is correct," acknowledges Hudson. A pause, and then she adds: "If you will permit it, Colonel, I need to have a few words with Mary Anne in private. If you will excuse us?"

It is a credit to Hudson’s training and character that she does not move a muscle as Brandon raises his head and looks at her, but remains calm, her gaze locked with his—until Brandon finally nods. "It will be easier for Mrs. Brandon to remain where she is. Her ankle, you understand. I will withdraw until you send for me . . ."

Mary Anne bites her lip. "It will be easier for Mrs. Brandon . . ." Oh, Christopher!

Sifuentes comes to the rescue. "In the meantime, Colonel, there are matters for us to discuss as well—travel arrangements and such. If you like, we can be going over those while—"

"I understand, Mr. Sifuentes. If you will come with me to the library, and if someone could send for me afterwards--?"

"Of course," replies Hudson. "This will not take long."

Brandon bows, and turns to lead Sifuentes from the chamber, but not before fastening upon Mary Anne a look that makes her catch her breath in awe. In his public role, her husband is dignity incarnate, and she has seen him retain that grace under circumstances that would have destroyed it in a man of lesser character. She has seen him upon his knees, a suppliant to The Interrogator; or again, stripped to the waist and chained to a wall, hanging in iron rings, suffering, entreating that same terrible enemy on her behalf—but even in such straits, that essential stateliness had never deserted him and had armoured him against any attempt at humiliation.

But now—he gazes at her for a moment with his heart in his eyes, with a look of such naked pleading as he would never allow himself with any other living creature, and Mary Anne swallows hard, then returns him a little smile. "I’ll be fine, Christopher. It’s all right." Hastily she averts her gaze, then, not trusting herself one more moment, and she does not look up again until she hears the door close.

There is a long silence, and finally Mary Anne raises her head to face Commander Hudson. "So?" she invites.

"So." Hudson is watching her, shrewdly but kindly. "I’ll make this quick, but there are things you need to know before we go any further. First of all—if you have any plans to try and run away, don’t."

Mary Anne gestures toward her ankle. "I’m hardly in any condition to run away. And even if I were, I think I’ve embarrassed myself and my husband enough for one lifetime. So you don’t have to worry about that."

"I thought as much. I like you, Mary Anne, but that wouldn’t have kept me from doing my duty, and however you feel about this business of going to the Palace, I can assure you that there’s more shame to being dragged there in chains than in going of your own free will." A grim smile. "Or the appearance of it, at least."

"Right," snaps Mary Anne. "The appearance is all you’re likely to get."

"Then that will have to do, for now."

Even if she is frightened and upset, it is not in Mary Anne’s nature to remain ill-tempered for long. Hudson, as she has already made clear, is carrying out her duty—and she has made it equally clear that she doesn’t enjoy it, so Mary Anne extends an olive branch. "So, what were these words in private that you needed to have with me?" A sardonic smile. I’ll meet you halfway.

Hudson smiles back in perfect understanding. "Well, the warning not to run away was the main one, and you’ve been kind enough—" Gently needling. "—to set my mind at ease on that point. The rest is what you would expect: that I’ll be here to explain to you anything you don’t understand, and go over some points of protocol with you. We can wait a few days until your ankle is better, but not for very long."

"Well, my ankle wouldn’t necessarily prevent my travelling. I take it we’ll be going with an Alliance escort?"

"Absolutely," replies Hudson, secretly marvelling at how the woman before her has gone from being seriously agitated to resolutely businesslike in the space of a few moments. Her character, she wonders, or . . . HIS? Or perhaps a little of both? "The point is to bring you to the Palace quickly, and safely. We mustn’t risk you being intercepted by any of HIS people."

Mary Anne shivers, but passes quietly over the idea. "Perhaps they’ll make no such attempt. Perhaps . . . they would be glad to be rid of HIM."

I know at least one who would. "Be that as it may—and you could be right—we’ll take the quickest and safest route possible. I know this will be unpleasant for you, Mary Anne, but it may not take so very long."

"What I can’t understand is why The Empress needs me to come and testify! I mean . . . what happened is a matter of record, isn’t it? The Alliance has my account of what happened?" At Hudson’s nod, she continues. "The Empress could simply consult that—and at any rate, it will be my word against HIS, so I don’t see any good in it—"

"Trust her to arrange things better than that. There will be other testimonies besides yours, I can assure you."

Mary Anne sighs. "I can’t understand why she doesn’t simply order The Interrogator’s death. Surely she has enough reason to do it—not to mention the power to do it."

Hudson shakes her head. "I don’t know, but I do know that The Empress is a just woman; she doesn’t abuse her power, even with the likes of HIM. She won’t be known as a tyrant, Mary Anne. I don’t think The Interrogator will come out of this alive, but if he goes to his death, it will be because justice sent him there, and not vengeance."

Mary Anne does not reply in words, but her look is all too plain. I see. And because HE must have "justice," then I must become an object of gossip and speculation and-- She clears her throat. "Well," she says lightly. "The Empress must be well worth knowing; she has such able defenders. Perhaps this will be worthwhile after all, if it gives me the opportunity to know her better."

"Perhaps," replies Hudson, who is not deceived in the least. "At any rate, I’ll be close by for the next few days, until it is time for us to leave. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mary Anne?"

"Yes, you can. Help me get out of this bed. I’m going down to the library to speak with the Colonel."

Hudson frowns in puzzlement. "There’s no need—I can go down and tell him we’ve finished—"

Mary Anne’s brow is set in the look of a woman who WILL do what she will do, and devil take anyone who doesn’t like it. "First of all, it will probably take us a while to get all of this settled between us, and I’d just as soon not settle it in here." Hint of a smile. "I remember reading that a husband and wife ought to keep their disagreements out of the bedroom. And besides that, I’ve been shut up here all day with nothing to do but read and chat and fold my hands and look helpless, and if I don’t get out of this room for a few minutes, I’m going to go stark raving mad. Now, will you please help me?"

Hudson cannot help grinning at the hyperbole; an active woman herself, she is in full sympathy with Mary Anne’s restless fretting. "Well, you won’t make much of a witness if you’re stark raving mad, now, will you? I suppose my duties will stretch that far. Here—put your hand on my shoulder. Now, lean on me. That’s good—"

MA--going for a post in size extra-extra-large! *grin*
Your Majesty, I hope you won't be too harsh with Mary Anne; she's scared, you know . . ., - Sunday, March 25, 2001 at 09:06:28 (PST)

R, dearest--glad you liked, but a good chunk of that line was the invention of Cindie. Credit where credit is due!

MA
Ah, yes, those tunnels . . . it takes me back . . . , - Friday, March 23, 2001 at 17:17:55 (PST)

Nice shots from Easter, indeed! *grin* And MA, "a knowing half-smile, a thing of hooded eyelids and delectable secrets to be whispered in a willing ear." Yow.
R
Claudia, I love how you just pushed the wall and it turned into a door. And all those tunnels . . . ;-), - Friday, March 23, 2001 at 09:48:49 (PST)

Hey, you're using the horoscopes from the GB! That's cool!
Barbara the Wallpaperer
This is fun!, - Friday, March 23, 2001 at 08:20:39 (PST)

I would just like to say that you guys are like the best writers ive seen.I love to read these stories so KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!!!!!
Miranda Gruber <CoyoteUglyGal1@cs.com>
YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST!!!!!!, - Thursday, March 22, 2001 at 20:32:22 (PST)

The Director was sitting back in his chair, in his meticulously organized office, his feet on the desk, perusing the morning paper. It was an early moment of calm and quiet before the rigors of the day. “Don’t be surprised if someone intriguing captures your attention today….” Hmmmm, that could cover about anyone here…. A knock on his door and he responds with a distracted acknowledgment.

“Its me boss,” his assistant’s head appears in the doorway. “Do you have a minute. I need to tell you something.

“Not here to revamp anything are you? I’m still trying to find the publicity shots for that charity event.”

“They’re in with all the other ones in the second drawer. And speaking of publicity photos, I noticed some nice shots from Easter when I was going through those.” There was no hurry to get to the reason for her visit.

A sidelong glance, “Don’t tell Christopher Brandon you saw those. He’ll turn as scarlet as his uniform.”

“Oh, but those children in the photographs with him, they’re so happy!”

“Yes. Brandon is very good at that sort of thing. But what can I do for you this morning?” Folding the newspaper and setting it aside he leaned forward placing his hands on the desk. His head inclined towards the chair and he gave her his full attention.

Beginning to wonder if she ought to simply let the matter alone she sat down and looked at him. He could fire me for this. Why did I do it…. “Sir, I have to tell you something.”

“So you said.” An expectant look. Much internal wrestling. But she had to tell him. “Sir,” she couldn’t *not* tell him, “I have to tell you that… ” He just sat there waiting. Looking. “I borrowed the keys to the file room yesterday and had a look at a personnel file for personal use.” When the words finally came they were a rush of syllables. She braced herself for the tirade. The reprimand. The axe. When she finally had the courage to look up at him again he hadn’t moved. His face was set and she could only think he was controlling his anger at her.

“Go on.” The words seem to come from the sides of his mouth.

Not knowing what else to do she began with Suzanne’s Birthday party. As she told the story is sounded even lamer than when she’d told Patrick and Chandos. Carefully editing out any reference to Patrick’s involvement she confessed to having taken the keys, entered the filing room and gone into the cabinet and the personnel file.

“I see." A pause while he seemed to consider her sentence. "What am I going to do with you?” She winced at his choice of phrase “Did it occur to you that not only could you have asked Mistral, but you could have asked me if you didn’t feel comfortable going to him?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t want to trouble you with something so…” she searched for the words.

“…Personal and important to you?” The fingers of his right hand drummed the desk top. “No, of course not. Much better to go in for a bit of B & E. Yes, makes much more sense.”

How could these words sting like the lash? What was it about him that made her wish for anything but to have disappointed him. “I’m sorry, I acted foolishly.”

“I’ll have to tell Mistral. He has a right to know since it was his file.”

Trapped. “Sir,” her mouth was dry, but she formed the words, “He already knows.”

“I see.” They looked at each other in a moment of perfect understanding. “Well then, since the parties who were wronged have no intention of pursuing the matter we will consider it dropped.” He reached for his newspaper, “I trust I don’t need to tell you….”

“No sir, you don’t. It won’t. Thank you.”

“Hmmmm. Have you finished going over those contracts?”

“Just the first one sir. You’ll have them this afternoon with my comments.”

Having resumed reading his paper he did not reply further but waved her out. She fled with all due speed very grateful that was over.
Cindie
Claudia -- Go girl! , - Thursday, March 22, 2001 at 18:43:54 (PST)

One cautious step followed the next, completing a first circle-then another. There was no sign that Claire had ever been here. The hairs at the base of Dana's neck began to raise something is not right here A trick of wind carried sounds of the nearby wagon train away, leaving nothing but the ripple of moving water. A sudden sense of isolation filled her, followed by a hot surge of fear.

What ifs crowded her brain and were summarily pushed away. Eyes, scanning for any clue, squinted as they peered through a growth of trees. It was the only possibility. If Claire were anywhere else she'd still be visible.

Buckets abandoned on the stones, she started into the trees. Something deep within her brain requiring silence as she moved.
Dana
- Thursday, March 22, 2001 at 17:06:26 (PST)

Claudia woke, and stretched, feeling remarkably calm, rested and happy. She opened her eyes and didn’t seem to mind that she found herself in the same small cell. Perhaps she was getting used to being locked up in one small room or another.

HE had kept her locked up in a similar place, and she’d been shut in a room at Delaford too. The cell in the Palace was just another in a long line of places to keep her in line, to make sure she did nothing rash. To control her.

At the moment she didn’t feel like doing anything rash, she actually felt like singing. She didn’t, of course, as she had a terrible voice, unless she really concentrated. Her wailing would definitely bring the guards running.

The more she thought about it, the more she realised that feeling so good, and happy, could only mean something was wrong. She’d been so unhappy recently. Perhaps being with Ed again had calmed her soul - or perhaps she was bipolar or something, and needed some strong medication.

Anything was possible these days - hardly anything seemed real. Why, she supposed if she just pushed the wall in the right place, she could walk straight through it. So she did. And amazingly a hidden door swung open.

“Oh…” she said out loud, and with no surprise in her voice at all, faced with a tunnel that reminded her of other tunnels, dark and full of adventure. She’d been locked up too long, and the temptation was too great. She paused in the doorway. She felt like Alice, and knew she must be dreaming.

“Oi!” she yelled, at the proper door to her cell. She cocked her head listening, but no one replied. “See ya!” she shouted cheerfully, and stepped into the darkness
Claudia
You're not alone MA - sorry - but I was getting really bored in there!, - Wednesday, March 21, 2001 at 20:36:42 (PST)

Delaford:

Only a few moments after Miss MacLeod has tidied the room and helped Mary Anne to make herself more comfortable, Brandon returns—and, on hearing that they are to have visitors, he sets out more chairs in the room, then installs himself in an armchair next to the bed, talking with Mary Anne about everything and nothing. Avid for conversation and more weary than she would have believed possible after a day of so little activity, Mary Anne is all attention for Brandon’s comments on the remains of the snow, the condition of various buildings and storehouses, the gardens and orchards . . . and Nox, who had apparently accompanied Brandon on some of his rounds.

"Only he cannot do so much as he used to do." Brandon shakes his head. "Downstairs, just now, I saw him settled near the kitchen fire and he fell asleep almost at once. I believe the cold settles into his bones."

"Poor dog." However, Mary Anne can hardly help smiling as she thinks back on the morning, during which Nox had played in the snow with them as joyously as any puppy. "Oh, well, let him spend some time by the fire, then. It will do him good—"

There is a tap at the door, and at Brandon’s reply, Miss M shows in Commander Hudson and Lieutenant Sifuentes. She then withdraws, carefully closing the door behind her.

"Well." Mary Anne smiles at their guests. "This is a surprise, Commander." A nod toward Sifuentes, which he returns. "Lieutenant. What brings you here? Surely it wasn’t just to call on me—"

"As a matter of fact, it was," replies Hudson, smiling, though the smile seems rather forced to Mary Anne.

"That’s very flattering. I would have thought you’d be too busy in Barton to think twice about anything here." Is it my imagination, or does she look—tense? Martha Hudson? The woman who masqueraded as the landlady of Sherlock Holmes? A commander in the Alliance? THAT Martha Hudson?

It is not Mary Anne’s imagination; Hudson’s face is drawn with fatigue and . . . something else, a look that Mary Anne cannot place, though she is certain she has seen it before. She risks a glance at Sifuentes, which he calmly returns, and Mary Anne finds herself reflecting with mixed annoyance and amusement that he doesn’t fit into the Hispanic stereotype at all. One expects the "passionate Latino" type, very emotional, but this man can be The Great Stone Face if it suits him. And it’s really suiting him now . . . what is it with these two?

"Well?" she questions, in a silence that has suddenly grown awkward.

Hudson sighs and reaches into her jacket. "Mary Anne . . ." She pauses. It would be easy at this point to take the coward’s way out and simply hand over the documents—but no, Mary Anne must be prepared. Though nothing could prepare her for this.

"Yes?" Mary Anne sits up straighter on her pillows, nervously. "What is it?"

Hudson withdraws the documents from her jacket. "I have here," she says slowly, "an order directing that within a few days, you must be prepared to travel to the Imperial Palace, to appear before The Empress and her court."

"But—" Mary Anne’s eyes widen. "Why? What—I don’t understand—"

"It’s The Interrogator," Hudson replies heavily, and now Mary Anne can place that look: the same one Hudson had worn at the Safehouse, when she realized she would have to let HIM go free because Andrea was HIS hostage. It’s the look The Commander wears when she hates her job.

"The . . . Interrogator?" Mary Anne’s voice. A hollow echo.

"Yes." Hudson clears her throat. "Because of the incident with THEIR machine and your resulting . . . close involvement . . . with The Interrogator, The Empress has called you to testify so that she can render judgment; there is information that only you would know." Hudson holds out the orders for Mary Anne’s inspection—and, upon realizing that Mary Anne is too shocked to accept the papers, Hudson leaves them lying on the bed.

"I am truly sorry." Hudson’s voice is gentler now. Approachable: "Mrs. Hudson" of Baker Street. "I know it’s a nasty surprise for you, and it will be something of an ordeal, but—"

"I can’t," replies Mary Anne wildly, her eyes wide, her breath coming in gasps as she stares down at the papers lying on the counterpane. "I—I couldn’t do that, go there and talk about it in . . . front of everyone." Instinctively, she reaches out, and as she feels Brandon’s hand close over hers, she clings to it like a lifeline, gripping so hard she feels his bones shift in her grasp. "Everyone would know everything, then! I just can’t do this—"

"Mrs. Brandon." Sifuentes is no less gentle, but no less firm. "It’s an Imperial Command; you have no choice. You don’t need to be afraid; you’ll receive plenty of instruction before you go, in Court Protocol and—"

"Protocol?" exclaims Mary Anne. "Protocol? My good name and my husband’s are about to be dragged through the mud in front of the entire Realm, and you talk to me about protocol? About no need to be afraid? No. I can’t do this." The sound of her breathing is loud and rasping in the still room. "Christopher, you tell them! Tell them!"

In the silence that follows, Mary Anne’s heart sinks; that Brandon does not reply immediately is enough of a warning . . .

In dread of what she will see, Mary Anne looks over at her husband, straight into that beloved face gone painfully white, in which those eyes blaze that peculiar yellow-green of deep emotion. Strain, at times. Or anger. Or simply the heartstruck agony of a man who loves what he is powerless to protect.

The words have yet to be spoken. Oh, Christopher, don’t, please don’t . . . As she grips his hand even more tightly, then eases her grasp, wondering even in her fear if she might not be hurting him. . .

"Mary Anne." Brandon does not release her hand; he clings to her as she to him. "It is as you have been told. You have no choice; you must obey The Empress. You shall go to the Palace—and I shall go with you."

MA--hey, don't leave me all alone in here, especially at a time like this!!
Hmmmm . . . Brandon seems to be a good, obedient subject. Hope Her Majesty is pleased with him . . . ;-), - Wednesday, March 21, 2001 at 19:32:39 (PST)

Mistral’s reply is soft—almost too soft, at first, to be heard. "Trust her not to hurt me?" He shakes his head. "From the way we’ve been talking, you would expect the reverse."

"But it’s true, isn’t it? She could hurt you, too, if you let her get too close. Never mind the tabloids; what they’re looking for isn’t even in the same league, is it? You know the sort of thing—" Mary Anne raises her hands as if framing a banner headline. "MISTRAL REVEALS HAWAIIAN KONA ADDICTION! It was only one cup, I can stop anytime."

Mistral laughs, grateful for the diversion. "Or this one: DIRECTOR FORCES MARY ANNE INTO CHEESECAKE DETOX! I indulged her too much; I gave her too much freedom . . ." (homage)

"Exactly," chuckles Mary Anne. "Things like that—well, they’re annoying. But this isn’t the same, is it? To open up to someone like this . . . well, yes. She could hurt you. But do you think she wants to?"

"No." Promptly, almost before Mary Anne finishes speaking. "No more than I want to hurt her—but the thing can happen, whether we wish it or not."

His face has gone remote. Austere, almost cold, as if the temperature in the room had fallen by twenty degrees. Well aware that Mistral can have the opposite effect if he chooses and make a room seem as if the temperature had risen, Mary Anne studies his face in those moments of silence. What is happening behind that face is impossible for her to tell; years of concentration in the practice of his craft have given Mistral an enviable control of his features, and despite her affection for the man, Mary Anne feels something ripple along her backbone. Pride. Intelligence. Powerful character. And now, throw love into the mix, or the beginnings of it—and the result? Several words come to mind. Nitroglycerine. Plutonium. A wry smile. Mistral, the storm . . .

"Mary Anne, just why are you grinning in that insufferable fashion?"

Mary Anne blushes, wondering just how far her mind has wandered and how long Mistral has been watching her watch him. "Oh," she fudges, "I was just thinking about how long we’ve known each other."

"You were?" Playfully. And clearly disbelieving.

"Yes, I was! Don’t you trust me?" That mischievous twinkle. "I was just thinking that once I wouldn’t have believed we’d ever have such a conversation."

"Trust you." He tries the words as if they have a flavour he has never tasted. "You know that I do. But do you know when I first decided that I could?"

"No." Mary Anne is startled. "I never thought about it, really. When?"

"During the Nakatomi abduction sequence. The scene when you had to slap me."

"Why in the world would that make you trust me?"

"Because you weren’t following through on the slap. Remember how many takes we had to do?"

Mary Anne rolls her eyes. "Yes, I do! I thought we’d be there all night. There just wasn’t any way to fake that and make it look good. I hated really having to hit you—I mean, really, not one of those stagy versions."

"I know. And I felt impatient with you, at first, until it occurred to me that even though you had written that in the scene, it wasn’t something from you; you don’t like to hurt people." A pause, and a lifted eyebrow. "That’s not to say that you can’t—"

The look from him is an old and familiar one: half-Interrogator, though a parody of that fearsome character. A caricature, for teasing purposes alone. Warmed by the banter, Mary Anne smiles. "Valley of the Moon, anyone?" Sweetly. Perhaps a little too sweetly.

"Ahem." Sternly. "Mary Anne, I think we have sufficiently established my ‘accessibility’ for this season. No more tying-up scenes, at least for the time being, please."

Mary Anne controls her giggles with difficulty. "I don’t know, Mistral—there’s no such thing as ‘sufficient’ with this crowd. Seems as if the more you give them, the more they . . . desire."

In such conversations as these, Mistral can be a dirty fighter, and proves it by favouring Mary Anne with one of his most extraordinary expressions: a knowing half-smile, a thing of hooded eyelids and delectable secrets to be whispered in a willing ear. "In that case . . ." Deep and low. "I shall be certain to deliver."

Mary Anne actually finds herself clutching the edge of her desk for a moment. Whoa! Someone point me toward the fainting couch . . . Aloud, however, she contents herself with, "Mistral, you lunkhead! Don’t try any of your smoky moves on me, or Cindie really will have a reason not to trust you." A shaky smile. "Besides, I’d clobber you."

"That, and Brandon would call me out, I believe. Not that I would blame him." His smirk clearly signals that he has carried off the honours in this exchange, but he is too polite to gloat. Much. "So, then. You don’t think Cindie has a reason not to trust me?"

"No, I don’t. I don’t think so, you understand. Unless you give her one yourself."

Mistral rises from his chair. "Then I shall endeavour not to do so. But it could be difficult."

"Love usually is." Mary Anne stands as well. "Do you love her, Mistral?" Curiously.

He is quiet over that for some moments, until honesty wins. "I am . . . trying to find out." Briefly, he takes Mary Anne’s hands in his own, simply holding them, and then: "Thank you for helping me to find out."

And with that, he is gone.

Mary Anne remains where she is, still feeling the warmth of Mistral’s touch on her fingers, and she finally smiles as she turns back to her desk. I wonder—Mistral, you may turn out to be like one of Jane Austen’s characters. Was it Mr. Darcy? He was already into the middle of love before he found out he’d begun.

MA
Cindie: "the spirit moved." Enjoy . . . and thanks for the wonderful headlines! ;-), - Monday, March 19, 2001 at 19:10:52 (PST)

This stops him in his tracks. “Do you think that is all it is, self preservation?” He sounds concerned, almost wounded.

“Isn’t that part of it? No one likes to be made vulnerable.” Mary Anne’s tone is gentle and full of understanding.

“That is true, but I also don’t owe those vultures anything. I give the fans my best each and every performance. That is what’s important.”

“Yes, but we’re not really talking about the press here are we. And Cindie’s interest isn’t in your performance…”

An arched eyebrow.

“…strictly speaking.”

“No, no she isn’t. Something I admit I’m not used to.”

“We’re back to you giving women what they expect.”

“And she expects, and is right to expect, to know more of me.”

“Not just for concerns of her safety you know. And you need to decide if you are willing to give her the power that comes with that knowledge. And trust her not to hurt you.”

Cindie
MA-of course it is.
Hmmmm, had this overwhelming desire to post, wonder why...., - Saturday, March 17, 2001 at 16:39:43 (PST)

oh all right, keep us waiting then.
a Rickman admirer
{reverse psychology}, - Saturday, March 17, 2001 at 14:57:04 (PST)

Cindie, don't encourage her! Of course we musn't be kept waiting.
a Rickman admirer
don't you think I'm addicted....a bit?, - Thursday, March 15, 2001 at 01:39:59 (PST)

MA - your posts are always worth any wait! ;-D
Cindie
- Wednesday, March 14, 2001 at 16:53:33 (PST)

Mary Anne’s cubicle:

Urged to "start from the beginning," Mistral hesitates for so long that Mary Anne is about to prompt him again, gently, when he looks at her and admits, "I’m not exactly sure about what is the beginning, as you call it."

"In that case, just start. If we must go further back—"

An exchange of smiles.

"—then I’ll tell you. Now . . ."

Thus encouraged, Mistral does begin, and if Mary Anne is at all aware that she is listening to a carefully edited account of his time with Cindie she betrays no sign of that awareness, simply listening with an occasional nod, a question or two as necessary, and such comforting murmurs as "Um—hmmm" or "I see" that come in handy to fill an awkward pause.

"So." Mistral pauses, and then repeats his earlier question. "Do you think that I am secretive, then?"

He would have expected Mary Anne to mull it over, but she surprises him by promptly replying, "No, I don’t. But I can see how Cindie would think so."

The tilt of his eyebrow asks the question for him, and Mary Anne answers it. "Don’t forget that I’ve known you much longer than Cindie has—"

"And does that make a difference, do you think? As you say, you’ve known me longer than Cindie has, and I’d wager that even you don’t know my full name."

"You’d win," replies Mary Anne, grinning.

"And does that bother you?"

"No, for a couple of reasons. First, I don’t have a problem with addressing you simply as Mistral." The glint in her eye is unmistakable. Miss Mischief has returned; she could not stay away long. "It’s a beautiful and unusual name."

"Beautiful and unusual, you say. It’s a bloody storm, one that racks people’s nerves and drives them out of their minds."

"Well?" she ripostes. "You’ve been known to do all that, as well. As to reason number two—" Mary Anne forestalls his rejoinder by raising her hand, and now she is not smiling. "You haven’t invited me for some weekend trip with you."

A smirk, but there is no meanness in it. "Jealous, are you?"

Mary Anne is unperturbed. "I might be," she replies, "in a different universe. But you can believe me when I say that if you were taking me away for the weekend, I’d know everything about you but your blood type, and maybe that, too."

"Thorough, aren’t you?"

"Almost any woman would be—or should be."

"So . . ." Mistral is smiling, though Mary Anne can detect a hard note beneath the cheerfulness. "She should just slide me under the microscope, then, and—"

"That’s not what I meant at all! I . . ." Mary Anne swallows. "Look. A lot of women—I’d even say, most women—absorb the idea from an early age that they are vulnerable, physically. We can’t help it, Mistral; it’s practically hardwired. Which means that we’re taught all sorts of practices to keep ourselves safe, and one of them is to find out everything we can in a situation like this."

"And here I was, thinking that women enjoy an air of mystery." Teasing, now. The harsh note is gone.

"We do—as long as the solution to the mystery isn’t, ‘My man is a serial killer.’ If asking a few questions could tip me off that Prince Charming might really be Ted Bundy, I’d have the guy under a bright light so fast his eyes would water."

"A new romantic series, perhaps? Interrogate Your Date?"

Mary Anne considers a sharp retort, but contents herself with smiling sweetly. "Not all men are like you, Mistral."

That strikes home. His gaze falters for a moment, as he quietly replies, "Thank you for that." A pause. "So you know, then, that I’m not dragging her off somewhere to commit atrocities on her person?"

"I know that."

Mistral shakes his head, with a soft mutter of, "I should think Cindie would know it by now, as well. After what we’ve . . ." His voice trails off.

After a moment, he rallies with a forced expression of good humour. "But the question remains: Am I secretive?"

Mary Anne can hardly resist such an invitation. "Secretive? Mistral, sometimes you’re so stealthy you make Professor Moriarty look like Mrs. Jennings!"

"Good Lord," he exclaims, the forced expression giving way to genuine amusement. With this easing of the atmosphere between them, he hurries on as if he must say the words before something stops him. "It seems . . . it’s a habit with me. A private man, you said."

"That’s the idea most people have of you; it isn’t just me. You don’t give many interviews, you know—"

A snort of disgust. "Those tabloid rags. Knowledge and information are power, and to see it used like that . . . don’t they understand?"

"Yes." Mary Anne leans back in her chair. "When people know things about you, they can hurt you."

MA--Cindie, it's "posted now!" 8-) Sorry about the delay.
Let's hope Mistral's high opinion is justified . . ., - Wednesday, March 14, 2001 at 16:29:24 (PST)

Mistral arrived at work. This morning he did not head towards Cindie’s work area. Thinking over the events of the previous night he realized that she had not actually consented to accompany him for the weekend. At first he had assumed she would naturally be eager to join him. He felt she trusted him and she obviously wanted to learn more about him. Although a self assured man he knew that there were some things beyond his comprehension. At this moment, Cindie’s attitude about this proposal was one of them. He also knew that he was fortunate in his profession. Not simply because he had a plum role that he had made his own and could continue to mine indefinitely, but because he was gifted with extraordinary co-workers. He sought out one of these this morning.

When he knocked on Mary Anne’s door and announced himself, he was beckoned in. As always he was astounded by the lengths to which this woman had gone to make this area her own. Her touches were everywhere. His gaze went automatically to the chaise longue but she was seated this morning at her desk tapping away at her keyboard. She was obviously on a roll and he stood quietly until she finished typing. Mary Anne looked up at him and smiled, her long blonde hair pulled back while she worked. The angles of her features were made more prominent by this style. He also knew that with a shake of her head she could turn into Mrs. Christopher Brandon and her features would take on a completely altered composition. She was wearing a simple dress of aquamarine that was very flattering to her figure and to her complexion. She knew what looked good on her and had an eye for quality. A woman of taste and perception.

“What?” Mary Anne demanded as he had been simply looking at her and hadn’t said anything.

“I find myself appreciating the women in my life this morning.” He smiled warmly and Mary Anne felt herself flush. He was in a rare mood but she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Smiling, she indicated for him to sit and he made himself comfortable. “Thank you.” She felt he’d paid her a compliment although perhaps a bit obliquely.

“You are well this morning?” His inquiry was polite but pointed.

“Yes, Mistral, I’m perfectly well.” Her eyes sparkled but she refrained from being mischievous. For now.

“Good then.” His face turned serious, “Mary Anne,” he paused, “I would like to impose upon our friendship, with your permission,” he looked at her most intently, his demeanor completely devoid of the friendly bantering in which they so often engaged, “and ask you your honest opinion on a matter. I know you will be honest, and you must be.” He continued on, not quite hurriedly, but not allowing her to interject anything, “Do you think that I am secretive?”

Mary Anne was naturally taken aback by the question. Both because it was unexpected and because, in part at least, he probably was. “I think you are a very private man,” was her honest response. There was much more which could be said but she waited for him to see where he was going with this.

Mistral took a moment to consider this. “Yes, I suppose I am. Private, guarded, but now that I find I have something I truly wish to guard it seems to be problematic.”

“What do you wish to guard?” Mary Anne looked at Mistral sympathetically and placed her hand on his arm, “This is about Cindie, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He paused again. Not awkward at all in his friend’s presence but unused to discussing himself in such a fashion.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning.”

Cindie
He seems to think highly of MA! ;-), - Sunday, March 11, 2001 at 18:43:32 (PST)

Delaford, late afternoon:

Alone in the chambers she shares with Brandon, Mary Anne reflects that the day has been far less dull than she expected.

A small, private smile. She would have preferred not to injure herself, but it was almost worthwhile to have done it, considering Brandon’s tender concern and . . . attention. Make that "attentions." Plural. "Kiss it and make it better," indeed . . .

Still, Brandon is the master of Delaford and the estate requires a great deal of attention. Brandon, she knows, would have preferred to remain at her side throughout the day, but she had striven to persuade him that she would be quite well if left to herself, and that a trivial injury like this is not enough to keep him from making his rounds.

Mary Anne shakes her head, wondering for what seems like the hundredth time how Delaford had been maintained so well in Brandon’s long absence. They must have thought he was never coming back. All that time, he was chasing through the entire Realm with all of us, always by my side, protecting me . . . Mary Anne’s eyes go dim, and she blinks rapidly to clear them. Well, he’s home, now. Let him enjoy it—and let everyone here enjoy having him back. I won’t keep him from it. And it’s such a glad place, it seems . . .

Her wonderings arrive at the same conclusion they always have: Delaford has been so well-kept because Brandon has good people in it, people who know their duty and carry it out with such good will for their employer that the duty becomes a delight. And many of those good people have found some excuse to visit this room in the course of the day; word has apparently spread about her sore ankle, resulting in visits from most of the house and kitchen maids—"Ring, Missus, if there’s anytin’ y’need"—an astonishing bouquet from Chance, and a long chat with Miss M, who had acquainted Mary Anne with various housekeeping matters requiring attention, all while looking over some of the sewing she would not trust to any of her subordinates.

Needless to say, Mary Anne had been quite touched with this display from all at Delaford; she had wondered whether the welcome extended to her had been mostly for Brandon’s sake. Perhaps it had been, at first . . . but it is gratifying to be liked for oneself, and a heart so tender as hers cannot but respond to affection, whatever the source.

Brandon, of course, had found every excuse to look in on her during the course of the day, and she is expecting him back at any moment. For now, however, she is content to lie still and alone. Her most recent visitor had been Doctor McCoy, who had quickly checked the ankle and nodded approvingly at the lack of swelling. Mary Anne had smiled and nodded, but had carefully not mentioned how she had gotten out of bed long enough to go to the bookshelves and load herself with reading material. Even that small effort had made her ankle throb abominably, and Mary Anne makes a disgusted face as she thinks of how this is likely to restrain her movements for the next few days. Any sort of restriction in these matters is hard for her to bear; because of The Doctor’s alterations to her DNA, illness seldom comes near her, though she knows what it is to lie in a bed recovering from shock and trauma. But this, the inconvenience of a minor yet painful injury, chafes her to an impatience that she does her best to dismiss. Be thankful it was nothing worse, she chides herself. You could have broken your neck out there. A mischievous grin. Or Christopher might have broken it for you. She cannot help chuckling to herself, remembering Brandon in the snowball fight. He was playing. Playing just like a little boy. Only . . . perhaps he didn’t play so much, after all, when he was a boy . . .

Best not to pursue that thought.

Unable to get comfortable, Mary Anne is re-arranging herself yet again among the pillows when Miss M steps into the room once more. "Y’ hae visitors, ma’am," she announces.

Mary Anne subsides into the cushions with a little sigh of disgust. "Help me tidy myself a bit, please. Who is it this time?"

In no time at all, the pillows have been plumped and turned, and Mary Anne settled against them, as Miss M informs her: "Nae ‘is,’ ma’am. ‘Are.’ It’s that Alliance one, Commander Hudson—"

"Well." Mary Anne thinks about that. What would bring Commander Hudson here, when the Alliance is headquartered in Barton Village? "Yes, and who else?"

"That braw Spanish-type lad—"

"Ah. Mr. Sifuentes, you mean. In that case, let’s make certain I’m decent," smiles Mary Anne.

A few touches from Miss MacLeod, and all is in order with both the room and Mary Anne.

"Miss MacLeod."

"Aye, ma’am?"

"Find the Colonel, and ask him if he will just step up here, please. Then show in the Commander and Mister Sifuentes."

"Very good, ma’am," replies Miss M.

Catching a glimpse of the housekeeper’s face as she moves toward the door, Mary Anne wonders for a moment why it is set in such grim lines. What would Miss MacLeod have against members of the Alliance? Nothing, of course. But after that raid, and what it brought to Delaford, I can hardly blame her; that will be a bad memory for all of us. For a long time . . .

Meanwhile, she is the mistress of Delaford, and she must be as pleasant as she can, even with an aching ankle. And with that resolve, Mary Anne sets her face in what she hopes is a welcoming expression and waits for her husband and her guests to arrive.

MA--wonder if Mistral's cologne is called "Ozone," by any chance . . . ? ;-)
Admirer--you asked for 'em, you got 'em. , - Saturday, March 10, 2001 at 18:28:49 (PST)

They walked back to her flat hand in hand. Cindie was tired and she didn’t feel like battling about his presumption that she would simply go with him without question. They could argue about it tomorrow. When they reached her door she smiled and handed him her keys. He opened the door and this time when he closed it he made it a point to verify that the door was solid and the locks of good quality. She noticed his inspection and felt a rush of pleasure. He placed the keys on the end table near the door. “May I use your telephone to call for a cab?”

“Yes, of course. I could drive you if you’d like.”

“No, its late. You need to get to bed.” She indicated the phone on the matching end table on the other side of the couch. He crossed the room and made the call. She stood with her back leaning against the front door while he used the phone. Mistral sat perched on the edge of the couch while he made the call, giving her address to the cab company. He replaced the phone on the hook and walked over and stood before her. Placing one hand on the door, level with her shoulder, he leaned forward. “Do not mistake my patience for indifference,” his tone was low and she felt the air around him crackle. She moved her face toward his, slowly and deliberately she placed her lips high on his cheek bone and kissed him. Her mouth lingered and they pressed their cheeks together. Their lips found each other and they shared a kiss. His body pressed her back against the door. It seemed only a moment later that a horn sounded from out front.

Their lips parted. She searched his face and reached up a hand and drew her fingernails through his hair, brushing it back. He smoothed hers down and tucked an errant strand behind her ear. They exchanged a long look and Cindie moved to the side of the door. He opened the door and kissed her cheek before walking out and closing the door behind him. A whiff of ozone in his wake.

Cindie
- Saturday, March 10, 2001 at 04:37:40 (PST)

Magda, if you put both of us in a paper bag with lots of writing talent,you would still be the only one with talent...you go girl!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A Rickman admirer
- Friday, March 09, 2001 at 12:34:05 (PST)

George and Joya are enjoying a private reading of scenes to come and Brandon is nursing Maryanne's...er...ankle.
Someone trying to be helpful....
- Friday, March 09, 2001 at 08:50:26 (PST)

I can't speak for MA but some characters are waiting for their script, hint hint.
Magda
- Friday, March 09, 2001 at 06:07:16 (PST)

Cindie, that must be good coffee, cuz they're stilllllllll drinking it...{hint hint} and where is Brandon and Maryanne, and George and Joya?
a Rickman admirer
- Thursday, March 08, 2001 at 22:13:34 (PST)

The coffee arrived, Mistral settled back and sipped. His composure was complete. “This is really quite good,” he sounded surprised. “Hawaiian Kona I should think.”

Cindie nodded, “Chandos introduced me to this place when I was looking for good cup of coffee.”

“Indeed. Very obliging of him.”

“Yes. It’s been nice having him across the hall. It’s hard to know when you first move to a new place, the little things, which dry cleaner can get that spot out of your jacket, which store has the best produce…”

“… And where to get a good cup of coffee.”

“Exactly.” She finished off the hot chocolate which she’d been nursing. “Patrick?”

“Hmmm.” When his coffee came, Cindie had taken the liberty of ordering him that rice pudding. He seemed to be enjoying it as much as the coffee.

“Would you like to do something after work tomorrow? Maybe dinner and dancing?”

“I’m afraid not.” He was thoroughly engrossed in his rice pudding.

She tried not to let her disappointment show “I see…”

“You have to pack.” He continued to eat his pudding without looking up.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

He finished his pudding and placed the spoon in the bowl. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. He set the coffee cup down. It seemed that he dragged out the moment as long as possible. “Well, you want to know more about me don’t you? I’m going to taking you away for a weekend at my family home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should think that was clear enough.”

“You’re just assuming you’re taking me? You should have consulted me in the matter.”

“Do you have other plans?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Consider yourself consulted. I’ve already arranged for one of the guest rooms to be prepared. You will come, won’t you?”

She paused, “I’ll think about it.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at 8:00. With the wind at our backs we will arrive no later than 11:00. Better yet, we could leave Friday night, if we leave right after work we could arrive there by 8:00.”

“Arrive where, exactly?”

“My dear, you don’t expect me to reveal everything all at once do you?” His grin was positively wicked.

Cindie
- Wednesday, March 07, 2001 at 09:55:21 (PST)

Picking her way between the larger rocks, Dana trudged up the shoreline, wondering why she didn't seem to have enough energy or enthusiasm to scamper as fast as Claire. Things on her mind perhaps? A clash of buckets brought PL's furious outburst with the hammer back into her thoughts.

Last vestiges of her former life, the trunks had been his gift for the journey at Independence. She allowed herself to dwell momentarily on Simon Jacks, while watching for footholds on the loose shale of a recent rock fall.

Stiff collar, peremptory manner, Dana could easily visualise her husband as the embodiment of law in California. Not a man to be thwarted, she imagined loosing a wife on the journey would not affect his ultimate goal. She would stay the misplaced chattel and settle as Mrs O'Hara, in the green lushness of the Willamette valley, living in the house with real glass of which PL dreamed.

So absorbed by future plans Dana failed to register that she had navigated the river bend and there was noone in sight.

Claire
- Tuesday, March 06, 2001 at 16:17:04 (PST)

Correction made.
Life imitating art?
D.o.C.

make that flash *of* skirt...
Dana
dumb with fatigue ;-), - Monday, March 05, 2001 at 21:44:00 (PST)

"They've let the oxen stir up the bottom all through here." The water, moving more slowly through this stretch of country, was cloudy with mud as far as they could see. This was the perfect end to a perfect day. Dana sighed and let her buckets drop with a thud.

Taking both her own buckets in one hand, Claire hoisted the hem of her skirt with the other and started off over the rocks.

"Where are you going?"

"Upriver. The water will be clear there. I'm sure that's where the others must have gone to draw their water."

Dana stared stupidly at her friend's retreating back. Fatigue had dulled her senses and taken the last of her initiative. How like Claire it was to strike off like that-so sure she knew where she was going. It was only as she saw the flash of skirt turn round the bend that she roused herself to follow.
Dana
- Monday, March 05, 2001 at 21:42:50 (PST)

The proprietor of the restaurant was too discreet to comment upon Cindie’s almost immediate return to his establishment, in the company of another gentleman, but he did raise an eyebrow as he turned from seating them. At the same table. Cindie smiled to herself but she did not comment either. They took their time getting settled in and then focused their conversation on the routine of perusing the menu and ordering. Cindie contented herself with a mug of hot chocolate. Mistral ordered like man who hadn’t seen food in weeks. It being pointless to pretend the circumstances were normal, she asked, “Were you standing there long?”

Mistral just shrugged. His meal arrived and he set to it. She didn’t interrupt him while he ate. It was late now and he must be famished. He slowed his pace, “I tidied up the file room and took a cab straight here.”

“A cab?” She began. Realization dawned, a bit late, “your car! I’d forgotten.” She tapped her forehead with the palm of her hand, “I’d thought to offer you a lift if your heater wasn’t repaired…” She looked genuinely distressed. It pleased him to see it. Although his pleasure was tinged with something akin to guilt that her distress should be something he wished to see.

“I had the car towed after I left your company this morning. It will be done tomorrow.” He looked at her, fork poised, “Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew where you lived?”

“Absolutely not.”

His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Oh well, then. I shan’t tell.” He continued eating.

“I am going to ask you how you managed to enter the building though. It’s supposed to be secure.”

“One of your neighbors is a fan.”

“Naturally.” Her tone was sarcastic as she took a sip of her cocoa. It being an evening of late realizations, it occurred to her at about the same time what his reference to tidying the filing room meant. “The file room. I left the keys there…”

“I should let you squirm for leaving me standing there like that,” he set his fork down and reached for his water, “but I shan’t.” He took a sip and returned the glass. “The keys are in their proper place and no one need ever be the wiser about your foray into the world of espionage.” His face was tilted down towards his plate and he raised his eyes to regard her. The glint in them was obvious even through his half lidded eyes.

“You’re enjoying yourself way to much.” She paused, “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. I shall extract payment at a later date.”

Cindie drew in her breath, but said only, “So?”

“So?” A most innocent tone of voice.

“What is your name?” There was no attempt to conceal her exasperation.

Sighing, he pushed back his plate and folded his hands in front of him. He said in a quiet tone but with great clarity and placing equal emphasis on each syllable, “Arthur Sidney Patrick Mistral.”

“Was that terribly difficult?” Teasing him made the whole thing so much easier.

“Yes, it was excruciating. Are you going to comfort me?” Teasing her back was pure nectar.

“Yes, I’ll get you some rice pudding for dessert. The perfect comfort food.” Pulling back his plate he finished off his dinner. She watched him eat and when he was done she finally asked, “Why Patrick?”

Resisting the opportunity to pretend to misunderstand her, he answered her question. “It was the name by which I wished to hear you call me.”

“I know I’m letting you off the hook far too easily, but I suppose that is fair. But you really should be more forthcoming.”

“Perhaps.” He sat for a moment looking at her, then continued, “You know, I meant what I said. That name is just for you. There isn’t anyone I’ve ever allowed to call me Patrick.”

“I do appreciate that, but you could’ve come straight out with the whole thing.” Cindie was actually surprised that he’d made the effort to reassure her on that score. She realized she really hadn’t thought he’d lied, Mistral might be many things but not a liar. But that he hadn’t been complete in his answer. Perhaps a fine distinction, but one that she found herself willing to make where he was concerned. Not that she wasn’t going to call him on it. At that moment they each extended their hands and he took hers up in his and give it a squeeze. His thumb stroked the inside of her palm. The waiter appeared again and he ordered coffee. Mistral gave her an inquiring look and she shook her head. He smiled at her as they released their hands and the table was cleared. “You do, however, owe me an apology.”

“Whatever for? You certainly don’t mean for looking up…”

“No, I don’t. I mean for calling me silly.”

“You acted silly.”

“I didn’t, my reaction was perfectly natural. Even if I did though you shouldn’t call me names. I might have to refer to you as compulsively secretive and more guarded than the crown jewels. We wouldn’t want this to get ugly, would we?” The smile she flashed him was as sweet it could be.

“I’m not secretive.”

She kept her voice low, “Arthur Sidney Patrick Mistral, you would find it difficult to divulge what you had for breakfast.”

“Muffins with orange marmalade.” A smile. One eyebrow arched with a ‘so there’ tilt of the head. “Ms. Mata Hari,” he added.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, you see I have my ways of finding these things out.”

“Be careful what you seek to discover. You may find out more that you wish to know.”

“That sounds ominous.” He just smiled. “Patrick, seriously, I know I simply should’ve asked you. I’m not the sort to go snooping around in other people’s business. Not usually anyway.” She laughed at herself again then added softy, “it would be nice to learn more about you though, sometime.”

“Of course, my dear. There is much I wish to discover about you as well.”

Cindie
Thought Brandon had an aversion to chairs, with straps! , - Monday, March 05, 2001 at 16:51:04 (PST)

Dangling his feet in the cool waters O'Hara appreciated the relief it brought to aching muscles. Loosing a wheel from the wagon on the escarpment meant no day's rest tomorrow. Turning slightly he watched the lopsided hulk being denuded of contents under Dana's eagle eye.

Her possessions - their possessions, neatly ordered in a small area of the encampment. From a drawer fluttered a corner of linen; the pallet angled skyward on the far side, airing; the clothes trunks, pots, pans and a box of makeshift tools gathered over the journey.

A trick of the light. PL imagined the hastily erased initials S.J. reforming on the trunk lids.

Turning back to the water, squeezing eyes so tightly shut to erase the picture that blood circles dissolved into stars, O'Hara was unable to stop the burning tears escaping. For perturbing memories lie never far from the surface.

Snuffing quicky on his shirt sleeve, PL dropped into the river quickly splashing his face before marching up the shore directly to the perceived adversery. Collecting a hammer from the tool box, he brought it smashing down on the metal band surrounding the trunk.

Dana jumped at the heavy crash, turning in time to see PL inflict a mortal blow to the second trunk.

Claire
- Monday, March 05, 2001 at 16:22:51 (PST)

Mary Anne, in the corridors with Brandon: "It was like this, Christopher—" As she thinks back to the afternoon . . .

Mary Anne opens the door to the new doctor’s office and cautiously pokes in her head. "Hello, Doctor . . . ?"

The woman behind the desk smiles warmly. "As I told you in your room, I’m Jutta. You may as well call me that, since we’ll be working very closely." And as Mary Anne still hesitates, Jutta beckons to her, firmly, but pleasantly. "Come in. Sit."

Mary Anne obeys, smiling a little at that pleasant voice: British English, with just a hint of another accent beneath . . .

Jutta sees the grin. "Yes?"

"It’s nothing," replies Mary Anne. "I was just thinking that you sound a little like Hans, that’s all."

"And that’s a good thing, I hope?" teases Jutta, her grin suggesting that she knows it is, indeed, a good thing.

The ice broken, Mary Anne relaxes enough to notice the tin of chocolate biscuits open on Jutta’s desk. "My, my. What would The Director say?"

Jutta shrugs. "I suppose it’s one of the benefits of being a doctor. Would you like one?"

Mary Anne accepts with alacrity, not being the sort of woman to turn down chocolate, and Jutta proceeds to business, going over Mary Anne’s medical history and questioning her closely about the fainting episode in the cubicle.

"Tell me this." She is thoroughly professional now. "Had you just been lying on your couch? And then you stood?"

"Well, I’m not sure," admits Mary Anne. "I landed on the couch when I fell, I think, so I probably had been standing up . . ."

"And when you stand quickly, do you ever feel disoriented? Does your vision fade in and out?"

"It has before, yes."

Jutta fingers the medical file, turning the pages. "And you do have low blood pressure. Standing suddenly can bring that on sometimes—it is called orthostatic hypotension. That could contribute to it. And . . ." Her eyes fix on Mary Anne, friendly but intent. "I hesitate to say this—‘burn out’ is such an ugly term . . ."

"I thought that only happened if you hate your work," protests Mary Anne. "How could I be burned out? I love what I do here!"

"I know you do. So much so that you have taken on a great deal of work, perhaps too much. I would make a point of speaking to The Director about your workload, except that he has altered your schedule already to see that you keep appointments with me. That is a first step."

"Oh?" Mary Anne is clearly wary. "And what are the rest of the steps?"

Jutta smiles and pulls a note pad toward her. "Nothing that you will find too unpleasant."

Mary Anne grimaces. "No bean sprouts and tofu?"

"Bean sprouts and tofu?" Jutta makes a face. "No! That would be worthy of HIM!"

Mary Anne has to giggle, at Jutta’s expression as well as the ominous capitals that can be clearly heard in her voice; evidently she has followed the show for a long time.

"As to your diet, I am prescribing nothing except the sensible habits I am sure you already know." Jutta taps the biscuit tin with a knowing look. "Do I seem the sort of person who would deprive you of your chocolate?"

"And what are you planning to tell The Director about that?"

Jutta is nonplussed. "About what? About what I am prescribing for you, you mean? Nothing. You are my patient, and there is such a thing as confidentiality. He will know nothing that you do not tell him yourself."

Yes, Jutta may have followed the show for a long time, but if she knew Mary Anne better, she might be alarmed at the look that crosses her patient’s face. "Hmmmmm," murmurs Mary Anne. "He won’t know anything I don’t tell him, will he? All right." A pause. "And what else is in this . . . prescription of yours?"

"As I told you—nothing unpleasant. I do specialize in relaxation techniques, after all. You said that you were in Sei’s kickboxing class; what other exercise do you take?"

Mary Anne thinks. "Not a lot. Nothing regular."

"Well, I would suggest walking on a regular basis. About a thirty-minute walk to wind down, you understand. You might wish to go walking with Brandon . . .?"

Jutta allows the sentence to delicately trail off, but the look and smirk exchanged between the two women speaks louder than words: the effect of Brandon’s company on Mary Anne might be otherwise than relaxing . . .

"Also," adds Jutta, "this will improve circulation. That low blood pressure will not trouble you so much, if your blood circulation is better. And finally . . ."

"Yes?"

"I believe that massage will have a very good effect."

Mary Anne glances involuntarily at Jutta’s hands, finding them neat and well-kept, but looking extremely capable. The Director wouldn’t have brought her on board if he didn’t think she knew what she was doing . . .

"All right," she finally concedes. "Why not? It’ll be a new experience for me."

"So, you have not had massage before, have you?"

Mary Anne shakes her head. "Is there anything I need to do to prepare?"

"Bring along a CD of some music that you find relaxing; we’ll have it playing during the session. You can leave the rest to me."

Looking around the office, Mary Anne is mildly surprised to note just how much more at ease she already feels; everything has clearly been planned to relax a potential patient, from the soft blues and greens of the colour scheme to the small fountain in the corner, the water murmuring softly as it flows over the smooth stones and trickles into the basin.

Jutta is writing on the notepad, and makes some check marks on her desk calendar. "We’ll begin with four sessions, and plan more if needed." She passes the square of paper to Mary Anne. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing. Only . . ."

"Those times won’t conflict with your schedule, will they?"

"No. Not with how The Director has it arranged. But this makes me feel awfully . . . well, pampered and spoiled." Mary Anne laughs, but it is a nervous laugh. "Other people here work just as hard. If not harder—"

"And they will be in to see me as well; I’ve hardly arrived and my appointment book if nearly full for the next six weeks. You will not be the only one, so put your mind at rest."

Mary Anne nods. "If that’s all, then I need to go and see about my lunch." A wry grin. "Any suggestions?"

An answering smile from Jutta. "Beware of too much caffeine, otherwise . . . whatever you would enjoy. In moderation, of course."

"The caffeine isn’t a problem, once I have my morning coffee." Again, that look that would warn Jutta, if only she were more familiar with the various personalities of the FOF set. "And you said that whatever The Director learns of our sessions, he will have to learn from me."

"That is correct," replies Jutta, beginning to feel a bit uneasy after all—but then she sees Mary Anne’s face, and wonders how she could possibly have felt that anything was amiss. How could anyone suspect any harm in that sweet and dazzling smile?

"Thank you, Jutta," beams Mary Anne. "I feel better already, and I’ll be looking forward to that massage appointment." And then she is at the door, turning only once to wave and say, "Auf wiedersehen" before she is gone . . .

Brandon, who has listened patiently, now sighs and raises an eyebrow. "Mary Anne, just what are you planning?"

Mary Anne lays a light hand on his arm and looks up at him, her long dark lashes sweeping down to veil the blue sparkle of her eyes, then lifting again. The famed innocent look.

"As Jutta would say . . . nothing too unpleasant."

Brandon shakes his head, his expression that of a man who straps himself into his seat for what promises to be a very bumpy ride, indeed . . .

MA--Syndication, R dearest? Have you been getting those residuals checks? ;-)
Cindie--here's a hanky, and don't let Mistral off the hook too easily! *grin*, - Sunday, March 04, 2001 at 18:31:45 (PST)

Dry, dusty and thirsty Sinclair allowed the spyglass to travel the length of the distant gleam far below. Running Bear had brought them back to the water, back to the meandering Snake that coiled its way through their westward journey.

A cruel irony for the wagon train to have traded the surfeit from the sky for the harsh barren plain so soon. On the Indian's advice, each and every wagon had left the Mission with full water barrels and it had proved their salvation. Before permitting a few measured sips to evaporate down his throat, Sinclair had held the water pouch tantalisingly close absorbing the warm, musky smell. Even now the liquid safely stowed, the gratification lingered.

Beneath him he felt the animal move gingerly forward towards the plateau edge, drawn by the deeper scent of the river.

Snapping the spyglass shut, secreting it inside one of the many worn saddle pockets, Sinclair deftly unwound the rein making contact with the horse once more. In a few hours the wagons would arrive, and they would all follow the Indian trail route down to the shore.

Claire
- Saturday, March 03, 2001 at 15:35:56 (PST)

They stood thus for some time. She finally looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears that she didn’t bother to wipe away. He clutched her to him. “You silly woman. What was it? Tell me, please.” He continued to hold her, his body swaying almost imperceptively from side to side in a gentle rocking motion. He stroked her hair, “Tell me.”

For the second time that night Cindie told of her discovery, and her actions. Of course he knew the last part already. “I thought… you didn’t think enough of me to tell me your real name. I was angry…”

“…and hurt.” He finished for her. She nodded. He closed his eyes now, for just a moment. “Now, what am I going to do with you?”

“For starters you’re going to sit down and tell me all about your nom de guerres.” She pulled back. “Give me your coat. Would you like something hot to drink?”

He smiled now. “Yes, and dinner, I haven’t eaten. Have you ?” Realizing where she must’ve been, he added, “of course you have.”

She smiled too, a rueful thing. “Then keep your coat on and I’ll take you to dinner. There’s nothing here, unless your idea of dinner is cold cereal?” He looked horrified. The apartment was left empty again.

Cindie
Thanks guys. (sniffle), - Friday, March 02, 2001 at 17:39:22 (PST)

From behind the curtain:

Hey! I'm in syndication!! LOL! ;-)

We're glad to have to you here and elsewhere, Cindie!
R, - Thursday, March 01, 2001 at 16:19:45 (PST)

Back to top