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From it extended a bridge over the ditch. Mariah considered entering the fort. Maybe she'd find Angela and some of the crew there, cameras rolling while the extras she had met, and their counterparts, drilled on the parade grounds. She climbed the wood stairs, then stepped out on the span, the low heels of her unfamiliar boots clacking on the wooden planks. The sound hurt her aching head. |
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At the end of the bridge was the tall, grassy bank that constituted the fort's ramparts. |
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Amazing, how authentic this set looked, Mariah thoughtjust like the replica in the museum. Though her head hurt, her mind, used to juggling production details, began to estimate a budget. This must have cost a fortune! That was one reason Angela usually stayed away from period pieces. She could shoot a great current comedy for peanuts by using actual locations. But Mariah had to agree this screenplay had been special. |
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Why couldn't she remember all that had happened to get the production to this point? |
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At the fort end of the bridge, a uniformed man with a Pennsylvania rifle at his side stared at her with keen interest. But not recognition. Odd. The cast should know who she was. Unless Angela had fired her. Surely she'd at least recall if that had happened. |
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"State your business, miss," the man said in a coarse British accent, sounding as bored as though he'd repeated the line dozens of times. |
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Annoyance engulfed Mariah. Actors! They didn't have to keep up the pretense off camera. |
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"Miss?" The actor-soldier had taken a step forward. He was young and quite homely, with pockmarked skin and tiny eyes beneath his tricornered hat. The skin blotches were a wonderful makeup detail, Mariah thought. He blocked her entrance to the compound, and she raised one hand in a conciliatory gesture. |
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"Peace," she stated. "Is Angela Corbin here today?" |
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"I know no Angela Corbin, miss." |
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"She's only the producer of this film," Mariah snapped. "I'm Mariah Walker, her UPM." |
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