Marianne nodded and took his arm with a hesitant look at Liza. But she did have a few more questions to ask him. "Yes, please! Let's go on. I can't believe I am in Brazil! Even the air smells different here." She grinned, taking it all in.

"And Basil, let me know whenever you want to see the map. You haven't asked for it once!"

Basil laughed, a charming sound.  "Plenty of time for that, m'dear, plenty of time,"  he replied to Marianne, and went forth.  His eyes traced the city as if seeking the past.

At the end of the dock was a nervous-looking man, thin, dressed in khaki.  He was obviously waiting for Basil, for a look of relief crossed his face as he spied the man.  This soon faded as he took in the two ladies present.  "Sir, oh sir,"  he said, his voice also thin and nervous, "I've arranged a taxicab."

He took the valise that Carson shoved toward him and scurried off along the busy throughway, to where a pony-drawn vehicle was waiting.

The city itself was a grand mix of noise and variety.  Locals in colorful shawls and shirts were moving around on their own business, sailors were everywhere, and there was a grand variety of Europeans going back and forth.  The buildings were a combination of scrap-built wrecks, glorious Spanish-style buildings, Edwardian mansions still being built, and everything inbetween.  It was crowded, noisy and full of sights, and smells...spices, people, and factories.

Liza's little poodle barked and wagged its tail, and the nervous fellow startled again, nearly dropping the valise.  Carson snorted derisively and loaded the pony-cart, and helped Liza up; Basil assisted Marianne, and began to point out the sights.  "Changed a lot since I was last here,"  he said. "But the hotel's a good one, isn't it, Smythe ?"  this was directed to the nervous fellow, who nodded with a muted, "Yes, Sir."  Carson seemed the least impressed...and the most watchful of his surroundings.  The tiny old man who was the driver beamed a toothless grin at them and set the ponies clopping along at a good pace.

Marianne relaxed and looked around, watching everything around her with growing excitement. She had thrown in with Basil, and if he was satisfied, she had to be.

The sights and smells of the city were intoxicating. Marianne eagerly took it all in, trying to impress her first sight of Brazil on her memory so she could recapture the experience on paper later that night.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:44, Tue 31 May 2005.

The city had some charm to it, though Smythe looked mortified at every turning.  Their hotel was new, an Edwardian structure with a lovely fountain out front; it was also clearly the Europeans' favourite hotel, to judge from the people milling around the lobby.  Smythe fetched bellhops and got the travellers to their rooms; pair of lavish rooms with an adjoining balcony.  Liza and Marianne would have to share one huge room, which had two beds, for the hotel was full up.

Basil retired early, citing weariness, so that left Liza and Marianne to look around.

Marianne was a little disappointed that Basil would not be joining them. She had many, many questions to ask him, and she was still puzzled by some of his answers. But Liza was great company and had an author's nose for adventure.

"Well? We're not staying in all day, are we? Let's go for a stroll around the city!" she suggested excitedly.

Marianne went to fetch Liza, who was just as keen to go look around.  "Good heavens, I need to go shopping, I've clothes to buy !" she agreed.  "I'll leave my little one in the room, I think he's had enough excitement for the day."  They left the poodle behind and hurried out, to see the sights.

Across the street, past the fountain where the women were drawing water, was an old church, its Spanish glory still beautiful in the afternoon light.  The streets were quiet - it was still siesta time, it seemed, but the market wasn't shut down on the next street.  A tiny child holding a massive melon waddled up toward them, speaking in rapid Spanish, trying to get them to buy it; a man with a snake around his neck was trying to show them some cheap pottery-bead jewellery.

Marianne managed to haggle the beads down and triumphantly wound them around her neck. She was certain she had still paid a ridiculously high price for them, but the man with the snake had fascinated her and she had not bargained too much. They explored the square, escorted by the persistent child, until Marianne finally gave in to him too. She wandered into the lovely old church, loaded with fruit.

Her beads clicked gently, shining in the sunlight; the man with the snake had nodded and smiled at her, the snake's head bobbing the same way.

Word spread fast that the tourists had money, so they were soon assailed by cloth-merchants, weavers, and all else.  Liza quickly selected a white and blue dress in thin, fine cotton, a shawl in blue, and a pair of sensible leather shoes.

Marianne was headed into the church, which had rich wooden pews, and a beautifully carved crucifix at the front, by the altar.  She carried the melon, already weary of the weight.  A man in a black robe was there, polishing a silver cup, clearly some sort of priest.  Two old ladies, their heads bowed in prayer, sat in the back of the church.   The locals didn't follow her in, but persisted in trying to sell Liza more things.  The man in the black robe glanced up at her and offered a gentle smile; he was about 60 years old, with a face that had seen a lot of smiles and tears, and wise old eyes of pale grey.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, causing colored shadows to dance across the floor of the church. Marianne took a seat in the first pew, quietly appreciating the peace and the atmosphere inside. "Hello," she greeted the priest, returning his smile, though she wondered if he spoke English. "This is a lovely place."

The elderly priest's eyes showed warm recognition. "Thank you, Miss," he said, in a very soft voice, very suitable to such a place, his accent a slightly Spanish one, but very well schooled. "Please, be welcome; there will be a service in a little while, if you would like to attend."

He straightened again, noting someone else arriving; a swarthy man, with a wiry form, short and strong, his dark hair cut short, showing a bald spot. An elegant black mustache curled along a perfect mouth.  The man was dressed in a plain loose-sleeved canvas shirt, much like any of the peasants milling about outside, but his trousers were tightly cut leather, that showed each muscle of the man's legs, and quite a bit else besides, and were tucked into tall leather boots.  He had a pack of some sort over one shoulder, also in black leather, and the unmistakeable shape of a sword hilt was poking up out of it.

Marianne noted the priest's stance - very wary - and the way the stranger swaggered past, genuflected at the cross, and then sauntered to the candles, to flip a coin - she caught a flash of gold - and light a candle to join the dozens already lit.

Marianne smiled back at the priest and nodded. "I'd love to attend. Thank you," she said. The arrival of the stranger drew her attention as well as the priest's and she watched him curiously at first, but then more intently as she recognized the shape that was sticking out of his pack -  a sword hilt. Why was this man so casually carrying a sword around, and in a church at that? And why was the priest so wary of him? Her mind raced to puzzle it out.

The swashbuckler sat in a pew to her immediate right, about ten feet away.  He assumed a prayerful position, elegant hands clasped in front of him, and then shot her a look that promised lasciviousness in abundance.  Then the eyes shifted back to the beautifully carved Christ, and the man gave all seeming of praying...in Latin.  She had heard the language enough, to realize he wasn't just intoning a simple prayer, learned by rote.

The old priest's gentle face was still formed in a frown, but he would apparently not do anything about this fellow.  Padding silently away, the priest began to ready the altar for a service, and picked up a worn bible, holding it as if wishing to derive comfort from it.

Marianne didn't disguise her interest and stared curiously as the swashbuckler prayed in Latin. His lascivious look outraged her, but he was really too interesting to ignore. She surreptitiously watched the man, throwing an occasional glance at the wary priest.

The priest seemed distressed that this individual was in the church, but did nothing about it.  At last a gangly boy, clad in a mostly-white robe, hurried into the church, apparently some kind of altar boy.  A few more locals came in, most of them giving nervous glances at the rakehelly fellow, who continued to pray in Latin.  The priest suddenly winced, at a particular phrase, and the prayer was finished.

The man winked at Marianne...winked at her !  As rogueish as they come !  And got up and sauntered over to sit next to her !

Marianne was outraged to say the least as the man nonchalantly winked at her, and then took a seat next to her. She turned her nose up and looked away, determined to ignore him though he was sitting less than two inches from her.

The rakehelly fellow merely found this amusing, to judge from the glint in his dark eyes and the raffish smile. He spoke softly, the English sounding honeyed with the accent of Spain.  "Most beautiful one, I am drawn to you as a moth to the flame; as a bird must fly, I fly to you."

His soft greeting and exotic accent sent a shiver down her spine. Marianne stared into his dark eyes, fascinated. Here was a man straight out of one of her own novels! She knew, of course, he was no good. She had (literally) written the book on him. But he exuded such a rakish air that he was completely irresistible.

His next words, however, elicited startled laughter from her as the spell broke. She really couldn't help it - his words were bordering on the ridiculous.

"And who might you be, senor?" she asked interestedly, all anger forgotten.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:57, Fri 24 June 2005.

The Hispanic bloke with the silver tongue smiled, a smile like the downfall of saints.  He had charisma by the bucketload.  "I am Don Miguel dos Silandros de Vega, and humbled before your grace, lovely one. May I ask the name of an angel ?"

"Oh, my," breathed Marianne, a silly grin spreading across her face in response to his smile. She could almost feel herself melting.

"I'm Marianne... Marianne Trevors," she said weakly, staring into his eyes as she gave him her hand, butterflies wreaking havoc in her stomach. "And believe me, I'm no angel," she added, a little smile that might have been a bit... brighter than her usual style rising automatically to her lips. She did manage to quash the uncharacteristic urge to wink, though.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:16, Mon 22 Aug 2005.

"The joy of my heart tells me she is no angel, but instead Aphrodite," the smooth little charmer said, capturing her hand and kissing it, his warm lips lingering just a shade too long for propriety.  "It is my honour to meet you, my lady Marianne,"  and the Spanish accent turned it into an exotic name.  The black eyes held a great deal of promise...

...then suddenly flicked to the entranceway, where a figure all in black was standing, a cowled, robed figure like an angel of death.  Instantly the Spaniard tensed; she could feel the change in the warm calloused hand that held hers so gently.

"If my lady will forgive...there is a score that I must settle..." He rose, smooth as a snake, eyes fixed on the figure in the doorway, and slunk that way, one hand holding his pack, the other hand reaching for something in it.  The elderly priest quickly moved out of the way, to stand near Marianne, clutching the Bible; the altar boy hurriedly ducked down behind a pew, and the peasants similiarly took shelter. Worried brown eyes were fixed on the developing scene.

"Bastian," de Vega spat, like a curse.
"Miguel," came the crisp voice, sounding Midlands English to Marianne's trained ears.  The figure all in black stepped aside and backed off a few paces, also reaching into a pack that he carried on one shoulder.  It looked like a fight was brewing, and they were going to have it in the town square, just outside the church.

Marianne stared after the two men in shock as they swept out of the church. She turned to the priest with an expression that was partly confused and partly fascinated. "What is happening? Who are those men?"

"They are not men, they are not men !"  the old priest said, his elegant voice stressed with fear, his pale eyes staring.  "They are aligned with the devil !" The Bible that he gripped to his chest creaked under the strain.

Curiouser and curiouser... "Aligned with the devil? What do you mean?" she asked, her interest and her confusion both growing by the minute.

The old priest continued to watch and cling to his Bible, as if the whole spectacle  was too much for him.  He spoke in a gasping, near-hysterical tone.  "That man, the Spaniard, the nobleman, he came to this holy place forty years ago, and I had it from my predecessor that he returns, every forty years.  He does not age. He looks the same.... Last time, a youth came to the door and they fought, and the youth killed him...but he does not die !"  Overcome by this, the priest sank down wearily down onto the pew and mopped at his sweating, ashen face with a handkerchief, clearly having some kind of spell.  You could not have taken the Bible from him without breaking his arm, Marianne knew, from the way he was clutching it.

She didn't believe a word of it, of course, and yet... To say Marianne was confused would be an understatement, but she was more intrigued than turned off by the prospect of a puzzle. The story the priest told her brought to mind the Baroness who had hijacked Brent and Liza's ship. Hadn't Liza insisted that she hadn't aged in forty years either?

She rose, intent on going outside to witness what was sure to be an amazing scene, but then stopped with an unsure look at the priest, who did not look well at all.

"Father, your story brings something to mind. I must go see for myself. Will you be alright?" she asked gently.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:28, Wed 29 June 2005.