Section I, Next Section

Chapter 1 - The Meeting

Posted on Wednesday, 13 October 1999

The streets of London were bad enough at any time of day. Either it rained, or it didn't. Usually it rained, and the cold, dank air discouraged walking and riding in the open air. Now and then the rain stopped; perhaps the sun would come out. The sky might stay clear for days, even weeks. Then the streets were truly unbearable, for the heat nurtured their ever-present stench until it took on a life of its own. It walked hand in hand with every one, rode in his carriage of on his horse, wrapped round him as he stood, and crept like a thief through every open door.

At night, however, the streets were at their worst, their most treacherous. Good sense dictated sleep in the small hours of the morning, but on this particular morning, and on this particular corner of this particular street, two particular men were very particularly awake.

There was nothing, if the truth be told, fundamentally unusual about their appearance. They were of medium height and medium build, and were neither very handsome nor very plain. Indeed, their sole defining characteristic, for the moment, was the fact that they were very quietly smashing the window of a millinery. This accomplished, one had begun to crawl through the resulting aperture when suddenly a strong voice cut clearly through the night.

"Halt, villains!" The man on guard swung to face the speaker, a middle-aged gentleman. . .at least, judging by his manner of speech, he seemed to be a gentleman. The burglar was quite unable to judge anything rational from the interloper's manner of dress. The entire ensemble, minus the mask and giant, hooded cape, might have passed had it not been an uniform shade of fire-engine red. The cape, swathing its (fashion) victim in the same hue, was now discarded as the man came forward, brandishing a long. . .well. . .plank. He spoke again. "I am quite certain that the good shopkeeper is utterly undesirous of your patronage, and so I order you again to - gnkhh"

At this point the guard, tiring of being so addressed, punched our hero in the nose. Unprepared for an adversary of such silent and ruthless efficiency, the capeless crusader had no option but to stagger backward and sit rather abruptly on the cobblestones. He then assured himself that his offended feature was not bleeding, and stood up again.

"Unmannerly goon! Long will you rue that reckless action. For I am none other that The Fencer!" Here he paused, for dramatic effect. It had absolutely none. The guard, now joined by his comrade, eyed him undauntedly and spoke at last.

"Well I'm Bob and this 'ere's Jerry." Satisfied with the introductions and armed with a club and a knife, Bobandjerry (it really doesn't matter which is which) approached The Fencer.

Despite what one might imagine, a big plank in the hands of a really inept fighter isn't much of a weapon compared to a club and a knife wielded by men who know what they're doing. It was all The Fencer could do to keep Bobandjerry at arm's length, and more and more frequent blows reached him, so that he was sore where the club had knocked him and bleeding from scratches of the knife. He was beginning to get rather tired, and very worried, when suddenly a strong voice cut clearly through the night.

"Halt, villains!" The newcomer clearly shared stylists with The Fencer, for he was clad in the same fashion, albeit in nothing but cobalt blue. "I demand that you desist from beating this. . ." He paused, searching for an accurate term.

"The Fencer, at your service." Even in the midst of a crisis, his manners were not forgotten.

"Ironman, at yours." It was his turn to cast his cloak aside. "I presume, sir, that you are attempting to prevent a robbery. May I offer my assistance?"

The slightest emphasis on that word, "attempting," caused The Fencer to colour, but he was in no position to be picky. "Indeed, sir, I would be exceedingly grateful of it!"

Ironman, unlike The Fencer, was not armed. He did, however, share his ally's almost total lack of coordination, and it was only due to the division of their foe that they made any pretense of holding their own. As it was, within five minutes Bob (or Jerry) had nicked The Fencer about seventeen more times with the knife, while Ironman's left elbow was starting to swell from a blow of Jerry's club (or was it Bob's?).

Suddenly, a strong voice cut clearly through the night. "Halt, villains!"

Bobandjerry were extremely nonplused. "Look, we've been through this twice already," said one to the kelly-green-clad challenger.

"What," asked the other sardonically, "was yer tailor 'avin' a three-fer-one sale? 'Ow much did 'e pay yiz ter take those off 'is 'ands?"

"Hey!" Ironman protested.

"I'll have you know," began The Fencer. He was interrupted, however, by the third adventurer. Without deigning to reply to his adversary's taunts, he discarded his mantle and strode into the fray.

"I am The Porcupine," he announced, "and you, smelly, are going to prison." He reached behind his shoulder and drew, from the quiver on his back. . .er. . .a handful of. . .feathers.

Bobandjerry were stunned. The Fencer had tried to beat them with a plank, Ironman had thought to best them with his bare hands, and now this loony was blinding them with a barrage of feathers. They were still frozen in astonishment when, seconds later, the constabulary arrived.

"Oy," proclaimed He Who Wielded the Authority of the Law. "Right," he paraphrased, lest he had been misunderstood. "We've received complaints of a row."

The Fencer may have been tired. He may have been sore. He may even have been stained with his own blood. But he was still confident. He spoke up imperiously. "Yes, thank you, sirrah, you may take these ruffians into custody. My colleagues and I disturbed their burglary of," he gestured, "that shop."

While he spoke, the three heroes had gathered their outerwear, and they now limped, hobbled, and strode (The Porcupine isn't wounded, remember) together into the shadows.

Having judged themselves to be out of earshot of the police, the three began to converse.

Ironman made some slight remark on the fighting prowess of Bobandjerry. The Fencer assented politely. The Porcupine looked rather surprised.

"They scare you?" He spoke with gentle condescension. "How many villains have you actually defeated?"

"Oh, well," blustered Ironman, "there was the. . .um. . .or the. . .that is to say. . ."

"None," confessed The Fencer, "and you?" This was addressed to Ironman, who finished his mutterings with a "None" that bordered on the surly.

"I suppose," he challenged The Porcupine, "that you're an old hand at this sort of thing."

The Porcupine cleared his throat. He averted his eyes. He scratched his nose. Finally, he could not put off his reply any longer. "No, in point of fact, this is my first night."

"I think," opined The Fencer, "that we did very well. I mean, between the three of us, we managed to apprehend two dangerous thugs."

"We got beaten up by the common thieves we outnumbered, and we had to be rescued by the police." Ironman was understandably pessimistic.

"Speak for yourself." The Porcupine was firm. "I am uninjured."

"Yes," said The Fencer, "I'm curious as to how you managed that. There we were, getting physically abused, and you hold them off by pelting them with down?"

The Porcupine sighed and extracted a goose feather from his quiver. "It's not down," he explained, "it's a quill. I'm The Porcupine. I throw my quills. It would be ridiculous to throw down."

"Oh! I see! That's rather clever! That's a bit like why I am called The Fencer."

"When, as far as I can see," commented The Porcupine, "you are carrying a Big Stick instead of a sword."

"Ah, but it's not a Big Stick. It's part of a Fence. That is why I am The Fencer. What about you?" He turned to Ironman. "How did you acquire your name? For if I am to judge by our recent battle, you are not unusually strong. Do you compete in triathlons?"

"It's literal, not figurative." Ironman pointed out the distinction, then went on to explain it. "I'm not just 'as strong as iron,' I can turn myself to iron."

His companions stared incredulously.

"It's difficult, though," he went on, "because if I turn myself entirely to iron, I can't move at all, plus it takes me a terribly long time to undo, and I haven't quite mastered the trick of turning only my fist to iron, or only my foot. So you see I can turn myself to iron, I just. . .don't. Usually." He felt that this was a fairly pathetic finish, and he scowled.

It was The Porcupine who broke the silence. "Fencer, Ironman, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, and I hope we meet again very soon. Perhaps tomorrow night? If you wish to reach me. . ." He produced two cards, prompting the others to follow suit.

As a result of the exchange, The Fencer found himself in possession of one card embossed "Captain Frederick Wentworth," and one, "Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esquire." Ironman held Colonel Christopher Brandon's card and that of Fitzwilliam Darcy. The Porcupine. . .

Hey! It's a logic puzzle!

Chapter Two ~ By Allie

Posted on Thursday, 14 October 1999

The smell of disinfectant was everywhere. You could taste it, you could feel it. It dwarfed all other smells, even that of Mr. Finney, who had some rather interesting ideas about the use of urine in one's ablations.

No one seemed to notice the smell. No one seemed to notice Mr. Finney. In fact, no one seemed very interested in anything that didn't come out of their own heads. All sorts of people were here. One figure stood out from the crowd.

She didn't have a very interesting appearance. In fact, it was the shear normality of her appearance that made her stick out. She was a large, dumpy woman, well passed middle age, with the sort of well-scrubbed able-bodied beefiness more associated with farm wives than mental patients. She crouched in a corner and rocked herself, muttering quietly the one word she had said in five years. The word that she had screamed, murmured, and even snored endlessly to herself.

"Winkle," she said, "winkle winkle winkle."

This thing crouched in a corner had been a woman, like many women. All her children had grown up, her husband had died, and she had nothing to do with her own life, so she spent her time interfering with everyone else's. She had lead a happy life terrorizing the neighbors, matchmaking, peeking through keyholes, and her favorite past time of all, winkling.

Mrs. Jennings, for that was her name, had made an art form of prying other peoples secrets out of them. Half of what she winkled wasn't true, but it didn't really matter. In fact it had made things more interesting to be completely wrong.

And then, one day, It happened. She was introduced to Miss Mary Bennet.

Miss Mary Bennet was 24 going on 398. She was plain and self righteous and only ever read sermons. She was not to be married off by Michaelmas, even Mrs. Jennings had come to realize that. It vexed Mrs. Jennings to no end. But the worst of all was that Miss Mary Bennet would not be winkled. She had tried, oh God she had tried, but every time she started to pry she was given a sermon. "Oh, Miss Bennet, you must have a beau I'm sure," she'd say. Instead of blushing or turning white, or even ignoring Mrs. Jennings, Mary Bennet delivered an hour long moralization on the evils of gossip and the frivolousness of courting. The more Mrs. Jennings tried the more she was pushed off, until one day the poor woman just snapped.

Mrs. Jennings had been brooding about Mary Bennet, as she had most of the last few years. "Winkle winkle winkle," she hissed excitedly. Then, all of the sudden, she stopped. She sat up, and looked around her. Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She had to find Mary Bennet and winkle her. Mrs. Jennings's eyes glowed with a purpose. Slowly, quietly, hesitantly she whispered "escape".

The Elite ~ By Megan G.

Posted on Saturday, 16 October 1999

After their fateful meeting our brave heroes seldom went a night without patrolling the dank and fetid streets of London. Sadly, so far all the miscreants they met with were apparently criminal masterminds, for they had not yet apprehended one without the aid of the police. Our heroes were tired, wounded. The Fencer had a broken right thumb, Ironman had several crushed ribs, and the Porcupine had a severe rash after an unfortunate accident involving his own quills. On the plus side, however, the trio became excellent runners. First they would run to catch the criminal, and then they would run to get away from him. One night after escaping from a rather vicious jaywalker the men found themselves panting for breath in an estate some 15 miles out of London. The Porcupine and Ironman were helping the Fencer pull splinters out of his hands when a cool voice from behind them said, "Do you boys need any help?"

They spun around. In the soft light of the approaching dawn they could make out youngish, handsome features. Ironman straightened up. "We're not boys, we're men. Heroes."

"Superheroes," the Porcupine added.

"I see," the man replied. The wheels in his head quickly began turning. He had always wanted to be a superhero. Here was his chance. Then the wheels turned even faster. He could not only join this rag-tag bunch, he could also become their leader. "It just so happens that I am a superhero as well," he said. "In fact, I train superheros. I shall be your leader. My name is George Knightley, otherwise known as the, uh, White Knight."

Mr. Knightley, or rather, the White Knight, brought his new pupils into Donwell Abbey for breakfast and regaled them with totally erroneous tales of his heroic adventures. Later they walked down Highbury's main street and discussed the Fencer, Ironman, and the Porcupine's problems.

"First of all," the White Knight said, "You have to get organized. You can't simply show up at a crime scene armed with boards, quills, and, er, metal fists and expect to scare all the Bobandjerrys away. You need a plan of attack!"

"Woo-hoo! Plan of attack!" Ironman cheered.

"Um, right. Secondly we need a secret weapon, something, someone unexpected," the White Knight glanced at the Porcupine. "Not that throwing quills is exactly commonplace."

"What sort of secret weapon?" the Fencer asked.

"Well I was thinking-" suddenly the White Knight broke off as he spied someone walking towards them. "Oh Lord, it's Miss Bates. Heads down, keep walking."

The other men were curious, but did as they were told. However, it was of no use. The lady stopped and squealed, "Oh Mr. Knightley! How fortunate it is to see you! Do you know what I have in my reticule? Guess."

The White Knight opened his mouth to speak, but Miss Bates cut him off.

"No you shall never guess. A letter from Jane! Jane! But it is not her day! No indeed. Mother was so excited- Oh! That reminds me. Mother and I were so pleased with the ham you sent us. What a happy little porker it must have been! Yes indeed. Oh Mr. Knightley! I'm so sorry! Here I've been rattling away and you have friends with you."

"Yes. Miss Bates, this is Col. Brandon, Capt. Wentworth, and Mr. Darcy. Gentlemen, Miss Bates," Knightley said.

"Oh! I am so, so pleased to meet you! Perhaps one of you knows my niece Jane. Jane Fairfax? Oh! Yes, I was telling you about Jane's letter. Remember? Jane's letter? It was not her day!"

By this time the Porcupine, Ironman, and the Fencer were rolling on the ground.

"My ears! My ears are bleeding," the Fencer groaned.

"How can you stand it, Knightley?" Ironman asked.

"Well, I suppose I've built up a tolerance." Suddenly an idea dawned on him. "Men I think we've just found our secret weapon."

"She certainly has a lethal power," the Porcupine said.

"We could call her the Boxer. Short for Chatterbox," the Fencer added.

The White Knight turned to Miss Bates who had been listening to this conversation with confusion. "Would you like to help us fight crime?" As she opened her mouth he winced and added, "Just nod yes or no."

Miss Bates nodded. And thus the Boxer was born.

Chapter 4 ~ By Katy Ann

Posted on Sunday, 17 October 1999

Donwell Abbey. It could be argued that better training grounds for superheroes-in-training did exist. To tell the truth, in such an argument not much could be said for Donwell Abby as a training ground of any kind. Although the stables were particularly fine, and there was a tolerable archery range, the house was much more suited to the leisurely pursuits of gentlemen (which, we must remember, our heroes claimed to be), than to the rigorous activities necessary to turn them into the fierce defenders of justice that they wished to become. It was a warm hay-manure-horsy scent from rides through the countryside that accompanied our men to the dinner table, rather than heroic odors drawn from bodies worked fiercely in the finer points of combat. However, despite the attractions of fine brandy, cigars, horses, dogs, and Knightley's close neighbor, Miss Woodhouse, the men did manage to put in some time conditioning their bodies under the direction of the White Knight. More often that not, they were joined by their now dutiful, ever-tedious, surprisingly effective sidekick, the Boxer.

One cheerfully bright morning at Donwell Abbey, our heroes (and heroine) lingered over another sumptuous meal. It was all the more pleasant because the Boxer was blessedly silent as she stuffed herself with the delicious table offerings. The Porcupine sighed contentedly as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his long, green-clad legs out in front of him.

"This is the life." He considered his companions. "I dare say, Brandon, you have put on a little weight."

The Fencer grinned, "no more than you two. Pass another scone."

Ironman tossed a scone across the table, barely missing the Boxer's nose. He then rose to his feet. "Weight, pshaw! This is all muscle, man!" He rolled up a blue sleeve and pumped his arm proudly. Indeed, a small lump was visible. "I think it is from all of those pushups...Why, I can almost do six in a row!"

The Boxer had cleared her plate, and opened her mouth to speak. "Why my dear Mr. Wentworth, that is quite a muscle. Why I remember..."

All three men covered their ears in horror. The Fencer, who was closest to the lady, grabbed the scone Ironman had given him. "Pardon me, Miss Bates, would you like another scone?"

"Why thank you! My mother used to...mmppphhh." Colonel Brandon smiled in relief as he wiped his hand on his napkin.

All four turned their heads as the sound of a throat being cleared most impatiently reached their ears. Knightly rolled his eyes. His guests...er...students had obviously become too comfortable with their situation.

"Gentlemen...and lady," he bowed to Miss Bates, "You'll get your first skills test today. The odious Mr. Elton has cornered Miss Woodhouse in a carriage. She needs our...your...help."

Ironman and Porcupine nearly flattened each other in their haste to reach the door. The Fencer grabbed a stick of firewood on his way out. The Boxer followed at his heels, spitting blueberry scone as she ran.

The sounds of a struggle reached their ears as the motley group reached the road. A young, blonde, very feminine woman was trying to crawl out of the window of a carriage. Suddenly a black gloved hand appeared through the window and yanked her by the ankle back inside.

Knightly stood with his hands on his hips. "You're on your own, gentlemen...and lady."

The porcupine strode up to the carriage and stood with his hands on his hips. "Cease and desist, sir, and let the lady free."

A dark head popped out of the carriage window. Beady eyes narrowed, as he regarded the group before him. Then irritating laughter issued through grinning lips. "Oho! When did the circus come to town, Emma? I believe these clowns...Ow!" He winced as a red glove grabbed his left ear and a stick of firewood pressed against his throat. Elton slid from the carriage and dug his fingers into the tendons of the scarlet-clad character. The Fencer loosened his grip immediately, dropped the firewood, and retreated around the side of the carriage to nurse his tender wrist.

The Porcupine was ready, and aimed a 'quill' at Elton only to find that he had mistakenly grabbed a cigar. Darcy searched frantically for another weapon, but was halted by a swift kick in the seat that sent him to his knees in the mud.

Ironman wore a grin of triumph as he entered the foray. The other two had failed, but no, not he! He had practiced focusing his iron-ness. Although he was still having problems, he was able to turn his right leg into iron. He flexed his muscle as he winked at Miss Woodhouse. Then he stuck his leg straight out in front of him, swinging it side-to-side. "Mr. Elton, as you watch, my leg is turning to iron. Once it connects with your hind-side, you will wish you had never dared to cross wills with the Ironman!" Elton wore an amused, confused expression as he stepped forward and grabbed Ironman's leg. With a mighty swing, he sent Ironman into the nearby shubbery. He stood, laughing, over his fallen adversary.

The Boxer had anxiously awaited her turn, and she approached Elton now with a huge smile. "My dear Mr. Elton..."

Elton grinned and pulled a popover from his pocket, "You never know when one of these might come in handy..." He reduced her grating voice to an irritated mumphing.

Suddenly, a tiny foot appeared in Elton's way, tripping him into the mud. Emma stood with her hands on her hips as she glared. "Oh, confound it, Knightly, your boys are hopeless, and Miss Bates..." she sighed as she dug her heel into Elton's armpit, wrenching a sobbing whimper from her hapless victim. "You might as well turn Elton into a weasel." She considered Elton closer. "To tell you the truth, he does look a little like one..." She shook her head, lifted her skirt from the mud, and started down the lane, followed by the open-mouthed stares of five astonished gentlemen...and a lady.

Recruiting ~ By Nicky

Posted on Tuesday, 19 October 1999

Having sent Elton home with a stern scolding, Knightley led his band of bedraggled. . .um. . .group of graceless. . .that is. . .horde of hapless heroes back to Donwell. He assembled them in the parlour and glared at them.

"That," he stated gravely, "was very badly done indeed."

"I do not know," began Miss Bates, "I cannot think what we might have done better against such an able opponent as Mr. Elton - and such a fine young man, and - glump!"

Darcy had reached over and shoved a rather large Everlasting Gobstopper into her mouth.

"And that's exactly my point;" continued Mr. Knightley. "Philip Elton is a pathetic excuse for a clergyman and not much of a fighter, yet he bested you without turning a hair! You practically beat yourselves up for him!" It was time for some individual feedback. "Brandon, you're an unbelievable weakling."

The Fencer protested at this. "I'm getting stronger by the day!"

"Yes," returned Knightley sardonically, "at this rate you'll be lifting chairs by Michaelmas! Wentworth, you're the most uncoordinated sailor I've ever met!"

The Ironman, shocked and grieved at this unconstructive criticism, was unable to do anything but spontaneously ferrify.

"You, Darcy, are an absolute disgrace. It would be one thing if you could throw knives, but FEATHERS?"

"The aerodynamics are completely different!" Darcy was petulant. "It would be ridiculous to throw a knife the same way as one throws a feather!"

"It-is-ridiculous-to-throw-feathers." Knightley turned to The Boxer. "Miss Bates. . ." Here, his gentlemanly nature made it impossible for him to insult her as broadly as he had the others. "Miss Bates, we must find a way to overcome your difficulties."

For several seconds, all was silent. The Boxer's gobstopper would occupy her for the rest of the chapter, Ironman was a statue, and the good Colonel was shamefacedly building a fence around his corner of the room. Finally, Darcy spoke up.

"Well, what about you?" He confronted The White Knight. "You just stood by today and watched us get creamed. You're not much of a mentor, I can tell you that; your words of wisdom consist mostly of 'well done' or 'badly done,' you certainly haven't put much emphasis on combat techniques, and your 'secret weapon' is easily diffused using any comestible on hand!"

"If that's what you think of me, then perhaps you'd be better off on your own!"

"I dare say we would!"

"Very well!"

"Very well!" and Darcy was just on the point of dragging his three bewildered comrades from the room, when a small, white, fluffy cloud floated through the open French doors and crash-landed on the carpet. It was carrying two small bears: one yellow, the other pink.

"Good afternoon," said the yellow one, "I am Friend Bear, and this is Daydream Bear. We are here to ask how you gentlemen can look so out of spirits on such a splendid day."

"It's all his fault!" growled Darcy and Knightley in unison, pointing at each other.

"Mr. Knightley insulted our battle skills!" complained Darcy bitterly.

"They have none!" retorted Knightley scornfully.

"Neither have you!" taunted Brandon, looking up from his fence.

"Come, gentlemen," said Friend Bear, "I must have you reconciled. I hate to see you arguing in this stupid manner. You had much better be reconciled." With that, he began to pop smiley-faced daisies from the symbol on his tummy. He handed one each to Knightley, Brandon, and Darcy. He could not be blamed for overlooking the others; Miss Bates was abnormally speechless, and Captain Wentworth was only just beginning to wiggle his toes.

Daydream Bear spoke. "Mr. Darcy's criticism ought not to have been so marked;" she pointed out, "but only consider what he must have suffered! He, as well as the others, has done his best, and it is unfortunate that Mr. Knightley should have used such very strong expressions in speaking to him, for they were not wholly deserved." Such was the goodness of her nature that, by the time she finished speaking, Knightley's face bore a beneficent smile of agreement. She turned to the rest. "Mr. Knightley is, I am sure, sorry for what he has said, and anxious to make amends. In return, you must own that you spoke very unkindly and unjustly. There must be some mistake." The Four acquiesced; even Wentworth was now able to join in with a slight nod.

The White Knight realised the power for good held by the two bears, and he gasped. "Join us!" he cried. "Come to London and aid us in our fight against malice, evil, and thing that go bump in the night!"

Friend Bear seemed taken aback. "Why should we wish to fight? I had much rather be agreeable."

The Fencer frowned. "These are villains, though. You know, miscreants. Evil-doers. Bad guys."

Daydream Bear's tummy symbol of two heart balloons popped out and began to mill about her head. "I cannot think," she said, starry-eyed, "that anyone should be so very bad! It is almost past belief."

The four superheroes and their mentor all stared, openmouthed, at this display of innocent optimism (Miss Bates' mouth was open as it was, and Ironman had just regained the use of his jaw).

At length, the bears broke the silence with their farewells and, climbing onto their cloud, departed.

Darcy looked after them, struck by a thought: There's something damned familiar about that little yellow bear!

Brandon sighed. "We certainly do need help."

Knightley nodded; noncommittally at first, then thoughtfully, then eagerly. Darcy looked askance at him. "Are you having some sort of fit, man?"

"No, no, listen!" The White Knight was really excited now. "Do you remember how deftly Miss Woodhouse foiled the evil intentions of Mr. Elton?"

"Miss Woodhouse is delicate, I grant you, but she isn't made of china!" It was difficult to tell whether or not Ironman's brain had yet deferrified.

"Deft, Captain, not Delft," explained Darcy, "and Knightley's absolutely right. We must persuade Miss Woodhouse to join our crew. To Hartfield!"

They went, accordingly, and found Miss Woodhouse poring over a great corkboard, to which were pinned many little cards. On close inspection, it could be seen that each card bore a name, and that some were attached using bits of red thread. She looked up as the heroes entered, and smiled brightly.

"I see you've all recovered from the villainous vicar's abuse," she teased. "To what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

"My dearest Emma," said Mr. Knightley, "you have ever been my best pupil. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it much better than these whiners. Will you not come into battle with us, and lend us of your courage and skill?"

Emma laughed. "I, spend my nights traipsing about London in search of petty thieves? Really, Mr. Knightley, you are too droll. I am exceedingly busy here. I have marriages to arrange, young ladies to introduce into good society, balls to plan, and lists of books to read. I cannot possibly accompany you. Now, if you will excuse me. . ." and, shooing them from the room, she returned to her corkboard. "Let me see," Brandon heard as he closed the door, "if the third daughter of the King of Spain marries the younger son of the Duke of Argyle, then. . ."

There was great moping at Donwell, for days after this interlude.

"What," asked Captain Wentworth one morning, as he sat in his favourite armchair doing the crossword, "is a ten-letter word, beginning with 'o,' for 'the act of becoming a clergyman'?"

"Imbecile," muttered Mr. Knightley.

Wentworth considered this. "I do not think it is," he countered, "for it starts with 'i,' and besides, you said that 'imbecile' was a six-letter word for a large, black, South American feline. I hardly see how it can be both."

Mr. Knightley raised his head, and was about to respond caustically, when his eye was caught by a headline on the last page of Wentworth's newspaper. He leaped to his feet.

"Come, Miss Bates, gentlemen," he called, "we are going into Gloucestershire!"

It was quite dark by the time they knocked at the door of the new-built substantial stone house.

"We are here," Darcy informed the maidservant who greeted them, to see Mr. Tilney."

They were shown into the drawing room, where a young man sat by the fire.

"Good evening," said Mr. Tilney, for he it was.

"Muslinman, I presume?" queried Mr. Knightley. Mr. Tilney started, coloured, doubted, and spoke again.

"I beg your pardon," he blustered, "I have no idea what you are speaking of."

Mr. Knightley was taken positively aback. "The newspaper - the headline - the story!" he managed to choke out. "It said, 'Man of the Cloth Ties up Loose Ends!"

Mr. Tilney groaned. "I have found," he said quietly, "that reporters sometimes exaggerate. Particularly that one." He then called out, "Miss Morland!"

"Yes, Mr. Tilney?" Catherine popped her head out from the chandelier where she had been hiding.

"Miss Morland, will you never stop skulking about in this manner? You wrote this story, I trust?" She nodded. "And the headline?'

"Yes, and only see what has happened! These gentlefolk have come to seek your help! Will you not show them your powers?"

Henry, on seeing the hopeful expressions of the other five, sighed. "Very well." He stretched out his hands towards a small table, and from his fingers shot threads which wove instantly into a lovely pale blue tablecloth.

Colonel Brandon was the first to recover from the general speechlessness; he introduced his group, spoke of their mission, and begged Henry and Catherine to join them.

The pair consented, and everyone rejoiced; they had gained not only an ally, but also a spy-cum-publicist.

A further note: the words Ferrify and Deferrified refer to Wentworth's turning into iron. Just in case you wondered. Take it away, allie!

By Allie

Posted on Friday, 22 October 1999

Sister Mary walked down the steps of DonNotSoWell Abbey*, which unlike Mr. Knightley's house, was actually an abbey. She had taken a vow of silence when she entered the abbey several years ago. This was not the usual procedure in the abbey, but the other sister's had decided to make an exception for Mary. Mary made a very good nun as long as her mouth stayed shut. This vow also helped when it came time for hymns to be sung.

Dr. Walchesky looked down at the release form. Mrs. Jennings was a nosy old biddy, but if they started locking people up for that they'd never have enough space. Anyway, Dr. Walchesky rather liked busybodies. She knew a good source of business when she saw it. If this woman wouldn't drive a person mad then nothing would. The doctor picked up her pen and signed, or rather scribbled, her name on the line.

"Here, that's no way to escape," said Tom Sawyer.

"Bugger off Tom, it's my story." I said.

"No, no, no, 's in the rules. She's got to have a rope ladder, and a coat of arms, and dig herself a there with a case knife."

"Look, she's not going to dig herself out with a case knife, I don't even know what a case knife is. She doesn't need a rope ladder or a coat of arms or a tin plate to scratch secret messages on or spiders or snakes. She's getting out now. And if you don't like it, tough."

"This is the sorriest escape I ever hear tell of."

"Then go away, your not supposed to be in this story."

"Henry," said Frederick, "I was wondering..."

"What?" asked Henry

"Do you only do muslin or do you do lots of cloth?"

"Look, if I wove all sorts of cloth I wouldn't be Muslinman would I? I'd be...I'd be Wholebunchofclothman."

"Oh. Why muslin?"

"Why iron?"

"Point taken."

"Anyway, I rather like muslin, although it does fray in the wash. Muslin always turns to some account or other. It's a surprisingly versatile material."

Catherine rolled her eyes. It was clear that she had heard more than enough about muslin.

"Is that so?" said Wentworth sliding away from Henry.

"Yes, oh, it's wonderful stuff. Comes in all sorts of colors. I like pink the best."

"Really?" asked Brandon.

"Oh, yes, there's nothing like a dusky pink muslin to make a man feel like he's doing some good in the world."

"Well, that's nice," Catherine said trying to change the subject. "Say, Mr. Brandon..."

"That's Colonel."

"Really, you were in the army?"

"No, it's my first name."

"Oh, you can make caps and cloaks and handkerchiefs and trousers..." Henry continued, clearly lost in admiration of muslin.

"You're parents named you Colonel?"

"Yes."

"Oooh, and pink muslin curtains..."

"Henry," said Catherine.

"Yes."

"Shut up."

* It has been theorized that the names of several religious buildings come from a pilgrim named Don. According to sources, Don did not set out to be a pilgrim. He was merely badly lost and, being male, did not like to ask directions. Donwell's origins are theorized to be that someone asked Don how he was and he said I'm well. Later on someone asked Don how he was and he said not so well. This also explains the existence of Dongotthesniffles Parish in Scotland, and Dondead in Wales. Don's influence can also be found in France, where he apparently had something to do with Frere Jacques.

The Elite ~ By Megan G.

Posted on Tuesday, 26 October 1999

The gentlemen and a lady were thoroughly pleased with Gloucestershire. Henry had a fine supply of brandy and very chewy bagels, and the men at least enjoyed Catherine's shy, pretty smile. She was in the process of interviewing them for her newspaper, "The Gothic Inquirer".

"And how do you spell ferrify, Captain?" she asked.

"P-H, no, F-A, no, F-E-R-I, no I mean F-P-H-E-" Ironman was saved from further embarrassment by a loud scream emitted by Catherine.

"What is it, Cate?" Muslinman asked, rushing to her side.

Catherine, white as a sheet, held up the journal she had been writing in. "The pen!" she gasped. "The pen started writing by itself!"

They all crowded around and examined the page. Written in a firm, sprawling hand very different than Catherine's tidy script, was, "Get thee to a nunnery! Hertfordshire. Winkler on the loose. To a nunnery go!"

They were dumbfounded (surprise, surprise). Never before had such a thing happened. Catherine groaned with realization, "Oh, Great-uncle Horace!"

"Who's Great-uncle Horace?" the White Knight wondered.

"My mother's uncle. He was, well, odd. He lived in the forest with his pet pig and ate dandelion greens. Some people said he could predict the future or something like that. He left this pen to me in his Will. He was also a Shakespeare nut."

"So you're saying that this Horace chap is communicating with us from beyond the grave? Puh-lease!" the Fencer sneered.

The pen suddenly lifted from the table and drew a very tidy mustache on his face. As it hovered around his eyes threateningly he said, "What are we waiting for? Let's go to Hertfordshire!"

They all headed to the carriages. Catherine caught the pen and held it tightly.

"Is there a nunnery in Hertfordshire?" Muslinman asked. "Not that I'm doubting you, Uncle Horace," he added, glancing uneasily at Catherine's tightly clenched fist.

"Actually, I know exactly where it is," the Porcupine said. "My friend Bingley is leasing an estate near it. It's called, oh what is it, Don-Not-So-Well Abbey."

"That's really strange," the White Knight muttered.

So our heroes climbed into their carriages and headed to Hertfordshire. Meanwhile, at the Abbey, something very strange was afoot.

DonNotSoWell Abbey ~ By Katy Ann

Posted on Sunday, 31 October 1999

DonNotSoWell Abbey is a foreboding edifice of gray stone. Even when summer cavorts drunkenly about the abbey, it seems to be steeped in eternal winter. As a visitor (a species hardly ever seen at the abbey), you access the building by following a single twisted road that runs through an imposingly heavy front gate. As you enter through the gate, you encounter a deserted courtyard that is deathly silent, except for the ghosts of leaves that rattle in forgotten corners. You must not look left or right, lest you succumb to the temptation to explore, because visitors are forbidden to enter the many deep-set doors that line the walls of the courtyard, forbidden to explore the maze-like corridors that lead twisting paths from deep underground high into pointed turrets. Instead, you must continue forward, through a carved wood door that is so heavy that it seems to resist allowing people to enter or exit. Then you are in a different world, the only beautiful part of the abbey, the chapel.

Decorated with a bequest granted by a wealthy, dead parishioner, Hubert Hubris, the chapel is as fantastically wondrous as the rest of the abbey is starkly forbidding. The chapel seems to be illuminated by an ethereal light created by the combination of candle glow and the rosy shadows cast by the stained glass windows. Shiny polished marble columns line the side aisles. High on the walls, marble saints stare down at the faithful, their blank gazes somehow both serene and sternly accusing. Tall stained glass windows line the arched ceiling along the aisles. The altar is ornately carved with religious symbols. Above the altar, a brightly colored window spills hues created by the streaming light of a setting sun onto the floor. But all of this is not, in itself, all that unique. The portion of the chapel that is the most fantastic, as designed by our well-meaning and generous benefactor, is the ceiling. To the eternal embarrassment of the nuns, Hubert painted the ceiling soft blue and decorated it with fluffy clouds and amazingly, beautifully perfect, stark naked cupids, archangels, and seraphim. It would be lovely if the figures were not so large and so...anatomically correct. The nuns, chaste as they were, at times found it difficult to concentrate on devoted worship when they had to stare at perfectly formed male bodies every time they raised their eyes. It truly is a shame that few besides DonNotSoWell nuns ever use the chapel.

It is here in the chapel that we find Mary Bennet upon her third day at the abbey. Mary's shoulders were held ramrod straight, and her mouth was fixed into a stern frown. Her intense, devout reflections kept her mind constantly occupied. Her head was bowed, as usual. In fact, as of yet, Mary had kept her head bowed every time she entered the chapel and was oblivious to the detailed grandeur of the room. For some reason during this particular service, however, she was suddenly moved to lift her eyes skyward as she mutely listened to the rapt praises lifted from the throats of her sister nuns. For a moment, Mary stared in dumb amazement at the ceiling. Then a blush began to spread across her cheeks. She quickly averted her eyes, snapped her gaping mouth shut, and berated herself angrily...but she was unable to keep her eyes from returning to that well-endowed ceiling. She suddenly noticed the curious eyes of another nun on her face, and snapped her eyes back to her Bible. Momentarily forgetting her vow, she murmured under her breath, "disgusting, utterly disgusting." When the service was over, she could not help one last glance at the ceiling before turning to follow the procession out of the chapel.

That evening, after reading three chapters from the Revelation, Mary fell to her knees on the cold stone floor and begged forgiveness for her weakness and momentary indiscretion. Much later, her young bones stiff with cold, Mary pulled a rough homespun blanket up to her chin and fell into a deep sleep. Despite her self-censure, despite her fervent prayers, Mary was unable to escape her deepest thoughts in her sleep. Instead of dreaming of the hellfire and damnation contained in the last sermon she had read, Her face relaxed into the first smile that had crossed her lips since her seventeenth birthday. Mary dreamt that she was dancing in the moonlight with tall, beautiful, naked men.

Mrs. Jennings, a.k.a. the Winkler, stood behind a tree as the moon sank below the horizon. Her flabby face was flushed with pleasure as she regarded the view opposite. Few could call DonNotSoWell Abbey a fair prospect, but to Mrs. Jennings it was as attractive as a Christmas tree is to a four-year old. She slipped from behind the tree with a low, not so slightly hysterical giggle, and started down the road towards the front gate. She startled several sparrows from the trees along the road. The birds, when they returned to their nests, were full of wonderment about the odd human-bird with the even odder call. What on earth was a 'winkle?'

As Strange as Angels Dancing ~ Jen R

Posted on Tuesday, 2 November 1999

"My sweet Mary," said the tall, blonde angel, "you look most ravishing tonight. Why, you might even be so winkle as to tempt me to-"

"What did you say?" said an exited Mary.

"Winkle," replied the angel in a conversational tone. "Winkle, winkle, winkle, winkle...."

As Mary puzzled this turn of events, she realized the angel's conversation was the very last thing she sought. She boldly caught him up in an embrace... and was shocked to see him fade before her eyes.

Mary's eyelids fluttered open as she realized she was being shaken. "Winkle, winkle, winkle!" cried the voice.

Mary screamed.

Mary jumped at the sound of her own scream.

Mary restrained another scream.

"Winkle, winkle!"

Mary examined the odd creature that had been shaking her. Wizened and dressed in rags, she looked enough like the sort of woman the convent occasionally took in for charitable reasons.

"I beg your pardon, but do I know you?"

"Winkle, winkle!" she said with a twinkle in her eye. She approached Mary, saying quietly, "I am here to winkle you, Miss Mary. Come now, have you no beaus?"

"Beaus? I am married to God, can you not see that?" cried Mary. But the damage had been done... a deep blush overspread her cheeks.

"Ah, I see there is someone!" cackled the Winkler. "Perhaps a gentle, soft young man?"

"No," murmured Mary, "he is tall and strong, with the most angelic countenance."

"Ah!" cried the Winkler. "I have it! Is it one of the priests of Donwell?"

"Certainly not!" said a shocked Mary. "It is... the milkman."

"Oh, my dear, what a lovely thing for you," said the Winkler.

"Lovely? How so?" demanded Mary. "You see I could never marry him."

"But he will always be with you, my child. My work here is done!" and with that, the Winkler disappeared out the window. There was at that moment a knock at the door.

"Sister Mary?"

"A moment, Sister Agatha!" cried she, straightening her bed, and opening the door.

"Sister Mary... your scream woke the convent. Was not someone else here?"

Mary nodded.

"Mary, did you forget your vow of silence?"

Mary looked shamefaced.

"And... Mary, I heard your conversation with that other person." Sister Mary sat on the bed. "Mary, the milkman?" she said in a sympathetic voice.

Mary winced. Her glib lie to throw the Winkler off the scent had its repercussions, it seemed.

"Mary, I must bring this to the attention of the Mother Superior. Surely you must know that."

Mary nodded, her head bowed in shame. Sister Agatha left her quietly.

Mary looked up, her eyes full of purpose. She must escape before her sisters came to know of her exploits, real or imagined! She looked out the window. The Winkler was not to be seen, so the jump could not have been so terribly damaging.

Mary hastily put on her outer clothes and jumped out the window. She fell with a thump to the ground, moaned a little, and was still.

Three hours later, she woke up. As she opened her eyes, an experienced observer might have seen a passionate gleam in them. "Of course, Charlie," she murmured delightedly.

Our group of not-so-intrepid heroes (and heroine) came down the path together when they were startled by some rustling in the bushes.

The White Knight froze in place. The Porcupine tried to hide himself behind a tree, but his stomach, bulging from indulgence, gave his position away. The Fencer ran over to a white picket fence and attempted to blend in with it as a chameleon... with equal success. The Ironman, seeing Fencer's intent, attempted to run to a wrought iron fence to do likewise, but his leg seemed to be ferrifying at the most inopportune of moments lately. The Boxer chewed at a leg of turkey, unruffled (which is to say that she was unaffected-the turkey leg did in fact have a paper ruffle). Muslinman spun himself a cocoon for himself and his wife, which would have been a marvelous hiding place were it not a trifle strange to see a large white mound of cloth in the middle of an English road. The mound wobbled, shook, and toppled over.

"My dear," said Catherine to her husband, "you tumble my gown."

Meanwhile, the figure in the bushes had been waiting for the superheroes. She became puzzled as the voices had fallen silent, but upon hearing Catherine's voice she sprung from her hiding place.

The heroes shrieked in fear at the sight of a young nun (all excepting Henry and Catherine who, being covered in muslin, could not see their imagined foe).

"I have defeated the Winkler!" cried Mary (for that is, of course, who it was). "I insist that you make me a member of your ensemble. The respect due a woman in such cases as this is enough, I believe, to force you to entreat me to become a superhero. A woman's reputation is as brittle as it is beautiful, and hence it must be my chore to defend women from dastardly men everywhere."

The Elite listened with a dubious respect for this show of verbosity, and gradually emerged from their ineffective hiding places. "But what is your skill? We cannot just take you because you believe you can do good."

"That's what I did with the lot of you," muttered the White Knight.

"Pardon?" said the Fencer.

"Oh, nothing."

"As I was about to say before you so rudely interrupted me (and I should have thought no gentleman would have had such a lack of manners as to interject thus), I am...." Mary whirled around quickly, a blur of black and white. Once she had stopped, her nun's habit had transformed itself into a black and white form-fitting ensemble, and her hair was blown about in an odd fashion. Her wimple was strangely missing.

"I am Charlie's Angel," she said coyly, as some syrupy music began to play in the background.

"What on earth is the good of a name like that?" cried Ironman. The music halted with a large scratching sound. "It's not even a proper super-hero name! Perhaps Angel alone might do, but you hardly resemble one. Besides which, you have not yet demonstrated your abilities."

"Well, I..." Charlie's Angel looked flustered, "the name was given me in a dream. The Angel Charlie came to be in a vision. He told me he had been sent directly from Gabriel with a message for me." Mary's face glowed with what could possibly have been religious fervour, but given what we have seen of her to date, it's a safe bet that wasn't it. "He named me, and gave me this quest."

The Boxer, who had just swallowed the last of the turkey leg she had been gnawing on, finally spoke. "Why, isn't that lovely! To think, an angel! How good for you, my dear, to have actually spoken with an angel. Tell me, how was he dressed? Was he clad in samite, or did he favour muslin?" The White Knight strode over and popped a buttermilk biscuit in her mouth.

"Well," said Charlie's Angel, blushing furiously, "I did not quite notice. I was too preoccupied with his... ah... heavenly radiance to note his attire."

"We are missing the point!," cried the Porcupine. "You still have not told us your skill."

"Ahhh, I am very clever with mysteries, and I run very well in slow motion."

The Fencer eyed her torso appraisingly. "I cannot think why," he mumbled.

"Very well," said the Porcupine, "although one whose chief skill is running in slow motion ought to wear revealing red clothing, I suppose an incisive mind is useful to us."

"We must do something about that hair, however. It is shockingly unfashionable, and simply does not.... er, do your face justice," commented Muslinman, who had just made his way out of his cocoon.

"Forget the hair!" snapped Catherine. "We have bigger concerns. Why did Uncle Horace tell us to come here?"

"Could it have been to find, er, Charlie's Angel?" asked Ironman, obviously not yet comfortable with the name.

"Perhaps it was to defeat the Winkler," commented the Fencer. "If so, I must say we got off rather lightly!"

"That's because you didn't even encounter her," said the White Knight between clenched teeth. "As long as we are here, what ought we do?"

"As I told you, my quest is to relieve oppressed women everywhere," said Charlie's Angel. "I have heard tell that Miss Harriet Smith is oppressed by the misfortune of her lineage, which she can hardly help. Perhaps we can? I am sure there is some young man who has caught her fancy."

The Fencer looked at her quizzically. "Are you quite certain you defeated the Winkler? I have seen her work before, and it causes young ladies to behave much as you are behaving now."

"That matters very little," stuttered Charlie's Angel, "the important thing is that she no longer has any reason to pursue me, and my morals are still intact. On to the aid of Miss Smith!"

Matchmaker, Matchmaker ~ By Nicky

Posted on Monday, 8 November 1999

"Wait just one minute," interposed the White Knight, "are you speaking of the Harried Smith who lives in Highbury? Parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's? Slightly Clueless young lady?"

"I - I believe so," assented Charlie's Angel.

"Then trust me," Knightley shook his head, "she's well taken care of."

"Taken care of?" Ironman was baffled. "But we've never even met the girl! When did we help her?"

"We didn't, you metallically minded moron," hissed Knightley through clenched teeth, "however, she is the especial protégé of a Miss Emma Woodhouse. She has all the matchmaking help she could ever desire; we should only be in -" he broke off, having noticed that Charlie's Angel was lying huddled on the ground, whimpering softly. Catherine bent over her curiously.

"How very odd," she ventured, "she seemed to collapse when you said Miss Emma Woodhouse. . ."

The group gasped collectively as Charlie's Angel began to convulse.

About a mile outside of Meryton, in a clearing rank with raspberry bushes, stood a cluster of ramshackle tents. From the largest of the tents came a thin wail that rent the twilight, chilling the blood of the man who had just entered.

Standing in the doorway, Henry frowned at the scene which greeted his eyes. In one corner of the tent, Ironman was experimenting with the effects of magnets on his ferrified left arm; he had managed to hang an array of kitchen utensils from his elbow, and his fingers were covered in nails - not fingernails, mind, but the kind you build things with. In another corner, Miss Bates was valiantly trying to rid her mouth of the toffee with which she had been silenced.

It was neither of these images, however, that most concerned the observer, for the centre of the tent was occupied by Mr. Knightley, Colonel Brandon, and Mr. Darcy, standing around the prostrate, shivering form of Mary Bennet. They all held crosses, and the White Knight was reading aloud from Fordyce's Sermons. Seeing Muslinman enter, the Fencer went over to join him.

"It's just as I suspected," confessed the older man in an undertone, "she's been winkled."

Henry blanched. "Is that why she was so affected by the name of" he hesitated "Knightley's friend?"

Brandon nodded. "That young lady is indeed a force to be reckoned with; she is feared by all the acolytes of the Winkler, and perhaps even by the villain herself. There are none who can compare to her ability to meddle and plot. Luckily," he lowered his voice even further, "Emma is working on the side of good."

Henry digested this information, along with the bag of tropical Skittles he had just eaten. "Can Charlie's angel be cured?"

"I think so, but. . ." Brandon's brow creased ". . .it's going to be a long night."

"Mmm." Henry looked around the tent and frowned again. "Has anyone seen my wife?"

The company raised their heads, shot him matching puzzled looks, and began to murmur bemusedly. "No," "not me," "me neither," "nooooo. . ." "is that a trick question?" Then they went back to their respective pastimes, forcing Henry to seek employment. He had just settled into an overstuffed armchair (this is one well-furnished tent!) with a book of Vogue patterns, when his attention was caught by a new set of sounds. Through Knightley's steady reading, Mary's wailing, Wentworth's giggling and Miss Bates' lip-smacking came the gentle, delicate and refined cursing of a young lady walking through a raspberry patch.

Seconds later, Catherine slipped through the tent door. Henry was shocked at her appearance. It wasn't just that her arms were covered with myriad gently bleeding scratches, or that her dress was full of tiny tears; the other occupants of the tent looked much the same. No, that which earned his astonishment was the thick layer of mud which covered the right side of her face. He hurried to her side and embraced her solicitously.

"My darling Catherine, where on Earth have you been?"

"I had my ear to the ground." Catherine looked frightened. "Henry -"

"I say, Tilney," interrupted Ironman, "ought you to be carrying on so with Miss Morland when you're a married man? It just isn't right."

Looking around at the faces of his friend, Henry could see an array of prudish distaste. This stumped him, and he considered Wentworth's comment for a while before speaking.

"I am," he began cautiously, unravelling the mystery as he spoke, "married to Catherine."

Brandon's face betrayed the dawning of a new idea. "So when you inquired after your wife," he suggested, "you were in fact speaking of. . ."

"Me," finished Catherine.

The others nodded slowly. Then Darcy shook his head.

"Nope," he said flatly, "still doesn't make sense. If she's married to you, then why did you introduce her as Miss Morland? Oughtn't her name to be Mrs. Tilney?"

Henry puzzled over this for a bit, then smiled. "I see the problem," he explained. "We were married after we met you, but before we left Gloucestershire. I think you were all training at the time."

The heroes had begun to offer their belated congratulations, when Catherine spoke up agitatedly.

"That's all very well, but I have very important news! I was lurking in Meryton this afternoon, and I heard that the Winkler is on the move!"

The Search For A Diabolical Salad ~ By Allie

Posted on Tuesday, 9 November 1999

The Winkler was making remarkably fast progress across the countryside. She didn't know where she was going or in what direction or why, but it didn't matter much. Something said 'go, go, go' to the Winkler and so she would go until it shut up.

There was tiny corner in Mrs. Jennings's brain that wasn't completely insane. This little bit wondered why she was going and where she was going. It supposed that she should be rounding up...d*mn, she couldn't remember the word...sounds like onion...maybe it was onion. This made perfect sense to the rest of her brain. Yes, that was it, she was going off in search of onions, and possibly cucumbers and radishes.

The Winkler looked around for an onion tree. The Winkler was aware that she was mad, in a vague sort of way, but she knew she wasn't mad enough to not know where onions come from. She wasn't mad enough to think that onions did something daft like grow under the ground. They'd have to mine the bloody things like lollipops.

The Winkler traveled some time looking at the foliage in frustration. She hadn't seem one onion tree or radish bush or anything. All she saw were a bloody lot of green leaves. She came upon a town and she decided to look for a vegetable stand there.

She did not see a vegetable stand, but she did see a young woman. The third thing she noticed about this woman was that this woman obviously disliked hairpins. The second thing she noticed was that flowers and swirly bits figured heavily in the young woman's wardrobe, but undergarments and hairpins did not. The first thing she noticed was that the young woman was tied to a pole and didn't seem distressed by this.

"Winkle, winkle, winkle," thought the Winkler.

"Um...could you pick up some vegetables while your out?" said the semi-sane patch of brain.

"We shall over come," sang the young lady.

The Winkler approached the young woman. "Hello, young winkle-er-lady. I shall winkle all your secrets out. Surely a young woman like your self must have plenty of beaus."

"No, I don't like bows. My sister Lydia wears enough of them for a whole family."

The Winkler came to the conclusion that either some miscommunication had occurred or Miss Lydia was a very large and strong young woman.

"You might as well confess that you have some young man. I shall winkle it out of you."

"What's a winkle?"

"A winkle is...is... Don't change the subject on me."

"You don't know what it is."

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"No you don't."

"Yes, it's where you go and figure out someone's secrets only winklingly."

"What, you mean your denying people the right of privacy?"

"Yes."

"I'm think I'm going to stop protesting Mr. Collins and start protesting you. No, on second thought, I'll protest you both."

"Oh, and who is this Mr. Collins?" asked the Winkler. "And does he have any onions?"

"He's a @)#$(*)@#*$. I don't know if he does or not, you'll have to go winkle it out of him."

The Winkler was so preoccupied by the idea of a new challenge that she forgot to finish winkling the young woman. "Where is he?" she asked.

"He's staying at Lucas Lodge. You go down this street until you reach the general store. Then you turn left and keep walking for about a half mile. It's a big stone house on the right, can't miss it."

"Then I shall be off Miss."

"That's Ms.," said the woman, "oh, right where was I. Oh, yes. Down With Mr. Collins. We Want An End To Listening To How Many Windows Are In One Wing Of Rosings Park. Secrets For Women. Women Want Secrets. Winkling Is Inhumane..."

By Megan G

Posted on Monday, 15 November 1999

As our brave heroes (and heroine) were rushing to Meryton they came upon a most peculiar sight. A young lady, hair blowing in the breeze, was securely tied to a tree. They could hear her calling, "Down with winkling! Winkling discriminates against women! Winkling ruins families!" The carriage came to an abrupt stop.

"Another victim of the Winkler!" Henry gasped.

Miss Bates found this very alarming, but could not comment because of the two cornish hens wedged firmly in her mouth.

They all shoved their way out of the carriage like clowns from a clown car except for the Fencer who was tying his shoe. (Make rabbit ears, the rabbit goes through the hole...)

"Have no fear fair maiden! We have come to rescue you!" Ironman bellowed.

The Porcupine went to work at the ropes with a quill. "I can't get it!" he cried.

"Imbecile," the White Knight muttered and cleanly cut through the ropes with a pocket knife.

Amidst all of this the fair maiden was screaming, "Hey! What are you doing! Don't do that! Down with unwanted rescuers. Leave me alone! I say-" All of the sudden her expression went soft.

The Fencer, all decked out in red, had emerged from the carriage.

The lady ignored the helping hands of all the other men (and two ladies) and managed to stumble ten feet before collapsing into the arms of the Colonel.

"Oh, dear me," she whimpered, gazing into his eyes. "Mmm, you're so strong."

The Fencer blushed as red as his cape. The woman was wearing no stays. She was quite...unfettered.

Muslinman rolled his eyes. The way some girls acted around redcoats! "Excuse me madam, but were you yelling something about the Winkler?"

The lady, who some how had become completely ensconced in the Fencer's arms, replied, "Yes. She was repressing me. I think. Plus I didn't have any onions."

"Of course you didn't," the White Knight agreed soothingly, fearing they had another nut case on their hands. "And she tied you to this tree?"

"No. I tied myself to the tree. I was protesting."

"Protesting what?" Catherine asked, writing furiously.

"Um, Mr. Collins. I think."

"And what's your name?"

"Miss Catherine Bennet," she fluttered her eyelashes at the Colonel. "But you can call me Kitty."

Kitty led the men (and two ladies) to Lucas Lodge where their evil foe had headed in search of onions and a good winkle. They rushed into the house not heeding Lady Lucas' frantic order to mind the carpet.

What they saw horrified the Porcupine. A young, pretty lady with particularly fine eyes was being backed into a corner by the squat figure of who could only be the Winkler.

"No, no, no!" Fine Eyes was yelling. "I told you, I have no secret lovers, no need of any, and I have no body-altering disfigurements!"

"Desist foul villainies!" the Porcupine cried in anguish.

The White Knight pulled a blooming onion out of the Boxer's mouth. "Do your stuff," he commanded.

Distracted by the onion odor the Winkler turned around. Fine Eyes collapsed in relief. The Porcupine was all to happy to help her up.

Our heroes, anticipating what was about to happen, pulled out cotton balls and stuffed them in their ears. Since Fine Eyes had no cotton balls the Porcupine was all to happy to cover her ears.

At the sight of the Boxer the Winkler forgot about the onion. If there was anything as good as a pretty young lady it was a plain old spinster. "Have not you ever been winkled, er, married?"

"Me, married?" the Boxer laughed. "Oh heavens no, for..." she proceeded to tell the Winkler her entire family history. This took three hours. "...and the result of my sister's union with Mr. Fairfax is my niece Jane..." she talked about Jane for another five hours. "...and Miss Woodhouse says that she's elegant. Elegant! Yes indeed..." A neat segue into Highbury life. One hour forty-three minutes and twenty-six seconds later smoke began to drift out of the Winkler's ears. Thirty-one seconds later it was curling out of her mouth. Six seconds later it plumed from her nose. The Winkler let out an awful moan and collapsed on the floor. Ironman checked her pulse. She was dead.

Victors Victorious? ~ Katy Ann

Posted on Sunday, 21 November 1999

Disclaimer: This chapter is in no way meant to offend members of the following groups: Protestants (because then I'd be offending myself), protesters, Loony Tunes characters, cows, members of the militia, gooks, cooks, cookies, scones, or anyone named Hugh or Gus.

She was dead.
.
.
.
.

(utter silence)
.
.
.
.
"Now what?" The Ironman closed Mrs. Jennings' eyes.

The Fencer peeled Kitty Bennet from his arm and fell to his knees by the Winkler's side. His jaw dropped open in astonishment. "She is dead as a doornail...she's kicked the bucket...she is pushing up daisies...she's bit the dust...she croaked..." SMACK!

The Fencer came to his senses as a bloomin' onion hit him in the forehead. The Ironman clapped him on the shoulder and rose to his feet. "Taking lessons from the Boxer? Yes, Brandon. She is dead."

"Who died?" Catherine Morland-Tilney slid a small silver pair of scissors into her pocket as she stepped out of a lovely nest of muslin with her husband. Out of her other pocket, she took a notepad and a gold pen. "I have to get all of this down."

The Porcupine reluctantly removed his hands from Fine Eyes' ears, but did not relinquish his hold on her. "We have defeated the most villainous villain, the horriblest heretic, the revoltingest rebel, the...." He saw an onion perched menacingly in the Ironman's hand and frowned. "Anyway, we're really superheroes now. The countryside is safe. And the world will know."

The White Knight sighed. "Actually, the Winkler was a very little villain. So she stole secrets...but did she do anything with them? And, boys, it was the Boxer who saved the day. I remember a time when her taking notice of you was an honor. And so it is again. Miss Bates," He gripped her hand. "I am proud of you. Perhaps if the others paid more attention to developing their skills instead of catching ladies in distress or weaving pretty cocoons..."

Kitty thrust her chin in the air. "Well I think that they are heroes. Colonelkins looks just so cute in his little red outfit. I think that we need to have a great party. There should be dancing, and champagne, and lots and lots of red coats..." her eyes took on a dreamy cast.

The troop of five men and four women went back to the inn at Meryton. Knightly entered first, and he suddenly signaled for everyone to stop silently in the doorway. (This resulted in several stubbed toes, one fainting spell, and a good number of scones shoved into various mouths.) A group of locals was gathered in the dining room, discussing the timely demise of Mrs. Jennings. Our group hid relatively still, and somewhat less quiet (due to the stale condition of the scones, as they had been in the Fencer's pocket for quite some time), outside of the dining room door, waiting to hear the men applaud their accomplishments.

"I always thought she was kooky, Gus."

"What was that about a cookie?" Miss Bates, having finished her scone, started towards the room. Knightley grabbed her arm and pulled a large, gooey piece of taffy from his pocket. Soon, the Boxer's jaws were working happily as the rest fought silently for the place nearest the dining room.

"Well, Hugh, the doctor said that she had a heart attack. And good timing, I say. The less gooks around, the better."

Muslinman looked confused. "She was a cook?"

Wentworth's jaw tensed. "Heart attack, what a lotta beans. Why I'll tell them..." He was about to enter the room, but Darcy stopped him. "Wait, they are talking about us now," He hissed.

"Still, I feel sorry for her. I heard that a big group of oddly dressed people gathered around her to watch her die, and then just left her there. What a bunch of losers!"

"LOSERS??!!!" Wentworth wrenched his arm from Darcy's grip and strode into the room. "Losers? Why I oughtta..." He pumped his fist. "I'll tell you, we didn't watch, we did her in!"

Eight groans sounded from the doorway. Hugh and Gus exchanged a glance. "Nice pants. So you did the old lady in?" Gus whispered something to Hugh, then left the room. Encouraged, Ironman continued.

"Yeah. She was a very dangerous villain. She was winkling people...she winkled Harriet...somebody. Then she winkled Charlie's Angel. The delectable protester Kitty Bennet was her last victim." He winked at Kitty, who smiled.

"Oh, if only he had a red coat instead of a blue one." She attached herself more firmly to Brandon's arm.

Hugh laughed. "She wimpled a Protestant? I thought that Protestants didn't have nuns. You are looney tunes, sir."

Muslinman strode into the room with his hands on his hips. "Not wimple, winkle, you imbecile. And Kitty isn't a Protestant (then again, maybe she is, but that's beyond the point...), she is a protester. She was protesting winkling."

Hugh shrugged. "Whatever." Just then the innkeeper and Gus entered with several members of the local militia, not having been able to find a law official. Soldiers in Meryton, however, are as numerous as cows in the pasture... "Sirs, these are the confessed murderers, though I don't know whether they belong in jail or in an asylum!"

As the tallest officer strode forward, Kitty Bennet melted to the floor. "Ooh, he's delicious! Look at how that red coat hugs his shoulders and chest! Oooh."

The man raised an eyebrow as he considered the Protestant...no protesting...no prostrate young woman. He decided that he might very much like to deal with her personally. He winkled...um...winked at her, then turned sternly to the group assembled in front of him and folded his arms across his chest.

"That will be all, Gus. I am Colonel Fitzwilliam. What is going on here?"

The Fencer stepped over Kitty and joined Muslinman and Ironman. "We have saved the day. I believe that there should be a parade."

"Right, we'll make it the craziest party this town has ever seen. Send a message to the big guys. The....ah..." unable to think of a name for their group, Muslinman turned to his wife for help. The colonel spoke first.

"Miscreants! Why should we throw a parade for murderers? Lock them up!" The soldiers each grabbed two people and led them through the doors. Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned as he scooped Kitty Bennet into his arms. She was in the middle of a swoon, but still managed to wrap an arm securely around his neck and bury her face in his red shoulder as they followed the group to the Meryton jail.

A New Fear ~ By Nicky

Posted on Wednesday, 1 December 1999

"Papa, Kitty's been winkled."

Mr. Bennet started in alarm as his favourite daughter entered his study. Too well he knew the diabolical machinations of Mrs. Jennings; he had long ago suffered at her hands and was yet burdened with a very silly wife.

"Will that fiend never leave us alone?" he cried. "Mary's only just recovering, and now Kitty. . .Thank heaven Jane is safely married to Mr. Bingley. Lydia, I suppose, would be of little use to the Winkler, as there is nothing modest or proper about her, but you, Lizzy, are. . ."

". . .perfectly safe." She smiled confidently. "The Winkler is dead. It was too late to preserve poor Kitty, but she may recover in time, and luckily there is a whole regiment of officers to keep her happy. She is in the drawing room now, writing terrible poetry. But, papa, the danger is ended!"

"How is it possible, Lizzy? For I cannot imagine that Mrs. Jennings would be so considerate as to die, merely for our convenience."

"It was the strangest thing;" she confessed, "just as That Woman had me cornered, an odd collection of wanderers came along, and one of the ladies chattered for nearly ten hours, until finally the Winkler lay dead."

"Ten hours? How could she talk for ten hours? Pray, of what was she speaking?"

"I - I do not know. My ears were stopped." She blushed a little before continuing. "Most of those present were clearly bound for Bedlam. Still, they did me a great service, and it is a pity that they should have been arrested for murder."

"Murder?" Mr. Bennet was scornful. "Murder, of an evil madwoman who plainly died of a surfeit of noise pollution? What nonsense! Villain-slaughter, perhaps. Defending the peace even. But murder? Poppycock!" With that, he set off for the jail.

"I'm afraid they're not here."

"Not here? Did you not arrest them for murder just this evening?"

"Indeed I did. And as I am a man of Action and Efficiency, I sent them to London with a guard of my most trustworthy men. I thought it best that such dangerous rogues await trial in the Tower."

"You did what? Colonel, I assure you they are innocent!"

"Are you questioning my judgment, Mr. Bennet?"

"How can I question something which you so evidently LACK? Are you out of your senses to be arresting these men?"

"Right, that does it. Mr. Wickham," called Colonel Fitzwilliam, "show Mr. Bennet to cell number 4."

Mr. Bennet listened gloomily as Wickham's footsteps died away. How was he ever to get out? He was not strong enough to break down his own library door, let alone that of his cell. His foot fit through the bars of the window well enough, but he could not pass his leg through beyond his knee, and he was forced to dangle, upside-down, for some time before he could get himself unstuck. Nor was there any hope of taking the wall apart; he scratched at it some time and only succeeded in wearing away his fingernail. Finally he sat down to consider matters. Either he himself, or the rest of the world, had gone mad, he posited. It was quite likely the rest of the world, but he was not sure how long he could maintain his sanity, locked up in this dark and smelly cell, with no books and a drippy ceiling and that cleverly concealed trap door opening in the floor. . .

"Well, Mr. Bennet," whispered Colonel Fitzwilliam cheerfully, "are you going to stand there staring at me all night, or will you do me the honour of accompanying me home?"

Fitzwilliam waited until he had the full attention of the assembled party.

"First off, let me say how grateful I am to Miss Bates and her companions for saving me the bother of dealing with the Winkler."

Before the Boxer could open her mouth to reply, Brandon sprang up and led her into the kitchen, where he knew his fellow Colonel would have a ready supply of stale bread. Fitzwilliam watched them go, then spoke again.

"That acknowledged, however, let me insist that you all exert more caution! There are excellent reasons for the term secret identity, and here you lot are boasting, yes, boasting, Wentworth, of your exploits to all and sundry! And accompanied by a publicist, no less!" Here he was forcibly prevented by a cacophony of protests. . .

"How dare you speak to my wife like that!"

"I'm their best source of information!"

"They called us losers!"

"You try dealing with these half-wits!"

"Half-wit! I'll half-wit you, Knightley!"

"Darcy, does that even mean anything?"

In the ensuing silence, Fitzwilliam let his voice drop dramatically. "Ladies, Gentlemen, there are agents of evil out there who would scorn to frequent your worst nightmares!" Satisfied that he had frightened them enough, he spoke more kindly. "I'm just trying to lay my traps and plot their downfalls and I cannot have you running about, spoiling all of my plans."

"So you decided to arrest us?" Ironman wasn't best pleased.

"You needn't sulk, Wentworth, you spent all of ten minutes in jail. Yes, I recognized my cousin Darcy instantly in that ridiculous disguise, and thought it best that you be seen to be arrested and sent to London. As I told Mr. Bennet, the officers are men I trust implicitly - and I was sending them on a mission as it was. I am sorry, Mr. Bennet, if my conduct offended you; I will have you formally released in the morning. Miss Bennet, I thank you for sending your father to see me."

Lizzy nodded serenely, but did not speak.

"Now, as to my plans for you lot. . .You can't just waltz out of my house when you're meant to be in London. You will leave for Somersetshire before first light. Meanwhile, study this." He handed to Knightley a folder marked Sir Walter Elliot, bart. of Kellynch Hall. "This mission should be well within your. . .abilities. Especially as Miss Bennet is to accompany you."

"Accompany us?" Darcy was astounded, thrilled, light-headed.

"Wait a minute," interposed Brandon, "why should we wish to take her on? What are her skills? Her powers? Her accomplishments?"

Lizzy's Fine Eyes laughed at the company as she led her father from the room. "Wait and see," she said.

That matter dealt with, Colonel Fitzwilliam returned to his study, and to a problem which would require much greater skill and delicacy; the interminable business of George Wickham.

By Allie

Posted on Sunday, 12 December 1999

Elizabeth Bennet was less than thrilled with her new assignment. She was not a d*mn babysitter, although Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to think that she was. The only one of the whole group that made the slightest bit of sense was Catherine, and she spent most of her time poking around looking for secret passageways. Still, Lizzy supposed she owed them something, they, or rather Miss Bates, did manage to get rid of the Winkler.

"Miss Bennet," said Frederick. "What do you do, anyway. I mean, our sort of band needs to know everyone's aptitudes."

"I'm a nerve specialist," she said.

"Oh, really?" asked Miss Bates. "Why my mother, she used to try to strangle me at night, and then she went to see doctor mmfm mmmffm mfumf."

Colonel Brandon had shoved a large muffin in her open mouth. Lizzy thanked him and Darcy was a little upset, although he wasn't quite sure why.

"A nerve specialist," said Catherine. "Why should we need a nerve specialist? We're not crazy, although everyone seems to think that we are."

"No, no. Taking care of crazy people is easy enough. Any quack with a couch and a lot of spilt ink can do that. I specialize in causing nervous trouble."

"Causing nervous trouble?" asked Wentworth.

"Yes. I had so much practice giving my mother nervous fits that I can cause all sorts of psychological problems in people."

"I fail to see how causing neurosis would make you a very good super hero," said Darcy who was still angry with Lizzy for talking to Colonel Brandon.

Lizzy stared at him and suddenly he dropped to his feet and began weeping because his mother never gave him a purple stuffed pony.

"I, I think you'll do rather nicely," said Colonel Brandon as he nervously scooted away from her.

The group sat looking at Darcy for a few minutes, until Henry worked up the courage to say "Um, could you, um, undo whatever you did."

"Okay," Lizzy said, "Could you drag him onto a couch. Oh, and does anyone have a pad and pencil on hand?"

Catherine handed Lizzy a pencil and a pad and Frederick pulled Darcy onto the couch.

"Now," said Lizzy, "Tell me about your mother..."

By Megan G.

Posted on Wednesday, 22 December 1999

Darcy blubbered out some sob story about how when he and George Wickham were eighteen they both became enraptured of the same stuffed purple pony. Since George was a poor motherless orphan (now that's a bit redundant) Lady Anne purchased the toy for him instead of her own son. Darcy was having a hard time forgiving her.

"Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth said gently, "That was ten years ago. Don't you think it's time to let go?"

Did she just call me Fitzwilliam?! "No!", Darcy growled.

"Um, right. Well, why not forget it anyway and have a purple lollipop instead," Elizabeth said, digging in her bag for a grape Tootsie Pop.

"Okay," Darcy said, happily crunching on his candy.

"Now that that's settled," Knightley said, rolling his eyes, "We need to discuss the matter of Sir Walter Elliot and Kellynch Hall."

"Yes," said Catherine, hanging from a swing her husband had made out of muslin and attached to the chandelier, "What are his crimes?"

"His crimes, and these are not to be published in the paper Mrs. Tilney, are one, neglect of his daughter, and two, being a general blight on humanity."

"Neglect of his daughter, you say," Wentworth mused dangerously. "Which daughter would that be?"

"Uh- it's in my notes somewhere," Knightley said shuffling through a stack of papers. "It's A- something. Amelia, Agatha, Agnes...Oh, here it is. Anne. Anne Elliot."

The captain jumped up, both arms fully ferrified and swinging madly, "THE SLIMY BASTARD! SOMEONE NEEDS TO STRING HIM UP THE NEAREST FLAGPOLE. MAKE HIM WALK THE PLANK!" At the other's puzzled stares he tried to calm down. "What I mean is that the neglect of one's child is an awful thing and SOMEONE SHOULD MAKE HIM EAT HIS OWN TOENAILS!"

"Um, right, that's the spirit," Knightley replied. "Now why don't we head for Kellynch."

"Wait," Brandon said, "We don't have a name for Miss Bennet yet."

"How about Lady-Who-Makes-People-Cry," Henry suggested. "Or not."

Miss Bates began, "Well, I don't pretend to be clever, but mmpf-"

"Have a lollipop, dear," Elizabeth said, shoving a Blow Pop in her mouth.

"I know, how about Fine Eyes," Darcy said shyly.

Elizabeth blushed slightly, "I like it."

"Fine Eyes it is," Knightley proclaimed. Now let's go."

Mission #2: Operation Elliot ~ By Katy Ann

Posted on Thursday, 23 December 1999

Kellynch Hall

The roses were in full bloom in the Kellynch gardens. Their fragrance was so sweet that even the bees were drunk, buzzing lazily as they flew heavily in drunken circles around the house. Occasionally, a supremely happy bee would knock itself into oblivion by careening joyfully into one of the leaded glass windows with a fat plop. When this happened, there were always lovesick birds nearby, too swoony to actually chase insects, but more than willing to catch those who met their end in drunk-flying accidents.

Anne rocked back on her heels and pulled her straw hat closer to her head as one of these avian morticians zoomed dangerously close. She smiled as the bird happily announced a successful end to his hunt. But the smile disappeared, replaced by a small tear in her eye, as the bird returned to his perch and lovingly nuzzled his mate. Anne ducked her head from the scene and fiercely dug her spade into the earth. She only looked up again when a long shadow fell across the roses in front of her.

"I thought that you were taking Mary's children for the day." A tall, gorgeously beautiful woman stood in front of her with a dangerous wrinkle-inducing frown on her face. "And here you are out in the garden again. No wonder we'll have to get rid of the house. You're always out in the garden."

Anne looked up at her sister. Elizabeth's logic was ridiculous, but the girl was never known for her intellect, so Anne did not contradict her. "Mary was taken ill again. They postponed the picnic so that she could take to her bed. I'll visit later today."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Very well. Just so you know...we leave for Bath in two days. I hear that several gentlemen are asking after me. I wouldn't be surprised if Kellynch has a new master before long."

Anne hid her smile. "It will if we are forced to sell. Father must curb his habits...and you, too, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth stomped her foot. "There you go again. Little miss prudence. No wonder you never found a husband. You are too sensible for anyone to fall in love with."

Anne raised an eyebrow. Could her sister claim that she, Elizabeth, was really so much more successful than Anne was? But the reminder did pain her. She had her chance once, and squandered it. Anne swallowed her sorrow and stared back at her sister. "At least one of us is sensible enough to keep us from poverty. Until one of us marries, Kellynch is in dire straits. As you have already declared that it is quite impossible that I should be Kellynch's savior, it is apparently left up to you to marry soon and marry well. I suppose that I should excuse you now, so that you can go to it!"

Elizabeth snarled. "You excuse me? You should be asking me to excuse you for your insolence and rudeness. But then again, I suppose that is part of your ill personality." She laughed at herself, turned on her heel, and swept back into the house.

Anne watched her sister leave the garden. Once in her life, Anne had felt truly beautiful: the stolen season she spent with her one and only love, Anne felt like a goddess or a princess. But since they parted, she had watched her bloom slowly fade as her joy for life crumbled to dust, aided by her father's increasing indifference for her person and her sister's animosity. Elizabeth, however, seemed to grow more beautiful every year, despite her own disappointment in the marriage market. Anne fell back to her knees and buried her nose in the fragrant roses. Her heart cried out against her situation. If only she wasn't so responsible, so capable. If she had her chance, she could leave this place and never look back. Then she would make up for past mistakes. Then she would find him.

Elizabeth watched Anne through the window. Her face was as fair as fresh cream, but her reflection in the glass was distorted and ugly. Elizabeth frowned deeply, creating unattractive wrinkles in her smooth skin. She snarled as she pressed her thumb against the glass, covering her sister's image and twisting as if to squash her out of existence. Elizabeth left the window to sit at her dressing table. From a locked drawer, she took a small black lacquered box. From her pocket, she took a silver brush that held several long strands of light brown hair. Elizabeth dropped three strands of the hair into the box and mixed it with three drops of her own blood.

"My beauty comes from her misery. I draw my strength from her sorrow, but as long as she remembers him I shall never gain my full powers. I must purge her of his memory." Her eyes gleamed evilly as she rose to her feet. "Perhaps daddy will help!"

Continued In Next Section