fenwick - 1. on the trail

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perky minette was next. she came up and picked "violent." "ohhh - but i am not a violent person! " she looked around for sympathy. "can i trade with somebody?" "absolutely not. pick your author." "samuel beckett." she looked blank. "samuel beckett." she went back to her seat.

fenwick

by minette de montfort

illustrated by roy dismas

special thanks to Prof. Dan Leo for his editing efforts

i had always been curious about fenwick, as he was a rather mysterious fellow, and also somewhat resentful, as he seemed to be held in somewhat higher esteem by his fellow creatures than i was. so it was with no small feeling of delight when i was taking my morning constitutional by the quayside that i beheld fenwick himself emerge from the dragon and mussel pub. and by the look of him, in no mean hurry. i immediately made the decision to take this heaven-sent opportunity to follow the celebrated gentleman and learn something of his mysterious ways. i have always been a forthright walker - as indeed, i always endeavor to be forthright in all things. one foot in front of the other, one foot, then the other, that is good policy i have found, and will get you where you are going. no one walks as boldly and briskly as i, depend upon it. and yet, on this fateful morning, damn my eyes if fenwick was not keeping up almost as brisk a pace as i was. almost, mind you, almost. no one walks as i do. and yet fenwick was keeping up a good pace, one foot in front of the other, one foot, then the other, looking neither to the right nor left, no, neither to the right nor the left, very proper, quite sound in technique he was, and at the rate he was going would be in open country in no time. this is treacherous territory, i thought to myself, if he should reach open country, if he should reach open country and happen to glance around.... damn me, the whole glorious enterprise would be dashed to pieces, properly dashed to pieces for want of proper precautions and preparation. true, fenwick had been looking neither to the right nor the left, neither to the right nor the left as he kept up his almost admirable pace, but could i count on this, especially as he was rapidly approaching the town limits? what did i know of fenwick anyway? almost nothing, really - which is why i was following him in the first place, was it not? i needed a plan! and quickly! as an old military man (i should say, as an old student of military affairs - and of affairs generally) i knew the importance of good planning. as well as sound inspiration. a disguise! i needed a disguise! i needed inspiration! fenwick could decide to turn his head at any moment, and all, all would be lost! well - no doubt i could brazen it out. but brazening it out, i must confess, has never been my strong point. no, not at all. the good lord, or the gods on olympus, or chance, or the mysterious workings of fate, or whatever, have given us all certain qualities but not others - forthrightess, decisiveness, pluck, determination - these qualities i had in abundance. but the ability to brazen things out - brazenness itself - i am afraid that has never been my "road game" as the gypsies (or is it the americans?) say. and then, just as i was about to give up hope - not that i ever give up hope, no, no, not such a determined fellow as i - inspiration came to me in the form of a fruit stand by the side of the road - a most unfortunate looking little establishment situated across from the quay just before it ends and before the high road begins, and manned by a disrespectful looking individual i had a vague sense of having encountered before. had i passed this way before? (the eternal question). perhaps when i was a bit none the better for drink? (for i often find solace for my melancholy meditations on this unfortunate existence in this time-hallowed manner.) but i digress. i would buy some fruit in a bag, then poke a couple of holes in the bag with my stout walking stick and put the bag over my head - a primitive disguise, to be sure, but a well nigh impenetrable one. so, conquering my instinctive or well-earned distaste for the fellow, i approached his stand boldly, keeping one eye on the retreating form of fenwick. but as he had now left the quay and entered the road, where could he go but straight on? i had every confidence in my ability to catch up with him. "nice plums today, governor, nice peaches," the fellow addressed me familiarly. "bananas straight from the tropics. apples always a dependable standby. what's your pleasure this morning?" "look here,what's the cheapest thing you've got? whatever it is, i'll have one of them." "now what kind of a question is that, from a fine looking gentleman like yourself?" "it's the question i am asking you." "well, governor, i suppose one strawberry would be the cheapest item. but you don't want to be buying one strawberry, do you? that would seem mean. and you'd be a laughingstock, wouldn't you, to all your swell friends." "the attitudes toward myself of my 'swell friends' are no concern of yours. i will have one strawberry, if you please. and kindly put it in a bag - the largest bag you've got." "a large bag, sir? well sir, in that case, i will have to charge you as much for the one strawberry as for half a pound. six pence and a half, to be exact." "what! what sort of insolence is that?" i barely restrained myself from shaking my stout walking stick in his foolish face. "it's the sort of insolence i have," he answered barefacedly. "very well then, give me half a pound of strawberries - in the biggest bag you've got! and make sure they are fresh. and be quick about it." i looked up the road at the disappearing form of my quarry. my insolent friend noticed this, and looked up himself. "ah. following colonel fenwick, was you? i suspected as much. " he began putting strawberries in a paper bag, one at a time, holding each by the stem and inspecting it. "a fine gentleman, colonel fenwick, much admired by all. a master fencer and swordsman, so they tell me." one strawberry, then another. "and a world class explorer and big game hunter." another strawberry, very carefully inspected. "not to mention a dab hand with the ladies, yes indeed. and a scholar - " another strawberry, even more carefully scrutinized. " - a scholar who knows not just the greek and persian and hebrew, but the assyrian and babylonian and chaldean as well. imagine, sir, being able to read - " "will you hurry?" "you wanted your strawberries fresh, didn't you? i wouldn't want no complaints." "just put some strawberries in the bag, please. i absolve you of all responsibility for their freshness." "good enough." he glanced up the road. fenwick was no longer in sight. "i suppose you'll be wanting to catch up with the colonel, eh?" i disdained to answer. he was folding the top of the bag and i was reaching into my pocket for his fee when i heard an all too familiar voice at my elbow. "why , if it isn't muggleton - old sneaky muggleton! " "good morning, costermayne," i replied with such civility as i could muster. "how are you, sneaks? been looking in any more ladies' windows lately? ha ha ha!" i ignored this preposterous calumny - a tale for another time - although it seemed to afford no little amusement to my fruit selling friend. "i am doing very well, costermayne. a beautiful morning, is it not?" "indeed," he responded, with the leer that never left his face. "a morning," i continued, "to start life anew, as it were." "ah, yes. to start life anew." 2. strawberries

gertrude - 2. the first archangel

by dorine de santos

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

special thanks to Prof. Dan Leo for his editing efforts

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gertrude rarely saw other human beings, but she talked to almost everything she did see - the sky, the clouds, the trees, the rocks and her sheep, and when she got close enough to it, the river. for the most part, only the river and a few of the sheep talked to her. a few mornings after her encounter with st james, she was standing on a ridge about a quarter of the way down the mountain, watching the sheep - who were unusually well-behaved - and talking to the clouds. the clouds almost never responded to her observations, so she looked around uncertainly when she heard a voice. sure enough, the voice had come not from the clouds but from a creature standing behind her, a little higher up the hill. the creature looked like herself, a human, but with two wings of moderate size, reaching from its shoulders to its waist, and each about the width of the unwinged portion of its body. "greetings," the creature addressed gertrude. "a beautiful morning, is it not?" gertrude thought before replying, as she always did. "most mornings are like this." "the sky is very blue." "it usually is blue, except when it rains." "allow me to introduce myself. i am jehudiel, the archangel. one of seven archangels in heaven." "i am gertrude, a shepherdess. i am the only shepherdess in the valley." "i am pleased to make your acquaintance, gertrude." the archangel moved a little further down the slope. he looked uncertainly at a couple of sheep who moved closer to him. "they won't bite you." gertrude guided the inquisitive beasts away with her staff. the angel looked around. "do you have a dog? some shepherds have dogs." "i don't have one. the old woman had one. but he went away, when she did." "i see. well, gertrude, the reason i came down here to talk to you - " he paused, but gertrude just stared at him. " - the reason i came down here, i understand you had an encounter with a saint a few days ago. saint james, to be exact." "yes" "they can be difficult sometimes, these saints." "yes." "he put a curse on you." gertrude thought about this. "he said something about walking the hills forever." "indeed he did. and what did you think of that?" "not much." "no?" "where else am i going to go?" "not very talkative, are you?" "i talk all the time." the archangel looked around. "oh? to whom?" "the sheep. the sky, the clouds, the rain, the trees. the old woman and the dog, even though they are gone." "i see. well, gertrude, i have brought you some good news." "oh?" "yes. saint james's action has come to the attention of the holy mother." "whoever she is." " she can't rescind the curse of a saint - you understand that. but she has taken pity on you. that is what she does - takes pity on poor sinners, even pagans like yourself. what do you think of that?" "nothing. i don't know who the holy mother is." "the holy mother - think of her as a shepherdess like yourself. and poor sinners and pagans like you are her sheep." "i am not a sheep, i am a shepherdess. those are the sheep over there. look, there is one of them wandering away now." gertrude called to it, and it stopped. she called to it again and it began to turn slowly to face her. "you speak to it in its own language," observed the archangel. "of course." "someday this whole valley will be filled with churches and cathedrals dedicated to the glory of the holy mother, and our lord and the holy saints. did not saint james tell you that?" "yes. i think so." "and then what will you do? will you join in the congregation?" "i don't know." "saint james put a spell on you, a spell which can not be broken. you will not be able to leave the valley. what do you think will happen?" "whatever happens, happens." "what an obdurate little pagan you are. tell me, what did you think when you saw me?" gertrude stared at him. "had you ever seen anything like me before? were you not filled with wonder, with amazement?" "whatever happens, happens." gertrude looked back at the sheep. another one, a dark gray one, was wandering away and she called to it. "do you not even want to know what mercy the holy mother proposed for you, what softening of the saint's curse?" "you can tell me, if you like." "do you want to stay in this valley forever?" "why not? where would i go?" "ungrateful little wretch! forget the holy mother! i put a second curse on you! stay in this valley, not until judgment day but until the end of judgment day! be the last soul on earth to be judged - the very last!" and although the angel had wings, he did not use them to fly away, but faded away, leaving gertrude with her sheep. darker clouds formed overhead, and a light rain began to fall. the sheep moved closer together. after a while the rain fell a little harder, and they moved down the slope. 3. denise

pastoral - 2. the recruiting officer

by quinette de quieroz

illustrated by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

special thanks to Prof. Dan Leo for his editing efforts

click here to begin pastoral

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from daphne, countess of v----------, to renaldo, marquis of y------------ : no sooner had i posted my last missive to you, my dear friend, than i immediately regretted my decision to forego the marquise of l...............'s invitation to whist. for, headache or no, what was i to do for the rest of the evening? i took up madame de p-------'s new novel, which i had begun reading in the coach on my journey here. but whereas on the journey i had found it a welcome distraction from the bouncing of the carriage, on my sofa i found it merely tedious. the moon, shining placidly through my window, seemed to mock the transports of high-minded love of madame de p----------'s most vociferous heroine, and i found myself staring at the moon - and at my feet. ah! how tiresome life is! why can we never find such lovers , such delicious adventures as exist in the pages of romances? i feel i am boring you, as much as i bore myself. perhaps i shall find the energy to put my shoes on - yes, my friend, put my own shoes on, without even summoning my new little maid - have i described my new maid? the laziest little wretch in the world, whom i am obliged to abuse in the worst way, to get her to do anything at all - i, the most easygoing person in the world. right now she is sleeping. easier to let her sleep, than to attempt to rouse her. well - i shall go for a walk in the moonlight. when i return, i shall decide whether i have anything of enough interest to you to continue and actually post this letter (later) a curious encounter! i managed to get my own shoes on - quite nicely, if i say so myself - but i was not up to the task of putting my own hair up, so throwing on my oldest cloak, i covered my head with a shawl - like a gypsy! - and descended the stair - surely you remember the winding stair of my cottage here - and arrived at the garden. i was gratified to be able to see, in the moonlight, that my dear colin - no doubt assisted by his faithful friend clovis - had kept the garden up quite nicely. you smile, my dear friend - i do not mean it looked like a setting around a gazebo at versailles or fontainebleu - but it had a rustic charm - and no nasty weeds or roots to trip over - and looked quite lovely in the moonlight - what more can we ask for in the evil world, i ask you? so i was immediately put into a good mood and was strolling in the darkness quite contentedly when suddenly - a huge dark form rose up before me! for a moment i thought it was some dreadful beast wandered down from the mountainside - but i then i saw the silhouette raise what was clearly a cigar to its mouth, and on coming closer i beheld a huge loutish fellow in what was apparently intended to be some sort of military garb, though far from the most smartly cut. if i was a bit disconcerted by his sudden appearance, he seemed not the least surprised by mine, but gazed down on me - have i mentioned that he was a great towering brute? - with the solemnity of a bear beholding a butterfly. he turned his shaggy head away from me just enough to avoid blowing his cigar smoke in my face. finally as close to him as i was going to come, i saw that he was not completely hideous - if someone had taken a washcloth to him and found him a tailor. i bid him a good evening. he responded with a crude attempt at gallantry that i will not record on this page - much as i know you, my insolent friend, find amusement in such things. i turned his "pretty compliment" aside, without apparently, wounding his sensibilities or disturbing his composure, and suddenly realized who he must be. "ah, you most be the officer from general b-----------'s army, here to disturb the eternal peace of this happy valley." "not at all, madam, not at all. to whom have i the honor of speaking, by the way?" "i am the comtesse de v----------. these grounds you are taking your ease on belong to me." "ah, a comtesse! how rude of me to have spoken so rudely to a comtesse. and how gracious of the comtesse not to threaten me with a flogging, eh?" "here in the happy valley we attempt to avoid all unpleasantness." "how pleasant." "and you, sir, are - " "just as you surmised, madam, i am lieutenant z--------, of the ----th hussars of the army of the revolution. i am afraid i have no other title or recommendation." (have i mentioned that the fellow was speaking french, but of a more barbarous sort that i had ever heard from the most rustic servant.) "oh," i replied," no matter how many times i have had it explained to me, i can never remember the differences between a hussar, or a dragoon, or a cuirassier, and all that." "no matter. in any case i am here in the humble office of a recruiting officer." "but thirsting, no doubt, to return to the field of battle." he laughed good-naturedly at this. "time enough for that. no, i find the happy valley here quite to my liking. tell me, comtesse, why are you walking out here all alone, with a shawl around your head like a camp follower?" "here in the valley, we avoid ceremony almost as much as unpleasantness." "indeed. so it is liberty hall, eh? everything is permitted?" "not quite everything." " you say you own these grounds. tell me, do you still own anything else, or have you fled the revolution with the clothes on your back?" what effrontery! i almost slapped him. any thought that i had that he could even begin to impersonate a gentleman vanished. "thank you, but i am as much in possession of my fortune as i am of my wits." "ah." he gazed at me as if i were a horse he had just been assured had nothing wrong with its left foreleg. i could not help adding, "in fact - i - actually my factotum, have even made some investments which have turned out quite well." "oh, i see. no doubt next you will tell me that you are a special friend of m de barras himself. " "i am afraid i do not have the honor of any acquaintance with that worthy personage." he fell silent, puffing on his cigar, and i took the opportunity to upbraid him. "i understand you are here to dragoon the likes of my poor shepherds and gardeners, my colins and clovises, into your army. i must tell you i think this is pure folly, as the poor lads are not bred for such pursuits but for the arts of peace." he threw back his head and brayed like a donkey. "haw, haw, haw! so that is what you are doing out here - you came out to console poor colin and clovis! haw, haw, haw!" and then the brute committed the final, unforgivable act - he yawned in my face. 3. the escape

the witches - 1. a deathbed scene

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rosalind strode up to miss prue. she took a paper from the white hat. "anti-religious. huh. what religious am i to be anti?" "that is for you to decide. let me say to all of you," said miss prue, "that some of these categories are indeed very broad. you will have to use your own judgment as to what is best meant by them." "you mean to read the judges' minds," said ameline. "if you want to put it that way," said miss prue. "pick from the black hat , please," she told rosalind. "sir walter scott. " rosalind rolled her eyes, and returned to her seat. "i believe scott was the oldest author in the list," said miss prue. "next."

the witches

by rosalind montmorency-st winifred

illustrated by roy dismas , konrad kraus and rhoda penmarq

the spread of the christian religion through europe, in the first twelve centuries of the new era, was not nearly so unimpeded, or so complete, as the devout of modern times generally believe. in the northern forests of the continent, in particular, the old religions not only survived but were little troubled by the attentions of those devout apostles of the new faith, later distinguished by the name of inquisitors, who made such severe and sincere efforts against the adherents of the old ways in the sunnier and more pastoral regions of the former empire of rome. in those northern regions in which our story takes place, rome itself had never truly succeeded in planting its banners. with what indifference and contempt, then, did the rough chieftains of the almost impenetrable forests view the few apostles, often armed only with crosses and crudely printed scriptures, who presumed to trespass their dark domains? but there was one class of persons who viewed the ragged evangelists with somewhat more respect, even a modicum of alarm - the women who formed the priestly class of such religion as existed in the forests, the menfolk being chiefly, if not solely concerned, with hunting boars, drinking grog, and cracking each others' skulls. it would seem that in all times and places the contemplation of eternal mysteries is largely the province of the distaff, but especially in those where existence is the proverbial daily struggle. in any case, there were no "priests" in the forests, only those women who would be designated in more supposedly enlightened times as "witches". *** our story begins in the depths of the fourth century. the long breakup of the roman empire had begun in earnest, with its interminable fits and starts, and inevitable end. barentius, a rough soldier in the army of the emperor constantine, had so far prospered in that great man's service, as to be able to retire to a small estate in the province of dacia - recently retaken by the soldier-emperor, after having been lost by his less warlike predecessors in the previous century. the estate he purchased, however, taxed his old talents as a warrior at least as much as his new inclinations to be a farmer, as the entire region was constantly thrown into turmoil by the continued flareups of rebellion from the elements of the populace still indisposed to suffer the yoke of empire. nature, too, proved unfriendly to the old soldier and a series of poor harvests had reduced him to near penury and a stoic despair after twenty-five years on the frontier. one thing only had proved fruitful - the young local woman he had betrothed on arrival, and who had given him six living sons and a daughter in the first twelve years of their marriage. three of the sons had repaired to the capital to take up the profession of arms in the imperial forces, leaving the oldest son, the daughter and the two youngest sons to watch, with their mother, over the old man's deathbed, when, after a quarter century of doing battle with pitiless nature and recalcitrant rebels, he expired in the same taciturn manner as he had lived. asmeralda, the daughter, who had proved as dutiful a daughter and as pure a maiden as ever graced the earth, was the only one of the five witnesses to show any emotion as the graybeard lay breathing his last. she had sent the only servant - an old soldier almost as old as the master who had served him faithfully since he had been a lieutenant in constantine's army - to try to find the local priest, but he had yet to return. the lone candle by the old man's bed flickered fitfully. asmeralda, wringing her pale hands, stood at the window looking out into the darkness. "oh, probus, probus, why do you not return?" she turned to the others. "i hope nothing has befallen him." "nothing has befallen probus in almost sixty years," retorted the oldest son. "it would be too good a stroke of fortune to be rid of him at last." the fifth son laughed, and the matriarch smiled grimly, at this sally "oh, how cruel!" cried asmeralda. "surely you are in jest, brutus, but this is no time for your raillery." "as you wish, sister," brutus replied. he looked down at his sire. "come, old fellow, we have stood here long enough, would you not agree? this is quite as wearisome as a night's watch on the marshes. have you anything to say for yourself, at last, eh?" "no." "i did not think so." brutus stretched his long arms and went over to the window, which asmeralda had vacated. asmeralda, meanwhile, had knelt by the bedside. "oh, father, probus has not returned with father propertius. but surely, surely you can see our dear lord coming for you. surely you can see him on the cross, beckoning to you as he did at the milvian bridge!" the old man raised his hand, looked back at his eldest son standing at the window, and tried to speak. he gasped three times, and died. "oh, he is dead!" asmeralda began to sob. the youngest son, asmodeus, looked at his feet, a bit abashed. the other three looked on coldly as asmeralda continued to weep and shake. "he blessed you, brutus, did you see him? he blessed you!" "but you can bless us even more," laughed commodus, the next to youngest son. brutus had returned to the bedside and casually slapped commodus across the head. "silence! we can have a little respect here, eh, mother?" he poked commodus in the chest. "speak when i tell you to speak." "oh," cried asmeralda, "what will become of us all now?" "an excellent question, " replied brutus. "we will discuss it in the morning." he turned to his mother and two brothers. "we will bury him in the morning whether the priest shows up or not, eh?" the mother nodded assent. "what about her?" "let her sob." the old woman shrugged and regarded her only daughter. since early childhood asmeralda, who had now attained the age of twenty-two, had had only one wish - to enter a convent. her family, however, had other plans. "she can stay up and wait for the priest," she continued. "if he ever shows up." "not for a while," said commodus. "him or probus either. you know the two of them are sitting in a ditch somewhere. i mean the three of them - the two of them and a wineskin." "did i not tell you to be silent?" asked brutus. he smacked commodus across the skull again, harder than before. they fell silent, except for asmeralda. none of them made a move to leave the room. the air grew a little colder, and the candle, which had been flickering, burned steadily. 2. a roadside encounter

5. helga

by emily de villaincourt

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

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special thanks to Prof. Dan Leo for his editing efforts

sabine sat on the bed, looking over the complete rules. "any questions?" "can you answer them?" "i can try. my name is helga, by the way." "i am sure i am pleased to meet you, helga. i am sabine." "yes, i know." "are we going to be seeing a lot of each other?" "oh, yes. read the rules and you will see just how much." helga sat down on the edge of the bed. sabine didn't move away. sabine glanced back down at the rules. "it says we are to have guards at all times. it doesn't say you - you, personally - are to be my guard. it doesn't mention names." "i will spend most of my time on duty guarding you." " who decides that?" "i do. i am in charge of the guards. sort of." helga looked down. "not officially, officially prue is in charge of everything. but she will let me handle things day by day." "oh?" "yes. i can read and write, for one thing. most of the other girls can't. but who knows why - she just likes me. anyway i can pretty much do as i wish." "and you wish to guard me." "yes i do." "and why is that, pray tell?" "because the first time i saw you i knew you were the one for me." "oh, a passionate type, my dear." sabine laughed up and looked up but helga wasn't smiling. "yes, a very passionate type." sabine smiled. "i hope your passion doesn't run amok and cause you to mistreat me." "pooh. nobody is going to mistreat you. any of you. think about it. in a year's time one of you will be empress - empress! and twelve others will be very nicely off too - powers behind the throne, maybe. and we will still be guards - or who knows what? ignorant little villagers who can't spell their names. so why would we mistreat you?" sabine got up and looked out the window. "that is one way to look at it. another way is that maybe none of us really knows what is going on, do we?" "what's going on is what's going on. you have to accept that. what else are you going to do?" "i don't know - how about escape?" "oh, i am disappointed in you! you haven't even been here twenty-four hours." "what better time?" helga ignored this. " i thought some of the other girls might talk of escape - some of those airhead looking blondes, but not you." sabine turned away from the window. "are you going to report me - for talking of escape?" "no, dummy! we were told you all probably would ask about it and to just ignore it for now." "dummy! that's a nice way to start our beautiful friendship - by calling me names." "i'm sorry. it's just that you disappointed me." "so you are not going to call me names again?" "no. not unless you really deserve it." they both laughed. "i thought you might have questions about the contest." "not tonight." sabine sat back down on the bed and tossed the rules to the side. "i have a year to worry about the contest - that's if i stay here and don't escape." "don't start." "why don't we talk about you, helga. what are you doing here, anyway?" helga lowered her eyes. "it's a job. why do you think i am here?" "are you from this region?" "oh, yes. most of the girls - the guards and maids - are from the valley. when we heard about the school reopening - we all thought it would mean a lot of new jobs. for teachers - for the shops. it didn't turn out quite the way we expected." "oh?" sabine moved closer to helga on the bed. "we didn't realize there were only a few pupils - and they wouldn't be let out to buy things in the shops. it's not really a school at all - it's a -" "prison. " "it is what it is. like a reform school, maybe." "maybe." "but only for a year! and then one of you will be empress!" "yes, you already pointed that out. tell me, would you like to be one of us - one of the contestants?" "i am not a princess - i could not write a book." "of course you could - you said you can read and write." helga looked away. "i don't think so." "well - tell me, where do you stay when you are not guarding me? in the village?" "we all have our own quarters - some upstairs, some down." "but you can go out - down in the valley if you want? you are not held here?" "no. we can go out if we want. some of the girls are living outside and will just show up for work - at least that is what they plan to do, at the start." "huh. but not you?" "no. i like the room i have here - much nicer than what i have outside. besides, prue wouldn't let me be the leader if i lived off post." " off post. you know, helga, you seem like you are kind of familiar with all this. what did you do during the war, if you don't mind my asking?" "why do you want to know?" "just asking. but you were 'in the war' as they say?" "oh yes." "well, you don't have to talk about it." "you were a princess - you were probably safe." "safe enough. until now." "i think it is very nice that you ask about me instead of just talking about yourself. i was expecting just the opposite." "that is the way i am. i am really a very easygoing individual, when you get to know me." "i am a very passionate individual." "you mentioned that." "are you tired? after your long day?" "anything but. i am all wound up." "i could give you a nice massage. or we could make passionate love." "right now?" "if you like." "uh - don't you have anything else you have to do?" helga sighed. "yes. you are right, i suppose prue might want me for something. but i can come back later." "you are very persistent." "yes, i am. very persistent." helga stood up. "i will come back later, see if you are still awake." sabine waited until a few minutes after helga left. she got up and opened the door, which was unlocked. the other guard who had accompanied her to her room was seated outside about six feet from the door. she turned and smiled at sabine. "hello" "hello" "i am mara." to be continued

chapter 6: olga