Twelfth Night   Twelfth Night, or What You Will
  by Josephine March 

 Meg Thatcher walked out of her office and across the front hallway,
carrying the crystal wineglass. The Consulate was deserted now. The last
guest had long since departed, the caterers had cleared away the remains
of the party, and the staff had gone home. The soft lights from the
Christmas tree in the front hall provided the only illumination. The
annual Twelfth Night party had been, as far as she could tell, a rousing
success. She reflected that the old-fashioned custom of celebrating
Twelfth Night was a charming tradition that kept the Christmas holiday
spirit alive just a little longer. The beautiful tree would be taken down
over the weekend, and by Monday the consulate would have resumed its
workaday appearance. Meg kept her footsteps deliberately quiet, so as not
to disturb Fraser, who had undoubtedly retired. She would leave the
wineglass on the desk. No point in risking a trip down the back hall to
the kitchen. 

 She sighed. For some reason, she had expected he might, on this one
night, at least ask her for a dance. Though busy with her own duties, Meg
had watched him out of the corner of her eye. Where, she wondered, had he
gotten the dinner jacket that fitted him as though he'd been born in it?
He certainly couldn't afford a tailor on what they paid him here. He had
shown unfailing attention to his dinner partner for the evening — the
mousy and pregnant wife of one of Meg's colleagues from another consulate,
she thought uncharitably. And he had danced with each woman at his table
at least once, including the white-haired spouse of a consul from one of
the newer Balkan states. Meg was never sure just which Balkan state, but
the woman must be approaching seventy. Nor had he neglected the
thirteen-year-old daughter of his dinner partner, all dressed up for one
of her first grown-up parties. Such courtesy, she thought bitterly. 

 Damn! She caught the high heel of her satin sandal in a floorboard.
Teetering slightly as she tried to regain her balance, she hardly noticed
the wineglass slip from her hand and fall to the floor, where it shattered
with a forlorn tinkle. Damn again! She knelt awkwardly in her velvet gown
to try to do something about the mess. So engrossed was she in trying to
clean up the tiny, sparkling shards of crystal that she did not hear his
approach. 

 "Inspector," he called out softly. 

 Damn a third time! Startled, she had sliced the index finger of her left
hand on a piece of the shattered crystal. She stood awkwardly, holding the
finger to her lips in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. 

 "Have you cut yourself?" He was at her side in an instant. She noticed he
had shed the jacket, though he was still wearing the starched white shirt
and black tie. Were evening shirts cut that differently from everyday
attire? What was it about this one, she wondered, that showed off his
broad shoulders to such perfect advantage?  

"Just a scratch, Fraser," she replied, trying not to respond to the warmth
that seemed to emanate from him as he invaded her personal space and took
the injured hand in his.  

He squinted just a little in the dim light as he examined the finger
carefully. "This is more than a scratch, he replied. You need some
antiseptic and a bandage, at least." He placed an arm around her shoulder.
"Back here in the kitchen," he murmured. 

 Was it instinct that intervened? Perhaps the extra glass of champagne
she'd downed from the now-shattered goblet? Or was it just the
inexpressible comfort of feeling his arm around her shoulder, of resting
her hand in his? Whatever it was, Meg somehow managed to swallow the sharp
"I'm not made of glass, Constable," that rose to her lips, and instead
allowed herself to be guided to the kitchen in silence.  

 Ben snapped on the overhead light and stood with Meg beneath it. He
turned her injured hand palm upward and stared again at the cut. "No glass
in there," he said finally, smiling down at her.  

 He placed a hand under her elbow and walked with her to the sink, where
he allowed the water to run until it felt warm to his hand. Meg finally
spoke. "Did you enjoy the party tonight, Constable?" 

 "As much as one can ever enjoy a function like that," he replied. Not
letting go of her hand, he pulled a folded white linen handkerchief from
his pocket and dampened it. "And you? Did you enjoy it?" 

 "Well, I think I'm with you," she replied, focusing on their hands and
the white linen. "Duty calls. But at least this one was our party and not
somebody else's." She frowned slightly as a pink stain appeared on the
handkerchief and began to spread a little. "You should run some cold water
on that, Constable." 

 "Perhaps later." He reached into an overhead cabinet for the bottle of
alcohol and dampened the other end of his handkerchief with it. "Ready?" 

 Meg nodded, hardly grimacing at the sting of the antiseptic. "Bandage?"
he asked. She shook her head. Ben found himself reluctant to let go of the
small, white hand. Meg simply looked too enticing, her hair slightly
disheveled after the mishap, her shoulders like ivory against the dark red
velvet of her gown. A telltale pulse raced at the base of her throat,
belying her outwardly calm demeanor. He wanted nothing more than to kiss
her there. But instead he brushed the injured digit lightly with his lips
and said, softly, "All done."  

 Meg forgot the small pain in the electric shock that seemed to go through
her at that light touch. She imagined that some spell must have been cast
on the two of them. Whatever it was, she was as powerless as he to break
it. "I think," she began, then trailed off. 

 "You think?" he replied inquiringly. 

 "I think I would like a glass of wine after my ordeal," she replied,
biting her lower lip in an unconscious gesture that frequently drove him
mad. This time was no exception.  

 "Yes," he agreed. "A glass of wine would certainly be called for under
the circumstances." He let go of her hand reluctantly, placing it
carefully at her side.	

 "The glasses are in the dining room," added Meg. 

 "Then I'll join you there," he said over his shoulder as he turned to the
refrigerator 

 Meg walked back down the hall to the dining room. The broken glass still
glittered, silvery, on the floorboards in the hall. Bits of it adhered to
the hem of her skirt as she passed. The only light in the dining room came
from two wall sconces above the mirrored sideboard. Wineglasses of every
sort sparkled there in the dim illumination. She turned as she heard Ben
enter the room, saw that he carried a bottle of champagne carefully folded
in a white napkin, and reached for two of the tall flutes, which she
placed on the long, polished table. Had she been observant, she would have
noticed that he seemed to have walked right through the pile of crystal
shards in the hall. His shoes left imprints of glittering dust on the
carpeted floor. 

 However she only noted, with approval, that he dealt expertly with the
champagne bottle. The cork emerged with a very satisfying "pop," but not a
drop of the precious contents was spilled. He filled a glass and handed it
to her. 

 "You're not joining me?" she asked. 

 "I never drink," he replied with a slight smile. "Unless, of course, it's
the obligatory toast to the Queen." 

 Meg bit her lower lip again. She indicated the empty glass on the table
with a wordless nod. When Ben had filled it and picked it up, she raised
her own glass, looked up at him, and said quietly, "To the Queen." 

 "To the Queen," he echoed, and drained his own glass. It was Meg who
refilled them both. 

 She walked over to the window, sipping thoughtfully. "And did you enjoy
dancing with all those ladies at your table?" she asked impishly. 

 "Ah. The ladies. A diverse group at my table," he began. "You know, I was
taught by my grandmother that you must ask each lady in your party to
dance. I've always remembered that." 

 "And the ladies love it," Meg laughed. "None of them ever needs to go
home thinking she was without a partner. But it must annoy the living
daylights out of the other men." 

 Ben laughed back at her, coming to stand beside her and look out of the
window. "And you," he said. "Did you have enough dance partners this
evening?" 

 "I had plenty of dance partners, thank you," she replied lightly,
speaking to his reflection in the glass. "It's just that...it's just
that," she drew a little breath, wanting to keep the lightness in her
voice. "There was one man in particular I wanted to dance with. But he
didn't ask me." 

 "He was very stupid," replied Ben. "But I think he deserves another
chance." He set both their glasses on the windowsill, took her by the
hand, and whirled her back out into the hallway, to the strains of a
melody only he could hear.  

 The cleaning staff would have a real mess to contend with. It seemed that
the little pile of crystal had been pulverized into a fine, glittering
dust. The stenciled floorboards in the room were now covered with not one,
but two sets of silvery tracks.  

 But Meg and Ben saw only each other, blue eyes gazing steadily into
brown. Meg savored the delight of feeling his hand where it rested on her
waist. It seemed to radiate a warmth all out of proportion to the
lightness of his touch. And she could feel the same warmth emanating from
the spot where her own hand rested on his shoulder. His shirt smelled
clean, of soap and starch, but there was that other, indefinable scent
that was his own essence. She began to feel lightheaded and wondered if it
was the champagne. 

 Ben allowed his cheek to rest on Meg's hair. The heat that seemed both to
surround and radiate from them had caused it to unravel into soft, small
tendrils that brushed his face leaving an indescribable sense of pleasure
in their path. The thin red straps of her gown lent an edge of piquancy to
the creamy expanse of her shoulders, enticing him almost irresistibly to
run his hands over that smooth skin.  

 And so they danced on to the silent music through a haze of heightened
senses that threatened to engulf them both. Meg's heart raced, and she
soon found herself too breathless to continue. "Stop for just a minute,"
she laughed, leaning her cheek against the broad expanse of his chest. "I
can hardly breathe." 

 Ben allowed his cheek to brush against her hair just once more. His sharp
eyes had made out something in the gloom over their heads. "You've made a
mistake, Meg," he began. He took hold of her chin gently and directed her
gaze upward, so that she could see what he saw. "You stopped us in the
wrong place, and I claim a forfeit."  

 Meg followed his gaze to the high ceiling, where a sprig of mistletoe,
tied in a red ribbon and suspended from a silver ornament, could be seen
in the darkness. She eyed him speculatively, nibbled at her lower lip
again, and replied, "I would never ignore one of my obligations." She
reached up and brushed his lips with her own, experimentally, then pulled
back to look at him. His blue eyes regarded her warmly, but with a hint of
a teasing question. 

 "Then again," she went on, brushing his lips again, "You were right there
when I needed first aid." Another tiny kiss. "So that's
another...obligation." She ran her tongue over his lower lip before
drawing it, with exquisite gentleness, into her mouth. Then again she
broke off, whispering against his ear, "Isn't that our motto? ‘Be
prepared?'" 

 "Mmm," Ben murmured, his lips seeking her ear through the soft tangle of
her hair. "Something like that." His kiss, when he finally found her
mouth, began slowly enough; just a soft brushing of her lips with his own
as though repaying her for her teasing. But as his tongue began its gentle
exploration, the kiss caught fire. It was as though he believed he had
only this one kiss to convince her of all his love and desire for her. So
overwhelmed was she that she found that she could do nothing but respond
in kind The soft moan in her throat gave voice to a cry as his hands slid
down her shoulders to clasp her waist.	

 When finally they must breathe or die, she laid her head on his chest,
feeling that her knees might give way. He looked down at her, running his
finger over the expanse of flesh revealed by her low-cut gown, and said
softly, "I've hurt you."  

 Meg looked down and realized that the gold studs that fastened his shirt
had left a row of small red marks. She placed her hand over his and said,
"I didn't feel a thing." Her fingers reached out to tangle in his hair as
he bent his head and kissed each mark, one by one. When he reached the
line of demarcation between velvet dress and silken skin, he placed his
hand on her shoulder, pushing down on the thin strap there. She moaned
softly, found his ear, and whispered, "Not yet. Not here." 

 He stopped immediately and looked at her, his blue eyes betraying a kind
of hurt. She wanted to make the look go away. She paused, looked directly
at him, laid both hands on his chest, and bit her lower lip again. Then
she turned her head deliberately and, taking one of his hands in hers,
looked at the darkened staircase beyond them. 

 Meg had often dreamed of being gathered into his arms and carried up this
same staircase. But as it happened, they ran up the stairs together,
lightly, hand in hand like two small children. Neither stopped to notice
the trail of two sets of silver-crystal footprints they left behind on the
Persian carpet that covered the steps. 

 The Royal Suite was softly illuminated by the light from a single lamp
which left the corners of the room in shadow. Meg, still under the control
of whatever impulse had brought them here, pushed the door closed with her
foot and led Ben by both hands to be seated on an upholstered ottoman near
the fireplace. He began to speak, but she laid a finger softly on his
lips. Then she stood still, considering.  

 Ben's eyes never left hers as she stood there for a long moment. He
seemed alternately amused and perplexed as he waited patiently for her to
make the next move. Finally deciding something, she approached him and sat
on his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. Ben's amusement won out. He
found her ear and whispered, "Have you been a good girl this year?" 

 Meg laughed. "Yes. I've been very good, and I deserve a present." Her
finger found the center of the knot in his bow tie, and with a single
gentle tug, she untied it. She then went to work on the gold shirt studs
that had been so troublesome earlier, squinting a little in the dim light.
Ben offered her no help at all in these efforts; instead, he was a
hindrance, leaning forward to snatch a kiss whenever he saw the
opportunity. But Meg persevered, and soon she had gotten rid of not only
the shirt studs but the cufflinks. At that point, Ben decided that perhaps
helping her was to his best advantage, and his undershirt soon joined that
formerly starched evening shirt in a tangled heap on the floor.  

 Meg realized that, seated on his lap in this manner, she had the upper
hand, though not by much. She decided to forego the delights of exploring
his skin, now revealed to her, in favor of one of those long,
slowly-igniting kisses that were beginning to delight her so. She was not
disappointed. He seemed to be able to communicate with his kisses, all the
feelings he had been unable to put into words over the long months that
had passed since their first and only kiss. Meg found that the more of
these kisses she had, the more she wanted. Other kisses she'd shared with
other men seemed to fade into insignificance by comparison 

 Each of Ben's senses seemed to come alive with Meg seated on his lap and
held so closely in his arms. She tasted of the champagne and herself,
while that exquisite scent that was hers alone seemed to surround and
overwhelm him. He responded to her small movements on his lap, and she,
sensing this and excited by it, tried to hold him even closer. Her
movements caused the velvet of her gown to brush against his bare skin, a
sensation he found delicious. But it was not what he wanted. He wanted her
bare skin. His hands moved up to cradle the back of her head, and his
fingers encountered the pins that had held her elegant coiffure throughout
the long evening. He began to pull them out, one by one, until her dark
hair fell around both their faces in a wildly-tangled curtain. He found he
would never cease to be amazed at the softness of it. 

 Meg finally ended the kiss, brushing his lips one last time before she
stood up and moved a step or two away from him. Time, she thought, to
level the playing field — plus, she wanted more of his skin against hers.
Though some part of her was shocked at her boldness, she bit her lip,
looked straight at Ben, and continued. The lamp shone on her from behind,
and the red dress reflected in it to cast a rosy glow over her skin. She
reached behind her back and with a tug at hook and zipper, the velvet gown
suddenly lay in graceful, heavy folds around her feet. She stepped out of
it and kicked it aside. 

 Ben flushed most engagingly, but he never took his eyes off her as she
stood before him clad only in the thin wisps of black silk that
constituted her undergarments. She reached behind her back again, leaning
forward just a little, and her bra was also gone, revealing small, perfect
breasts that curved gently upward. The dark pink nipples were pointed,
revealing her desire and belying the still calmness of her face. 

 Her hips swayed a little as she walked toward him in the high-heeled
sandals; a motion that had been largely concealed by the folds of her
gown. Ben was on his feet in an instant, reaching for her, his hands
caressing her shoulders, her waist, the curve of her hip as his lips found
hers again in a kiss that seemed it would never end. The sensation of his
skin next to hers was almost too much for her to bear, and she swayed
against him again. His mouth never left hers as he lifted her into his
arms and carried her to the wide bed that seemed to invite them both. 

 He set her down gently, and stood for just a moment looking down at her,
until her arms reached up. As though from a great distance, he could hear
her saying his name as though calling him to her. In the next instant, he
was in her arms. Meg's soft cries blended with his own as he found her
breasts, his mouth teasing each nipple in turn to an even greater state of
arousal, if that were humanly possible. She reached out frantically,
struggling with the button on his trousers until he took pity on her and
helped her. When the rest of his clothing had joined the heap on the
floor, she moved to lie on top of him, delighting in the sensations
aroused by his erect shaft, the feel of her nipples brushing against his
bare chest. 

 Ben moved under her to take her mouth again, gasping a little at the
sensation of her silken panties, and the heat they contained within,
brushing against him. Meg felt him grow even larger, if that were
possible. His hands moved gently down her back, and down the curve of her
hips, his fingers searching for the edge of the black silk as his tongue
continued to explore her mouth with exquisite gentleness. He gave a deep
moan of satisfaction against her lips as his hand found its objective and
began to stroke the hot, moist, silken flesh there. It was Meg's turn to
help him. Reaching down, she tugged at the panties, and with his eager
cooperation, the last obstacle between them was removed. 

 His hand continued those delicate attentions as Meg's movements above him
grew more frantic, until with a triumphant cry, she arched her back and he
was within her. He lay still then, for a few moments, allowing himself to
revel in the sensation of finally feeling her around him.  

 Meg threw back her head for a moment, unable to believe that this had
finally happened, and so inexpressibly glad that it had. Her glance took
in his face, his eyes, all of him there so close to her. A wave of
tenderness too deep for words or conscious thought overtook her as she
felt him swell inside her. She moved over him with a wordless cry,
throwing herself back into his arms, her lips seeking blindly for his. He
cradled her tenderly as he felt her shudder, heard her cry out again. He
began then to move against her until he found his own release, calling her
name, holding her so tightly it seemed he would never let her go again. 

 Later the two lovers would whisper tender confidences. They would sleep
together in a tangle of legs and arms and lips, only to awaken deep in the
night to make love again. But for now the old house was silent, as though
suspended in time, somewhere between midnight and dawn. 

 Some time later, downstairs in the hallway, a shadowy figure emerged from
the back of the Consulate. Moving in total silence, he listened for a
moment at the foot of the stairs; hearing nothing but silence, he moved
with greater confidence into the front hallway. He looked around him at
the shattered ruins of the crystal wineglass and at the silvery footprints
that seemed to be everywhere. He walked to the dining room and emerged
with a small hearth broom and shovel from the fireplace there. Working
carefully, he swept up the glass and proceeded to remove all of the
footprints, with the exception of those leading up the darkened staircase.
When he was satisfied with his work, he returned the tools to their place
by the hearth, then returned to the hallway, moving through it to the back
of the house. 

 Bob Fraser moved quickly through the room that served his son as both
office and home, ducking into the closet and emerging into the spacious,
wood-paneled space beyond that was his own office.  

 The figure of an ancient Inuit woman sat warming herself by the fire. Her
long braids, though thick and glossy, were iron gray shot through with
moonlit silver. Her dark eyes sparkled in her wrinkled face. She was
dressed entirely in the softest white fox fur, the front of her anorak
carefully ornamented with intricate work of ivory, horn, and bone.  

 Standing respectfully before her, Bob reached into the pocket of his
trousers and pulled out a bag of softly tanned elkskin, also ornamented
with ivory. A small trail of silver dust seemed to spill from it. He
handed it carefully to the old woman and said, "Thank you, Grandmother." 

 "And did the dust have the desired effect, my son?" She smiled, looking
suddenly youthful, revealing a row of still-perfect, slightly sharp teeth.


 "Too soon to tell, Grandmother. But I'm hopeful. Yes, I'm certainly
hopeful." 

 "Good." Without another word, the old woman pulled up the fur-lined hood
of her outer garment and left through the back door. 

 Bob Fraser paused before a painting of a mountain set against a blue sky
that he had set up on an easel. With a critical eye, he placed a touch
more pale blue on a cloud in the sky. When he had finished, he put down
the brush, pulled on his own anorak and kamiks, and followed the old woman
out into the Arctic night outside his office.