Some of the Key Players

When I first conceived the idea for VIRTUOUS SINNERS almost 20 years ago, it was a vastly different story to what it is today. 

The story being written now is set in the jazz soaked, Roaring 1920s in Canada. 

When the idea of this story first came to me, I had been watching the Anne of Green Gables trilogy and was obsessed with the Victorian/Edwardian era. The romanticism of the rural life. 

The first incantation of this story was to be in the very early Edwardian era around 1905 or so. There were many starts but no finishes for this story, because at the time I really honestly lacked any true knowledge of the era. What was popular, what people did for a pastime, things like that. And eventually the story never came to be as I moved on to pursuing short erotic stories as a hobby. 

I do have a very strong love for silent films and early talking pictures and I did write a story set in the 1930s with a "Thriller era" Michael (he was 25, his love interest was 18 in that story) but I still wanted to write something different, something more erotic something more scandalous. Rage in Hell, the 30s story, was good, probably some of my best work yet, but it was not as risque as what I wanted to write. 

I kept trying the early idea of this story. It was always supposed to feature an older Michael (40-45 in my head) but lets say he was a bit more nefarious. He was supposed to take a girl and bring her into his home and would take her pictures to make naughty postcards. I was going to gear up to this again and had to throw the idea away because the whole mess with that trial in 2005 kicked off and I felt it would be in poor taste to write subject matter like that at the time. (this version might become a short erotica in the future) 

I really wanted to get to writing again because my health in 2023 and 2024 had been terrible and I had several times where my life almost ended as a result.

I got the boost I needed to actually put words to paper a few weeks ago during a Zoom meeting, coincidentally with TJ Jackson, Michael Jackson's nephew. I mentioned my writing and he very graciously encouraged me to write if that was my creative outlet. 

So I sat and began to write. 

The hardest part for me of any story is finding the "face" of my lead girl, in this story, Victoire Odette Dufrense. 

In the Edwardian story, Odette was supposed to be a busty redhead looking like actress Christina Hendricks from "Mad Men"

I decided against this and in my head Odette was a fair-skinned Creole/Colored woman with grey eyes and long black hair. I wanted her to somewhat mirror the appearance of an older Michael (pale skin, straight black hair, etc) like a feminine version of him. 

I must have looked at a hundred different silent film actresses. Any and every brunette I could think of, I studied her face. I even looked at other famous redheads like Joan Crawford and Clara Bow who appeared as brunette in  black and white film of the 1920s. 

None worked for me. I must have watched miles of films. English, French and German languages, hunting the face of my Odette. For a while I turned to AI and kept giving it prompts, all of which were bullshit in the end. I never thought I'd have a face to go by. 

Then I saw actress Jobyna Ralston. 

The funny thing was, when I found her, I wasn't even looking for her! As a past time I read old Photoplay magazines from the 20s and 30s cause like I said, I'm a massive classic film buff. In the middle of an article about comedian Harold Lloyd, there was her picture. Jobyna took over for Lloyd's wife Mildred, as the female lead once Harold and Mildred married. I quite literally stood up and SCREAMED. Jobyna had the exact look I wanted--pretty, but innocent and naive looking. She had the perfect face, the perfect look. For Odette I needed her to have the pale skin, the dark hair, etc to give creedance to her "White looking but Colored" character. 

Michael Jackson was easy. He was the first character and I knew out the box what I wanted him to look like. While it hasn't been mentioned yet, Michael's character will be 45 years old. 

In my head Michael Jackson would be something like a Black Jay Gatsby. Always well put together, always dapper, fabulously wealthy and a bit of uncertainty as to how said wealth was obtained. The only good thing to come out of Michael being hauled in and out of court in 2005 was I have a vast variety of real life suits to dress Michael Jackson in, as the clothing did kind of hearken back to the yesteryear when the gentlemanly look was in. 

And I will be borrowing HEAVILY from his suit looks. 

Another key player introduced in Chapter One was Taj Jackson, Michael's nephew I had a bit more trouble with Taj. With his styling per se. Taj is famous for wearing his hair in braids and literally has done so for over 30 years. And when Taj does not have his braids in, he's usually wearing a black ballcap. I have met Taj in person a few times (TJ once in person) and it's a running joke for him to remove "Dat Hat" Literally the last time I saw Taj last October I actually gifted him another black cap. 

Myself with Taj Jackson, October 2024

Taj with his trademark braids. 

In 1920s America and Canada, these braids were not common and I couldn't write his character as having them because I wanted to try to stay as true to the fashions and ideals of the era as I could--as a challenge to myself. I always like to challenge myself with my writing. 

 It's kind of rare to catch Taj showing his natural hair, which is really pretty. And this pic is literally what I based his character's look upon, right down to that one curl on his forehead. As Taj is 15 years younger than Michael in real life, for the story of VIRTUOUS SINNERS, he's about 30 years old. 

 Taj's character, a Doctor, does wear round tortoise shell glasses, like actor Harold Lloyd. 

Another major, albeit brief character mentioned in Chapter One was Madame Lenior. Like Odette she was a White looking Colored and absolutely hated Odette for her beauty and was especially cold and cruel to her. Madame will be referenced in upcoming chapters but whether or not she shall be seen again, I haven't decided. I based Madame's appearance on another old Hollywood actress, Bette Davis. 

I couldn't imagine anyone else in my head BUT Older Bette Davis when I thought of Madame Lenoir. And yes, some people might have considered Bette a miserable old bitch in her heyday, much like Madame. And if Bette were still around--she passed on in 1989-- I'd love her to play Madame in a film lmaoooo! 

One of Michael's employees, a chauffer, Chester is introduced and even asked Michael for money while boarding the train to Toronto. I didn't have an exact "look" for Chester, just a squat, somewhat heavy set black man in a uniform. What I did know was how I wanted him to SOUND. Chester will have a very distinctive hoarse, scratchy voice, the exact opposite of Michael's soft-spoken, eloquent one. An old actor, Eddie "Rochester" Anderson has the exact voice I mentioned and feel free to look him up to hear it. 

I may just model his appearance off Rochester cause he does have a "face" and I like it. 

I have not actually introduced all of my characters as of yet.. There's still other members of Michael's household staff at his estate Rosewyck, Taj's two brothers, Taryll and TJ, and all of their daughters along with some of the residents of Juniper Peak, the island on which Michael Jackson lives. 

(Note: I know in the first chapter, you saw Mr. Boudreaux and his children that ran the hotel in Fayette Parish, but as those were once off characters, there is no direct photo I used for the creation of any of them)

Please stay tuned, as CHAPTER THREE is being written at this very moment and thank you so, so much for reading! 

Chapter Two

Sleep was hard to come by for Odette Dufrense.

It wasn't that the poor girl was uncomfortable; on the contrary, she was quite cozy, snuggled beneath the quilt of her own bed in her own hotel room, head resting atop a soft and plump pillow.

But above the covers, clutched to her little pointed chin, her eyes were wide and glassy. Her bosom rising and falling with excitement.

She still couldn't believe it, could scarcely wrap her mind around the previous day's events.

It had all occurred so quickly.

One moment she was offering Mr. Jackson a cup of tea, the next...he was whisking her away from the Toulouse Parish Colored Orphan Asylum.

For good.

And he'd been nothing but kind to her. Allowing her to ride in his fancy automobile, her first ever car ride in her life, and had fed her generous portions of good, hot food.

Had spoken to her nicely, like she was a person and not just another faceless slave.

She had a job, was going to be earning money on top of having a ready place to stay.

Would she really be able to do things she'd only read of in thrown-out newspapers—go to see motion pictures, that fellow named Charlie Chaplin seemed to be quite popular—sit in a cafe and order and eat food, buy clothing.

Clothes! She'd have clothes to wear! And shoes!

She was sure, up in Canada, that folks didn't have a celebration with parades like Mardi Gras each year down in Louisiana, but perhaps there was a sort of funfair or something in which she could participate.

She had always wanted to go to a funfair, with rides and animals to pet and rare treats to sample. Do something on a whim and just for her own amusement.

Canada!

Odette was going to Canada! She hadn't even known there were Colored people in places like that, and now she was going there to live permanently, God willing.

She was so indebted to Mr. Michael Jackson for the opportunity he was providing her, the blessings he was bestowing upon her...

In the darkness, a hand reached out from beneath the blanket and the small lamp beside the bed was illuminated.

Odette slipped from the bed, and hugged herself with true glee.

She was clean...for the first time in years, she was actually clean!

Among the many boxes hauled in by Mr. Boudreaux and his children, had been hygienic essentials , and Dr. Taj Jackson had chosen well.

There were pale pink bars of soap smelling strongly of roses, and a bottle of shampoo, also floral scented.

Odette had sat in a hot bath, scrubbing the grit and grime from her body and hair for well over an hour. One foot had actually bled she'd scrubbed so hard with a washcloth.

Odette vowed to never be so dirty again as long as God saw fit to let her live.

She could only imagine how deplorable she'd looked and smelled before, but now she was as fresh as a bouquet of flowers.

She had no idea where the rags she'd arrived in had gone; after her bath, she discovered them missing, but did not miss them in the slightest.

While indisposed, her new belongings had been put away carefully, but where she could clearly see it all.

Odette had new clothing!

Why, right then she wore a long-sleeved gown of white cotton, with ruffles about the yoke! And under it, a one-piece undergarment, also cotton, but not like what Odette could remember wearing as a child.

There were no bloomers or a chemise to go over it. Instead, suspended by thin straps on her shoulders,the garment covered all the required areas, but with far less fabric as without the nightgown, a great portion of her upper chest, her back to the base of her spine, and legs above the knees were exposed along with bare arms.

Was this how girls wore their underpinnings nowadays?

Odette eased across to the dresser, where on its top were more niceties.

A small, glass bottle of perfume, labeled Duchamps, leaned heavily in the florals theme with more roses as a top note, along with lavender and orange blossoms. Odette figured that clean girls were just supposed to smell of those delicate blooms. It was far better than the odor of an unwashed body.

Beside that was a comb and brush set, of bright yellow Bakelite plastic, with a matching hand mirror, along with lengths of hair ribbons in different colors and black hairpins. A small jar of pomade, scented like baby powder also sat on the dresser top.

Hidden away in a drawer were three more teddies like she wore and socks.

Folded neatly in the armoire, were three woolen dresses.

One was a simple, deep brown, made in a nautical fashion, and trimmed in ecru piping.

Another was navy blue, with a wide, white collar of eyelet lace.

The last was of brown calico fabric, with a v-neck and cuffs in yellow coordinating with the tiny flowers hidden in the fabric.

It was a wonder to Odette to have not one but three dresses, as she'd possessed that lone outdated rag for years.

And these were store bought, not homemade, frocks too!

Also folded in the armoire was a long coat of dark brown wool with toggle buttons.

A set consisting of a scarf, mittens and a large tam o'shanter hat with a pompom in a bright Fair Isle pattern set waiting to be worn.

On the floor a pair of handsome shoes, of brown leather, pumps boasting a two inch heel, obviously for indoor wear, were beside a pair of sturdier lace up boots, also leather.

Shoes, she had shoes!

And Dr. Jackson had an immaculate eye; Odette couldn't resist the urge to try the shoes on and found they fit perfectly.

Nearer the door, was a black steamer trunk, that Dr. Jackson had lugged up to her room himself, with him saying unholy words under his breath as he had gasped for air.

Hugging herself a second time, Odette made the Sign of the Cross.

The girl then prayed a prayer so emotional, so zealous, that surely God himself took notice of the thanks being lobbied from one Odette Dufrense in Louisiana.

She was thankful, oh so thankful, her prayer genuine, tears falling.

She was thankful for Mr. Jackson and Dr. Jackson and all the nice things she had and the job, and the wonderful pay, and that it seemed she was going to receive regular meals!

She would no longer go hungry every day!

And the move far, far away! No more Madame Lenoir!

She still wished suffering death on that old miserable thing, but at least she wouldn't be the one to find the body. Living was too good for that bitch.

With a childish twirl, Odette crossed the room and dove back into bed, drowsiness finally winning the battle.

In seconds, Odette was fast asleep, her face slack and peaceful.

As she slumbered, the door to her room swung without a sound.

Mr. Jackson, wrapped in a robe over his pajamas, ambled in his bare feet to the lit bedside and observed the girl sleeping so soundly.

Gingerly, he brushed a lock of her raven tresses, now clean, detangled and gleaming in the electric glow, from her pink cheek.

A long hand petted her smooth brow, with Mr. Jackson bending over her.

Studying her patrician features, the small nose, the oval face, the shut eyes with long lashes under thick, rounded brows. Her plump mouth pursed just so.

She resembled a porcelain doll and was just as delicate.

Carefully, Mr. Jackson tucked the covers closer around her.

His little maid...this young maiden.

Satisfied that she was indeed as snug as a bug in a rug as possible, he dug into his pocket, placed a small, folded note on the table and shut off the lamp,

Then he was gone, back across the hall where his nephew serenaded him with his all nostril orchestra, snoring.

* * *

Please come see me as soon as you get up, MJ.

Waking from the first restful night's sleep she'd had since kindergarten, Odette had discovered the note from Mr. Jackson.

Straightaway, she was out of bed and rushing.

Opening the door, she found little Rufus, and one of his sisters, still in their night clothes like her, sitting on the wall between the doors of the room occupied by the Jacksons and the next, quietly playing Jacks, bouncing a small rubber ball on the hardwood floor.

The children waved at her and she waved back, shocked the children didn't stare as before, only smiled politely.

Hand on the cool, brass knob, Odette turned it and opened the door just far enough to peek in.

The beds were rumpled of course, covers thrown back and pillows askew.

She spotted Dr. Jackson first, sitting at the table which she'd dined yesterday, reading last week's edition of the Saturday Evening Post, with what appeared to be an illustration of a woman on the cover in a barely there, silver dress and head wrap, playing Mahjong.

He was already dressed, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and a bow tie of an abstract brown and navy print. Navy suspenders were buttoned to matching trousers, though he only wore white socks on his feet.

Wisps smoke rose from the partially consumed cigarette in the small glass ashtray in front of him.

On the opposite side of the room, she could make out Mr. Jackson, wrapped in an elegant robe of red velvet, trimmed in quilted satin over black pajamas.

He was peering out the window overlooking the road, a cigarette held down by his left side.

“Mr. Jackson?”

The inquiry was barely audible and meek, lodged in the voice that was soft, yet husky bearing, a tinge of mixed Southern and French accents.

Both men looked towards the door, two sets of dark eyes widening as she humbly stepped inside.

How Odette Dufrense had cleaned up!

How nice she looked in clean clothing, herself clean and her hair somewhat tamed, parted down the middle, flowing down to her mid-back.

“Good morning...” Mr Jackson spoke first, taking a puff off his nearly gone cigarette, smoke wafting from his nostrils. “...I hope you had a restful night.”

“Oh, yes, Sir! I most certainly did!” She nodded as he stopped at the table mashing the butt out. “It's been so long since I've slept in a decent bed...”

Mr. Jackson's pink lips curled as he nodded with appreciation.

He seemed even happier than Odette about her getting rest for the first time in ages.

With a large hand, Dr. Jackson was closing his magazine and waving her over.

“I need to ask you some questions, for your passport, then I'll examine you...ah...”

Dr. Jackson glanced at his uncle momentarily, then back to the girl, fidgeting in front of him.

“You needn't be embarrassed Odette, but for the exam you'll have to be in your undergarments. Of course, not nude or anything vulgar like that, but I have to be able to see if you have any unusual marks, scars, bumps or lesions on your body....”

“I know, Sir.” Odette bobbed her head with understanding. “All of us had to be in our unmentionables when old Dr. Parmalee came around to see us during the Pandemic.”

“Very well...” A notepad and pencil appeared in Dr. Jackson's hands.

“Your full, given name is Victoire Odette Dufrense, and your were born on June 20, 1904, correct?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Were you born in Toulouse Parish or elsewhere?”

“In Toulouse Parish...I've lived there all my life....” Odette was distracted as Mr. Jackson removed a small case from his pocket, a beautiful rectangle of swirling silver and blue enamel. A lovely cigarette case.

Odette wasn't much fond of smoking but it did give her a thrill to see such opulent items. As Mr, Jackson opened it, she could make out a few more unlit cigarettes and a book of matches. One went into his mouth, and a match struck, with him blowing a perfect ring in the air.

Odette, who usually hated the scent of cigarettes, rather liked whatever it was the two Jackson men were smoking.

Surely more expensive than the cancer sticks that sustained Madame Lenoir, they had a wonderful aroma—like smoky vanilla.

The scent was quite inviting and tolerable to Odette's olfactory senses.

“Race—Colored...” Dr. Jackson was scribbling across the page. “Hair color—Black...”

He paused to squint at her, first through the lenses of his round spectacles, then over the rims of them.

“Eye color—Blue--”

“Begging your pardon, but my eyes are grey, not blue, Dr. Jackson.” Odette spoke up, voice trembling as she so seldom came to her own defense.

She heard Mr. Jackson snort at the mistake.

Rapid erasing ensued and the correct color added.

“Height--”

“Excuse me, Dr. Jackson?”

Rufus' sister was poking her head into the room.

“Yes, Rayetta?”

Odette could see Dr. Jackson writing her height down, correctly, from just sight, as five-foot-five-inches.

“My daddy wants to know if you and Mr. Jackson are gonna send for y'all's breakfast like yesterday or go out to eat?”

“We'll have what we had yesterday, but make it for three, since Odette is with us, please.” Mr. Jackson blew another smoke ring as his nephew spoke.

“Yas Suh! Rufus, Roberta and I'll get that to you directly.”

“Thank you!”

Rayetta evaporated from view and Dr Jackson stood.

“I don't have a scale to weigh you like I would at my office,Odette...” He informed her, tapping at the cleft in his chin, “...but you have a similar build to another one of my patients and she was exactly one hundred and eight pounds last I weighed her. You appear about the same. You're slightly underweight, but given your circumstances, I'm hardly surprised...”

Odette stared down at her bare feet regretfully. She couldn't help that Madame Lenoir had supplied her with less than the bare minimum all these years.

“That will no longer be a problem...” Mr. Jackson interjected. “...I always make sure my employees are well fed. You can't work if you're malnourished.”

Odette was so pleased at the mention of food. He did seem to truly care for others.

“How many servants do you have, Sir?” Odette questioned as Dr. Jackson guided her towards the table by her arm.

“Oh...four...no, five including you, now.” Mr. Jackson said this as easily as the saying the sky was blue. Odette was astounded. Mr. Jackson had to be fabulously wealthy to not only employ five people, but pay, house and feed them too!

Rosewyck, as he'd called it, had to have been very large, also, if Mr. Jackson already had two maids in his employ and had hired her specifically to clean only a few areas.

“Ouch!”

Dr. Jackson recoiled suddenly, gripping the top of his hand. glowing red after having been slapped, as he'd begun to undo the pearly buttons on the front of white gown.

“I'm...I'm so sorry, Dr, Jackson!” Aghast, Odette was holding her face in her hands. “I didn't know what you were doing!”

She hadn't intended to hit his hand, just he was a man tugging at her clothing without forewarning.

“It's my fault—what are you doing?” Taj Jackson had simply raised his hand to scratch his head whilst speaking, but both he and his uncle were alarmed when, out of what was surely habitual reflex, Odette had her arms up, as if to fend off a strike.

The implications of such a pose immediately apparent to the pair of relatives.

“I'm not going to hit you, Odette! I'd never hit a woman! I don't even spank my daughters! I don't put my hands on women, like that.” Dr. Jackson assured in a babbling stammer, grabbing at her wrists, pulling her arms down.

Odette mumbled her cheeks hot.

“I'm sorry.” She repeated in a whisper head lowering with shame.

He'd only been trying to help her remove the gown to start his exam.

And her own nerves and uneasiness around the rougher sex had bungled it.

“I don't mind. At least it shows you're modest. Let me get my bag,”

Dr. Jackson was at the foot of his bed, digging through his own steamer trunk, when he heard the queerest sound.

Bag in hand, he looked to his uncle.

Michael Jackson's face had contorted.

Disbelief battling with disgust, he seemed to be staring at something which made no sense to him.

It was then, Dr. Jackson's eyes drifted to Odette, folding the gown and setting it on the foot of the other bed.

And his breath caught in his throat.

Unfortunately, neither man were taking notice of the womanly figure and curvations that had somehow managed to burgeon on this slim, sorely underfed creature.

Odette's complexion was very fair, course, but both men had been unprepared for the colors they found on her pale dermis.

Bruises.

There were so many bruises on her arms, her upper thighs, and across her back.

Places all hidden, until that moment, by her clothing.

All different colors—deep blue, black and purple, others faded to pale greens and yellowish browns.

“Oh...Dear God...” Dr. Jackson gulped, as a tear was blinked away by his uncle.

“Who...who...did this to you?”

The bag fell to the floor as Odette turned to face him, asking innocently.

“Did what?”

Seeing the damage on her back, Mr Jackson staggered,positively green and caught himself on the table's edge. He swayed so violently a moment, Dr. Jackson feared he'd faint.

“Those marks...those bruises! Who's beaten you?” Dr Jackson's voice was stilted, with him grabbing at his chest in panic. “Who--”

Mr. Jackson sank to his knees.

Neither uncle nor nephew couldn't fathom it. How...how could anyone beat a poor, hungry, defenseless girl like an animal?

“Why, Madame Lenoir--”

“That ancient, gorilla-faced slut did that to you?” Michael Jackson demanded this so shrilly both his new maid and nephew trembled.

Odette's ears flamed; she hadn't thought a gentleman as refined as Mr. Jackson seemed even knew what curse words were, much less could use them!

Confused, as she was so accustomed to the abuse by now, it was Odette couldn't fathom way Mr Jackson was so angered. Why Dr. Jackson looked so completely ill.

But by the reactions presented her...she knew something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Mr. Jackson's face practically matched his robe so red was he, teeth bared and nostrils flapping.

“Taj!”

He was unbelting the robe and shrugging out of it. Throwing it across his bed.

“Yes, Uncle?” Dr. Jackson's slightly parched hands were on Odette's shoulders,

“Split my breakfast with Odette. I'm going to dress and go down to the train station. See if we can get out of here any sooner than tomorrow morning. Cause if I go back anywhere near Toulouse Parish I will go to jail!”

Odette stood, open mouthed in shock as Mr Jackson went to the armoire removing a black suit, white shirt and tie, rushed to the attached bath, slamming the door after himself.

“I...I don't understand...” Odette murmured, looking back into Dr. Jackson's serious face.

Searching for an answer. “I misbehaved...I was punished.”

“You were beaten, Odette.” He stated matter-of-factly. “And by looks of the various stages of healing you've got all over your body, the beatings were regular.”

Moving around her, he sat taking a cigarette from the case left on the table.

“You should never have been hit in the first place. Not like this. Not even if you burnt the place to the ground. My uncle figured something hinky was going down at that damn orphanage. Especially with the way he was telling me how that Lenoir woman was trying her goddamned best to change his mind about you! Like she was determined as all hell to keep you in that prison...it's insanity.”

Dr. Jackson took a deep puff and exhaled loudly.

“Jesus Christ...and there's other children still there!”

Another drag.

“I have a housekeeper, Anna. She's a little younger than you. Clumsy girl. Always breaking or chipping something. I've never hit her. I've never hit anyone...no...Over a plate or cup? When I can easily send for more?”

Brows came together in deep thought.

“People make mistakes. I only ever hit anyone over a mistake once, and it was another man, not a woman. I punched my brother Taryll in the face. He's a physician, like me. I had good reason to slug him, though: we were on a house call about a baby with a fever that wouldn't go down. He was supposed to be taking a rectal temperature on the infant. And I told him, hold the child tight so I don't lose the thermometer inside the child! Taryll didn't listen, the child wiggled wrong, and the thermometer broke while I was inserting it! Baby screamed, mother screamed, Taryll screamed, and I screamed.

I had to fish glass shards and loose mercury out the ass of a wailing, bleeding, ten month old—who still had a fever, mind you—and send him to the hospital to ensure he hadn't been poisoned. I was so angry about all this needless confusion, work, pain to a baby and now a hospital trip, I flattened him out. I punched Taryll in the jaw, bloodied his lip...then he had the gall to call long-distance to our grandmother in New York and had her bawl me out for brawling...but he didn't listen at me...”

Dr. Jackson paused and gazed up at Odette, still standing in her underwear. Jaw still swinging in the wind.

“I've no natural idea why I told you that story.” He remarked with a wry chuckle treating himself to another drag on his cigarette, releasing more perfumed smoke.

Behind him, the door to the bathroom opened, Mr. Jackson hopping as he was putting on the second of his tasseled loafers.

“I'll be back later, Taj... depending on how late, I might grab a bite in town.”

Mr. Jackson stopped at the dresser and ran a fine toothed comb through his hair.

“You can examine Odette later...”

A warm hand patted her cheek as he went by,

“Please go put on one of your nice dresses, I...I can't bear the sight of...”

He turned his head and gulped unable to look at the representation of all Odette had endured behind the closed doors of the Asylum.

“And I apologize for using such coarse language in front of you, Odette. I don't usually speak in such a crass fashion, especially not in the presence of feminine company.”

Odette Dufrense was speechless.

This man was apologizing for swearing?

Swearing was what men did. Even the little boys at the Asylum sounded like sailors on leave when away from Madame and her swinging stick.

The velvet robe, much as the cashmere coat the day before , was draped around Odette, and he was out the door.

Turning, she watched him go, grabbing his hat off a peg and plopping it on his head.

Hand to her chest.

Heart pounding wildly.

What a man!

What a man Mr. Michael Jackson was!

* * *

Three Hours Later

Click-clack....click-clack....click-clack....

The heels of those new leather pumps tapped against the hardwood floor, as Odette Dufrense flounced back and forth before the mirror above the dresser.

After a breakfast of shrimp and grits—with more shrimp than Odette knew what to do with as Dr. Jackson not only dumped all of the crustaceans meant for his uncle into her bowl but all of his as he didn't care much for the shrimp, only the flavored gravy that covered the white hominy—she was full as a tick.

Dr. Jackson had excused himself, stating he was going down to the five and dime to purchase more magazines and encouraged Odette to get dressed.

He still needed to photograph her for her passport and put a rush on the photo.

If Mr. Jackson did have his way in finding a sooner departure for the train, all of Odette's paperwork had to be in order, or she wouldn't have been permitted to cross the Canadian border.

Odette did so like how she looked, late that morning.

She had chosen the brown calico and thought it looked wonderful.

She also felt wonderful.

And Odette wasn't forgetting, she vowed to pay Dr. Jackson back every cent he'd spent on all of her nice things.

The dress was so warm and comfortable. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have clothing that fit her body properly.

It was so odd to see the actual lines of her body somewhat.

The dress had a dropped waist, as did the other two, and a bit of a boxy fit.

The hemline fell midway between her knees and ankles, the highest she'd ever seen hemlines rise. But that was the style now and she'd seen plenty of ankles and calves of the womenfolk while in Fayette Parish.

In the old papers, she had read snippets remarking on how the female figure, once modeled after the voluptuous Gibson Girl, had given way to more boyish types, flatter of bosom and all around.

That may have been the Modern Girl of 1924, but for Odette Dufrense, her body, once back to receiving three hot meals a day, would look more like the girls of yesteryear.

Her mother, Lysette, had possessed a pleasing, hourglass figure, plump in the right places and smooth elsewhere, and it seemed that her figure had been passed right down to Odette.

There was nothing square or boyish to her.

Odette just happy to no longer have to wear a dress that had fit her ten years ago.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Startled by the abrupt knocking Odette, still getting used to the heels, almost fell over.

“Yes?”

“It's Taj, may I come in?”

“Yes!”

Dr. Jackson, now fully dressed and looking very dapper , blue bowler in hand, entered.

“I've got my camera set up across the hall for your photo...”

He stopped mid-stride, as Odette continued to preen in front of the mirror.

She did look quite attractive, now that she was dressed more appropriately and in nicer garments.

Even if her hair was still floating about wildly.

“I've never been photographed before.” Odette confided turning to him and leaning against the dresser. “Do...do I look right?”

She wanted to do everything perfectly, she didn't want a single thing to hinder her exodus to the USA's northern neighbor.

“You look very nice...” Dr. Jackson responded, “...have you decided how to style your hair?”

Remorse filled those huge grey eyes, rimmed with darker limbal rings and a hand was raked through her tresses.

“I...I don't really know how...no one's really ever shown me.” She admitted, feeling the sting of shame. Would it ever fade?

“Oh, that's nothing” The hat was handed to her as Dr. Jackson stepped behind her. “I can help with your hair. I told you; I've got daughters...”

Brushing past her to reach for a comb, Odette caught a whiff of his cologne.

It was a loud, bright citrus scent.

Odette couldn't ever remember smelling an obvious scent on a man; old Dr. Parmalee had smelled only of Lifebuoy soap.

“Here. Hold still...” He told her and began to carefully comb through her hair, removing whatever tangles were left. “I'm surprised your hair is as healthy as it is and has retained its luster. I know you weren't eating the best, and it usually shows in the hair first. But you've strong, thick hair, Odette...”

“Thank...thank you...” She wasn't used to having anything about her complimented.

Dr. Jackson's attention made her feel special.

Odette allowed him to part her hair in the middle, and dabbing some of her pomade on his hands had smoothed any flyaways.

“Let's see...” He squinted at the ribbons laying about the dresser top and selected a yellow one.

It was passed underneath the bulk of her hair and tied into a bow that rested over the part.

Two hairpins were added, and hidden to keep the bow in place.

“There...perfect... do you like it?”

“Yes, very much... thank you, Dr. Jackson.”

Why...Odette looked....almost pretty.

It was so nice, to be dressed and have her hair arranged properly.

Her back was petted, indicating she follow him across to the other hotel room.

While conversation wasn't really her strong suit—she could go for weeks easily with out uttering a word—she did like talking to Dr. Jackson.

He and his uncle interested her greatly.

“How...how many daughters do you have?” She questioned, and saw that a rather large camera, atop a tripod had been set up at the foot of his bed, with the chair from the desk positioned a few feet from it.

“I have two—Theodosia and Thomasina. They're supposed to be identical twins, but you can tell them apart by their eyes. Teddie has brown eyes like me and Tommie has lighter amber eyes like her mother.” Dr. Jackson chuckled. “Have a seat, cause I still have to put a plate in the camera...”

Doing as told, Odette watched as he opened a small, red leather valise at the base of the tripod removing a shiny, silver rectangle.

“You've really never been photographed, Odette?” Dr. Jackson asked, pushing the plate down into the back of the camera.

“No, Sir...”The raven head shook, as he first bent behind the camera to look through the lens, and approached.

“I need you to be very still...” He instructed as he straightened her shoulders, and tilted her chin down just a touch. Her hands were folded in her lap and her legs arranged so that they crossed at the ankles. “I've got a brand new model of camera so it only takes a few moments to have a picture taken.”

“Was it very expensive?” Odette asked that more as a means to keep on chatting, as anything more than ten cents was considered expensive to her.

Dr. Jackson didn't reply, only fluttered his eyes at her coquettishly and Odette giggled, then allowed her face to fall back into a more plain, immovable expression.

Odette had seen few photographs—mostly the ones of Monsieur Lenoir hoarded by his widow and he'd been stone faced in every shot. And she assumed,erroneously, that was the only expression permitted.

Although her grey eyes continued to dance.

Hidden by the cover that protected all of the inner workings of his costly contraption, Odette didn't see Dr. Jackson grinning at her.

She did as told, holding completely still.

It was still a wonder to her any of this was happening in the first place.

Every so often she'd lightly dig her nails into her palms, knowing that if it hurt, which it did, she was truly awake and not dreaming!

There were several clicks, a louder clack and lastly an even louder pop.

Removing the black sheet from his head, Dr. Jackson waved a large hand.

“You can move now, Odette. You did just fine. Go put on your coat and things, we've gotta run this to get developed then over to the courthouse to get your passport issued. And I need you with me so they can see that you do physically exist.”

“Yes, Sir--”

“I do apologize...” Dr. Jackson started, removing his spectacles and taking a small piece of red cloth from his pocket, began cleaning the lenses.

“For...for what?” Odette rose, wincing as she stabbed her nails into her palms covertly—to Dr. Jackson, it just looked as though she had her left hand curled up at her side.

“We'll have to walk around town; Uncle Michael took the limousine to the train station, and unfortunately, my car is parked outside of my home, in Canada.”

Again Odette was taken aback.

He...Dr. Jackson was sorry they'd have to walk...only a few blocks in the surrounding area as they were in the center of Fayette Parish?

Odette had walked all her life; her only mode of transport until recently had been her own two feet.

He and his uncle seemed overly apologetic and remorseful for the mildest of inconveniences. She wasn't used to anyone being more than cruel and indifferent towards her.

“It's quite alright, I don't mind...” She shrugged, “I've walked everywhere else my entire life...”

Odette started across the hall, and found Dr. Jackson a step behind, putting on his trench and bowler, following her.

Opening the armoire, she started to reach for her coat, and found Dr. Jackson taking it from it's peg and holding it open for her allowing her to slip it on and fluff her hair free of it.

“Thank you--”

“You're nothing like I expected...” Dr. Jackson turned her to face him and went about fastening the polished wooden toggles. “I only knew my uncle was going to get an orphaned girl to replace Nellie. I expected a much younger child, probably someone whom couldn't really speak or act properly—a child my uncle would have to train up from the bottom....someone wild, feral, even.”

Mittens were popped on and the scarf secured around her throat.

“But you're so polite and quiet and well-spoken...you're very nice, Odette.”

“Thank you, Dr. Jackson...Madame did see to it all of us had manners and spoke properly.”

That was about the only useful knowledge Odette Dufrense ever learned from Florianne Lenoir. It had quite honestly been beaten into her.

“She said it would help us with gainful employment and making our way in this world once we left the Asylum. Keeping our bosses happy--”

“You needn't worry about that.” The tam was placed atop her head at a becoming angle. “You will be taken care of at Rosewyck. If there's one thing I know about Michael Jackson, it's he looks out for those he's taken under his wing. He hired you on, so he clearly thinks well of you and your abilities.”

“I haven't had a chance to show my abilities yet.” Odette fell in step behind Dr. Jackson as the pair started down the stairs to the lobby of L'Hotel Boudreaux.

“You will. Not to say I believe in mysticism or things of that sort, but I feel Uncle Michael has a sort of intuition about himself. How he interacts with people and can sense things about them that others miss. He's chosen his entire staff, and at larger his friends and acquaintances based on this...”

They crossed the lobby and passed through the door, waving at little Rufus who stood outside washing the windows with a rag.

“Most of my family employs some sort of domestic servant, maid, cook, et cetera, whom we've contacted through agencies and required letters of reference from. Not Uncle Michael. He just sits and talks to people, gets a feeling, and hires them on. Hasn't failed him yet.”

Dr. Jackson gripped her arm tightly as they stepped off the sidewalk and briskly crossed the road to the other side.

“He obviously had a good feeling about you, Odette, or you wouldn't be here.”

Ducking her head, Odette smiled sheepishly.

She couldn't describe her emotions at the moment. Her vocabulary was too limited, but she did know she felt a great, deep, appreciation for Mr. Michael Jackson.

And to a lesser extent, Dr. Taj Jackson.

They were saving her life.

They were giving her a life that the Parishes and back roads of Louisiana could never provide.

And if she weren't in the middle of another thoroughfare, she'd have dropped to her knees and cried to the Heavens thanking God.

* * *

In a little over an hour, Odette's photograph had been developed and rushed to the courthouse where, after much haranguing on Dr. Jackson's part, a passport in her name had been issued. That small, brown, leatherette-bound booklet was her key to passage into Canada without incident.

It was happening; it was truly happening!

Clutching the booklet in her mittened hands, Odette was serene.

Though quiet, her eyes were huge in that slim oval face, giving away her rapt joy, bright and shiny they were as she walked behind Dr. Jackson, her head lowered as always.

He was mumbling something about being out of cigarettes and having to stop by the Five and Dime again to buy some. Apparently they hiked the price of commodities at the train station, plus he couldn't wait that long for a smoke.

Odette's attention, being focused on the nice patent blue lace-ups Dr. Jackson wore, she was ignorant to the fact that she was garnering quite a bit of attention herself.

As they proceeded down the sidewalk, towards the large store on the corner, Dr. Jackson was acutely aware of it.

Every male they passed, whether working, washing windows, sweeping entryways to buildings, idly moving about such as themselves, were looking at Odette.

A few even paused mid-conversation to ogle the young girl in the brown wool coat.

Heads turned, eyebrows raised, and jaws fell open as she went by.

Dr. Jackson glanced at Odette, her head still bowed, watching their feet as they ambled along the wooden walk.

She didn't know, at least, she didn't recognize that she was attractive.

The pale skin, queerly colored eyes, and long dark hair she'd always been razzed and insulted about by Madame Lenoir in her most deviant fits of unbridled jealousy, that had brought only a sense of shame to Odette were in fact strong points.

All Odette had ever heard was that she'd never fit in this world...the New South with its Jim Crow laws and segregation and how she was “too White to be Colored, but too Colored to be White” at the same time.

Thankfully though she was soon to be out of it.

They arrived at Cocteau's Five and Dime, with Dr. Jackson holding the door for her.

Odette was stunned right off.

Inside, the store was packed with tight aisles offering various goods of all types.

As far as the eye could see, candies, snacks, housewares, even women's and men's undergarments were on display with more practical items such as shovels, rakes and gardening implements.

All around the perimeter were glass encased counters showing more delicate wares, jewelry, fancy cigarette lighters, cases and holders, perfumes and hair dressings.

At the far back was a counter faced with swivel chairs—a lunch counter.

The air was thick with the scent of frying meats and sizzling potatoes.

Again, heads spun on necks, eyes on the fair girl beside the gentleman in derby bowler and trench.

Odette was ignorant to it all, as she tagged along after Dr. Jackson towards one of the glass counters where a young man was buffing it with a soft cloth.

Sensing customers, he asked,

“What can I get for you, Sir?”

“Do you carry the Violet Crown brand of cigarettes?” Dr. Jackson asked and was fumbling in his pocket.

“Why, yes Sir, we do--”

Taj Jackson watched it all happen in slow motion as though it were a horrendous car crash.

The man's head came up, eyes briefly on Dr. Jackson, then moving towards Odette, who was now flipping through her passport, the only stamp in it, being that of the United States of America.

His dark, beady little eyes lit and a grin curled his lips showing several gold teeth in his mouth.

Like a hungry wolf eyeing a baby lamb...

“Odette.”

The sweet little face presented itself to him, her brows raised in questioning.

“Why don't you go over there...” A finger pointed out a huge rack overflowing with periodicals. “...and pick out a few magazines for the train ride?”

Those luminous eyes flittered to the rack for a moment and back to him.

“I don't have—”She started to state she lacked any funds for such a treat as a magazine.

“I'll get them for you. Grab the ones about film stars. All the girls I know read those. And you need to catch up on what's popular nowadays. Grab Photoplay, Shadow Stage, Motion Picture Gazette and The Dramatist. Go on.”

She was given a light push and Dr. Jackson turned back for his cancer sticks.

Staring boldly at the clerk, who grimaced, but kept his thoughts to himself.

Obediently, Odette did as told and went to pick out the titles.

Poor Odette, she knew so little of the newest and largest form of pastime for the States, and their neighbor to the North, motion pictures.

And as such she was unfamiliar with the faces of the Stars of 1924 rendered in real life color on the covers.

Corinne Griffith, Lilian Gish, Madge Bellamy and Rudolph Valentino.

She'd never heard of them but if they were on the covers of magazines, they had to be famous and important.

Only important people were written and read about.

Odette glanced across the store, as an old woman on a cane hobbled by.

Dr. Jackson was counting out change to the clerk and what appeared to be five, cellophane wrapped cartons of smokes had been set out.

It was a shame magazines like that didn't put Colored folks on the covers. Dr. Jackson and Mr. Jackson deserved to be spotlighted in her eyes.

Even if they weren't...she leafed through one magazine...in films like this Lon Chaney fellow, whomever he was. The Jacksons were certainly far better looking than the homely Mr. Chaney.

Hugging the magazines to her bosom, Odette returned to Dr. Jackson's side, now reading the ads in the back of Photoplay.

“That'll be a dollar for those magazines, Mister.” The clerk, now sulking pointed out.

A greenback was slipped to him and all the items bagged.

“I'll pay you back, Dr. Jackson...once I start working.” Odette vowed as too much was being spent so quickly on her.

“Nonsense...”Dr. Jackson smiled sweetly at her. “You'll do nothing of the sort. Now would you like a cup of coffee or perhaps hot choc--”

“Taj Jackson!”

Seemingly out of thin air, Michael Jackson materialized at his nephew's side.

He was far more dashing than the stars in those magazines, in his simple black serge suit, the only adornment, what Odette couldn't recall seeing him add as he ran out of the hotel in such a huff earlier that day, a brooch.

It was a lovely cluster of white pearls, dotted with small, shimmering diamonds affixed to his lapel.

Without thought, Odette had removed one of her mittens and put her hand out, doing what she had been afraid to the previous night when she had been so charmed by the dangling diamond pin on his white coat.

Her fingertips grazed the precious and semi-precious stones, taking in their hardness and coolness. It wasn't lost on her that she was touching something that likely cost more than most people saw in a decade.

How had he come to acquire such jewelry? Had he bought it, or was it an heirloom passed from father to son?

Distracted, Mr. Jackson, his face obscured by the brim of his fedora, stared at Odette's hand. It was so dainty, with little nails that could stand a manicure, and a hot oil massage as they were reddened and chapped, a callus on one finger.

Clearly the hands of someone who had to work all of her life.

Hard work.

“Ahem...” He cleared his throat ,being brought back down to Earth as his nephew clapped his shoulder for him to finish his thought.

“I just got back from the train station. I managed to get our departure expedited. We'll leave at seven, tonight. Our things are being packed up and taken to the station at this moment--”

“Michael!” Dr. Jackson cried in alarm and instantly his uncle was flagging at him.

“Calm down! Calm down! I packed your precious camera with the unpronounceable German name myself. I didn't let any harm come to it. Handled it like a newborn baby. I know you just bought it!”

Relief shown itself on Dr. Jackson's shiny face and he crumpled against the display.

“What time is it now?” Mr. Jackson remarked more to himself, than his companions and out of a pants pocket, he produced an ornate pocket watch.

The shiny timepiece piqued Odette's interest, but was gone from view as quickly as it appeared with his grumbling,

“About four hours from now...do you think we should start over there now, Taj?”

Both men rubbed at their clefted chins, mulling it over.

“Yeah, probably...”

Like Dr. Jackson, Odette let herself lean against the glass display case, looking at the many cosmetics for sale. She didn't know much about makeup, but once she had some money saved up, she wanted to at least try lipstick. She'd seen so many women walking around with painted pouts.

She wondered how she'd look with crimson lips.

There were so many brands to choose from. Tangee, Delica, Pert...

“...I can call ahead and arrange for us to take dinner on the train...”

“No more chicken breasts, please! No more chicken breasts!”

“Would broiled lamb suit you better, you Knucklehead?”

“As long as it's not a damned chicken breast, Uncle!”

“You're acting like its a crime to eat chicken, Taj. When I was a little boy, we only had chicken for Sunday dinner, after church!”

“It's not the 1880's anymore, Michael!”

Odette became aware of a light tugging on the sleeve of her coat.

She found the clerk whom had waited on Dr. Jackson earlier, beaming at her, gold teeth twinkling.

“Hey...I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute.” His Creole accent was quite heavy and even Odette was having a difficult go of understanding him.

“I haven't seen you around here before. You must be new in town. I was wondering, maybe you'd like to go to go the picture show with me after I get off at five. Do you like Mabel Normand? Or Nazimova? They've got some films playing down at the Rialto theatre. Maybe Charlie Chaplin? Do you like Buster—”

“We have a train to catch.”

Mr. Jackson was at once behind Odette, his hands pressed firmly on her shoulders.

Again the clerk wore a sullen expression, as, before she could even utter an apology or goodbye, Odette was turned and being escorted towards the door.

Most likely, never to see that young man with the gold teeth ever again.

And, as she was helped up into Mr. Jackson's grand car, Chester holding the door for her, Odette didn't realize that, for the very first time in her nineteen years, she'd been asked out on a date.

At least that was what the shopkeeper had been attempting when he'd been interrupted.

Twice.

* * *

“...Biloxi...Nashville...Louisville...Cincinnati...ALL ABOARD THE EAGLE EXPRESS!...Last call—Biloxi...”

Dusk had just begun to settle when that navy stretch coupe pulled up to the curb outside of the Fayette Parish Rail Station.

The chauffeur, in his black uniform, fairly blended in with the darkening surroundings, as he leapt to open door for his charges.

By then, Odette Dufrense, falling in step behind Mister and Doctor Jackson, was slowly growing accustomed to the general populous' reaction to them.

The men dressed so finely in tailored coats, suits and hats, Dr. Jackson limping slightly as he lugged the red case containing his precious, prized camera.

His reason for having ventured down to Louisiana in the first place.

(She owed that man her life; had he not wanted that camera and had Mr. Jackson tag along...she likely would have still been at the Orphan Asylum, destined to remain Madame Lenoir's slave until one of them mercifully died.)

And she hoped, now in better clothing, that she looked more like she belonged instead of some ragamuffin strangely attached to them.

The pair seemed unbothered by the stares, dropped jaws and craning necks their sheer presence evoked and were chattering quietly to each other as they crossed the crowded platform, heading towards the sign declaring in bold lettering: COLORED WAITING ROOM.

Odette looked about herself, quite interested as she'd never been to a train station, and all of the activity excited her.

People coming and going, children running about, couples hugging and kissing.

Porters skittering here and to, white teeth flashing as they moved luggage and hurried passengers along.

Slurred voices speaking English, French and mixes of both.

Odette paused near the edge of the platform, staring at locomotive idling on the tracks.

She'd never seen a real train before, other than on the crinkled pages of the Toulouse Tattler, rendered only in black and white—never in true-life color.

The huge, man-made behemoth, of sparkling chrome, even in the flicker of the gas-jetted lights was dazzling. The roaring engine shaped like a fine bullet.

That trains, pulled by bullets just like this one could traverse and crisscross the country in a matter of days moving hundred, if not thousands of people to their respective destinations.

It was incredible to Odette that not too long from now, she'd be on one of these ...dream machines, destined for that far away land....Canada.

In the half of a second it took Odette to look away from Mr. Jackson, a man had stepped in front of her.

He was a big, red-faced brute, watery blue eyes sparkling as he looked over her.

“Excuse me--” She tried to step around him.

“What's your hurry, little lady?” He asked in a teasing tone, lips folding back to show yellowed, tobacco stained teeth. “Where are you headed this fine evening?”

She could just make out Mr. Jackson's fedora and long hair further down the platform.

He was too far away, and the surroundings too loud for her to call out to him.

Her eyes drifted back to that swarthy face, greasy hair falling across his ruddy brow.

“T-T-Toronto...” She heard herself reply, lips quivering with nervousness.

Something about the way this man leered at her, unsettled her spirit.

He was just grimy, his expression nefarious.

“You're mighty far from Canada, ain't you?” The man winked at her, taking a step closer.

“Quite a jump from Louisiana up to--”

A hand gripped the back of Odette's coat and her feet left the platform she was jerked back with such force.

“She's Colored.”

Imparting himself between Odette and the stranger, was Dr. Jackson.

And it was clear, up until that declaration was made, that this masher had assumed she was a White woman.

Judging by the way he paled instantly and his mouth all but disappeared at the base of his face, he'd been struck as speechless as a deaf-mute and could only look on dumbly, as her hand was taken with her being pulled towards that sign.

“You've got to be careful Odette...” Dr. Jackson informed her, as they wove in and around people. “...based on how you look, and even sound speaking, people might mistake you for what you're not. And that's not safe around these parts. Even in some places up North, but it is better than it is down South...”

“I...I can't help my appearance...” Odette murmured, as they finally entered the Colored Waiting Room. “I didn't ask to look as I do--”

“None of us have.” Dr. Jackson glanced down at her as she was led to an empty wooden bench on the far wall near a pot bellied stove, where a few adults stood warming themselves idly. “Just you had the misfortune of being born in one of the places on Earth where it's more of a detriment than a benefit to you.”

She was seated, with Dr. Jackson placing himself closely beside her, setting the case on the other side of himself, so no one else could occupy the bench with them.

From a pocket on his trench, he produced a purple cellophane wrapped carton of cigarettes, placing one in his mouth.

The pack was offered to her, but Odette, whom had never even held a cigarette in her life, declined.

A match was struck with Dr. Jackson taking a long drag.

Exhaling. he spoke, more to himself than to the girl at his left,

“It's a pitiful existence...to only judge someone by the color of their skin and nothing else. Not their personality or merit, or contributions to this world. Based off some some ill-conceived, backwards ass stereotypes. Canada isn't perfect—there's prejudices all across this world, but damn it, I managed to make better for me and mine away from places like this. Little pockets of bigotry disguised as a quaint little town. Bullshit.”

He blew smoke in the air.

Several yards away, Mr. Jackson appeared, just outside the open doorway, speaking with one of the many porters.

A fingertip tapped at Odette's knee and she looked to Dr. Jackson, gazing at her over the tops of his spectacles.

“I'm sure there's a more tactful way I can go about asking this, but I'd like to know—exactly how White are you, Odette?”

It wasn't the first time Odette had heard that question and she was sure she'd hear it a million times more over the course of her lifetime.

“My Papa was half White, and my Mama was three-quarters. My grandfathers on both sides were from France, full-blooded Frenchmen. Papa's Papa was from Lyon, and Mama's Papa was from Nice.”

She could see the gears turning in Dr. Jackson's head as he fired up figures.

“You're five-eighth's White.” He surmised and was given a grim nod.

“But the other three-eighths is all most folks will see, it's all they'll ever see.” Odette shrugged, accepting her lot.

“When I was younger, people used to ask me why I didn't 'pass' for White. Run away from Madame and try to get into a White orphanage. Be adopted by a White family. I never wanted to, Dr. Jackson. Live my entire life on the basis of a lie? Constantly looking over my shoulder, worried that the secret will slip out? And why would I want to ignore a complete part of my heritage? The Colored part? The part that toiled as slaves, stolen from their homeland in the middle of the night by bandits? It'd be...disrespectful not to honor them by trying to hide them. People want to make out that being Colored is something shameful, and it isn't. No one person on Earth has been able to choose to whom they're born. What race they come out as. Any White person could have just as easily been born Colored and vice versa.”

She shook her head. “I hope to one day marry, have children. And I couldn't live with myself if I married someone under false...pretenses. Lied to my children about who they are. Where they came from. It's not right, Dr. Jackson. I feel like it will catch up to most folks in the end anyway. Why build up such a lie when one slip of the tongue can destroy it all? People have been killed—lynched for less.”

Odette knew... it was dangerous to be Colored in the South, but worse be found to be concealing that one was Colored in the South.

There were a group of people who donned sheets and rode under the cover of night eliminating people like her. No matter how pale or dark they were. Colored was Colored and that was all that mattered to some ignorant few.

Dr. Jackson was quiet, a long, pensive moment.

Odette Dufrense seemed not to say much, but when she did, she demonstrated a keen understanding of her situation, and had an intelligent take on it.

Lesser people would have lived the lie for however long to a disastrous outcome; Odette preferred to avoid it all.

Her life had already been hard enough as it was. What good could come of adding a tremendous lie to the mix?

One of the few lessons she'd learned from her parents was never to pretend to be something she was not.

She was proud to be Odette Dufrense, daughter of Edouard and Lysette, granddaughter of Jean-Luc and Clara, and Etienne and Louise.

As a train whistle blew shrilly, causing the entire depot to shake around them, Mr. Jackson approached, the porter to whom he'd been speaking, in tow.

“Taj, Odette...” He started and indicated the man smiling at his side. “This gentleman says we can start boarding the train. We'll depart in about fifteen minutes or so.”

“Do you want me to take your valise, Mister?” The porter offered, reaching for the red case.

“No, no, no!” Dr. Jackson was on the defensive, on his feet, hugging his camera to his chest. “I've got it. This is a very expensive piece of machinery here. I'll tote it myself.”

“Taj...” Mr. Jackson gave an exasperated sigh and pinched at the whittled bridge of his nose. “...you don't really mean to babysit that box all the way from here to Juniper Peak, do you?”

“I most certainly do--”

“Juniper Peak? I thought we were going to Toronto!”

Odette hadn't meant to speak out of turn, but the mention of an unfamiliar town had prompted her mouth to fly open without thought.

Mr. Jackson chuckled and patted at Odette's shoulders, explaining,

“Yes, we are riding the train from here up to Toronto, but while Taj lives on the mainland, my home is on the island of Juniper Peak. It's about a forty-five minute ferry ride. My nephew prefers the city, I like the slower pace of the country...”

Looping her arm over his, Mr. Jackson was leading Odette towards what appeared to be the back of the train, both trailing a few feet behind Dr. Jackson and the porter.

“Once you're settled at Rosewyck, you're more than welcome to venture into the city to go shopping or attend the cinema or plays or whatever it is you'd like to do in your free time.”

Mildly confused, Odette tugged at his sleeve,

“Is there nothing in Juniper Peak?”

Was Juniper Peak just another Toulouse Parish, only up North? Just a bump on the map where nothing was done and nothing happened? Was she to be relegated to a house in the middle of nowhere once more?

“Well, yes, there are shops and stores and a cinema in Juniper Peak...”Mr. Jackson began slowly, “...but Toronto has more variety, more options. I thought it would be more interesting to a girl like you.”

There was a kind, warm glow in his dark eyes.

Odette thought he had the most wonderful eyes.

“Mr. Jackson!”

Leaping down from one of the many packed cars was Chester, a somewhat troubled expression on his dark face.

“Yes?” His boss halted immediately.

“Sir, I hate to bother you, but I'm short about fifteen cents and I wanted to buy some food for the trip, there's boxed meals--”

Five crisp, dollar bills came out of a hidden pocket on Mr. Jackson and were being pressed into Chester's thick hand.

“Mr. Jackson, this is too much!” Chester started and Mr. Jackson only smiled at him.

“You've got to eat and...”He patted at his driver's bulging belly playfully,

“I want to make sure you've got enough.”

“Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Jackson!”Joy came to Chester's face and he shook Mr. Jackson's hand to the point his entire slender frame bounced, before jumping back up onto the rail car.

They walked a few more feet, and another inquiry bubbled up to the surface popping from Odette's pink mouth,

“Which of the Colored cars do I go on, Sir?”

“You're supposed to be on the one Chester just got on, but I saw what happened earlier. How that scoundrel was bothering you, Odette. I...don't believe that you would be safe traveling for almost forty-eight hours by yourself in a coach. Chester can fend for himself, but he's a man. A big man at that. You're a slim girl. I notice that you keep gathering unneeded attention and if any harm should come to you during this journey, I'd never forgive myself...”

They were nearing the end of the platform, where at the end, Dr. Taj Jackson was finally relinquishing that camera to the porter, speaking gruffly at him around the cigarette dangling from his pursed lips.

It was then, Odette saw a train car that differed vastly from those that preceded it.

The rest of the train had been that shiny silvery chrome, a soaring bald eagle etched into the side of each car, Eagle Express written under it in bright red lettering.

Except for this last car, just ahead of the silvery caboose.

The car looked to be twice as long as the others and instead of silver was a deep, rich red-brown, trimmed in a coppery gold.

Written on the side in gold script, were words that left Odette Dufrense speechless:

Michael J. Jackson Private Car

Odette stared up at Mr. Jackson in unbridled awe.

A private car!

This man had to be even wealthier than she could have ever fathomed if he were able to not only afford a private car to even start with, but had managed to travel down from Toronto on it!

No wonder he'd thought nothing of giving away dollars like pennies!

He could afford to give it away with nary a single dent left in his bank account.

There were no such thing as White cars or Colored cars; he had his own!

And he was allowing Odette the luxury of riding in it along with him and his nephew!

To ensure that she was safe?

It was still such a strange, abstract notion to have anyone other than herself and God looking out for her well-being.

But yes, she was starting to see that.

Michael Jackson was a good boss.

He took care of those employed to take care of him.

If he ate, his workers ate. If he traveled, so did his workers.

And the relationship had to be one of ease and camaraderie if Chester had felt comfortable enough to ask for fifteen cents, and come away with five whole dollars!

Yes, Michael Jackson was of a rare, dying breed, or perhaps the only one of his kind.

A rich man. A rich Colored man who didn't put on airs, or pretend he was better than others. He treated all as equals it seemed.

And Odette was impressed by Mr. Jackson all the more.

She had never been so impressed with one human being as she was Mr. Michael Jackson.

* * *

“...you should weigh at least forty pounds less than you do at present...the best thing for you to do is go on a very strict diet...one from which you have omitted all starches, fats and sugars...”

For the second night in a row, Odette Dufrense evaded sleep the way escaped convict evaded that mythic long arm of the law.

She should have stumbled off into the Land of Nod long ago, but she couldn't.

She simply couldn't.

She was far too excited.

Ecstatic.

In that chug-chug-chugging hunk of metallic luxury, she was on her way.

Far, far from Toulouse Parish, Louisiana.

Never again to set eyes on Madame Florianne Lenoir again if God so willed it.

For fifteen years, she'd been closed off from the world, hidden away at the Orphan Asylum.

Resigned to be that old wench's slave till Kingdom Come.

Or so she had so mistakenly thought.

It was still beyond the grasp of her young, inexperienced mind that she was truly here.

A passenger not just on the Eagle Express bound for Toronto, Ontario, Canada, but a passenger on the private car of Mr. Michael Jackson.

Odette wasn't one to build her own ego upon the accomplishments of others, but she was quite certain that her employer was likely the wealthiest man—White or Colored—on that train.

She had only to look around herself to be assured of it as a fact.

At that moment, she sat, propped up by a good half dozen plump pillows, in one of the three sleeping compartments on the car.

In the light of the bedside lamp, by which she had been reading the latest issue of Motion Picture Gazette, Odette marveled at her surroundings.

Last night, she'd been impressed with her room at L'Hotel Boudreaux, but it paled in comparison to her room now.

The room was quite masculine in color scheme, paneled in darkly stained wood, deep, royal blue velvet curtains with golden fringe adorned the two windows running alongside the bed, showing the blackened landscape that whizzed by.

The bed in which she was perched was even more sumptuous and felt as though she were tucked into a cloud, the sheets the same wonderful shade of blue, were soft and silky and Odette was quite convinced the bedding was made of pure silk.

(What else would she expect a person like Michael Jackson and his kin to rest upon each night and rise from each morn?)

Like the curtains, a thick plush blanket was made of more of that lovely velvet, onto the center of which a whirling rendition of his initials had been embroidered in gold threading.

She was so deliciously warm too—the room had it's own radiator, near the door, among many other lavish extras, a large desk with stationary, headed with Mr. Jackson's name, lovely desk and floor lamps featuring multicolored glass shades—much later Odette would learn these were the hallmark of Louis Comfort Tiffany's creations.

On the walls were framed paintings, depicting forest scenes, foxes tailing rabbits, bears feasting on fresh fish in a stream, and deer prancing about a vast green landscape.

Closing the magazine and setting it aside, Odette slipped from the bed, her bare footfalls masked by the plush hooked rug covering the majority of the floor.

With feline prowess and just as much stealth, Odette tiptoed, venturing out into the dim hall.

To the left she was greeted by a half dozen more of those velvet trimmed windows, showing the darkened surroundings.

Whether they were still in Louisiana or a neighboring state, Odette didn't know.

A pinprick of light on the horizon meshed with the billions of stars dotting the heavens overhead.

To the right, were the doors of the three sleeping berths.

The light in Dr. Jackson's chamber had been extinguished, but the door left ajar; the outline of his form was visible in the bed, soft snores intermittent.

Next to that, the door of the room containing the master of that rolling maison sat shut.

Odette regarded the door, mahogany inlaid with geometric shapes of white pine, briefly considering peeking in at Mr. Jackson, but not wanting to disturb him in any way, decided against it.

She proceeded to wander down the narrow corridor, the floor swaying gently from the constant movement atop steel rails, her small hands tracing after an elaborate tapestry of a medieval maiden knighting a gentleman whom bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Jackson, himself.

This both amused and amazed Odette, as she hadn't known it was even a possibility for one to be rendered in such a fashion.

The hall eventually gave way to the dining room, lit brightly by more of that ornate mosaic glass in the form of sconces along the wall.

The grand table, dressed in the finest white linens, seating six but set for three with fine ecru, gold rimmed china and gilt flatware.

The chairs covered in blue brocade and backed by a china cabinet featuring more plates, cups spoons and chargers.

Odette stared at the table, astonished to even be in such a room, much less having been allowed to sit and dine at it.

And yet, she did, just a few hours earlier.

Broiled lamb chops that were tender and pink in the center, with buttery baked pearl onions and cauliflower.

Odette had never eaten so well in her life and while Mr. Jackson and his nephew had two chops a piece, a third had come on her plate. Indeed, she cleaned the plate and also the dish of butterscotch pudding for dessert.

She didn't know what Chester the chauffeur had eaten up in the Colored car, but she hoped it had been as hearty and delicious as her meal.

It was still a wonder to her that she would no longer suffer going hungry, and would eat regular meals, every day.

In the center of the table, was a basket which had once been overflowing with hot cloverleaf rolls, only two of which remained.

Well, one, as Odette partook of one, surprised it was still quite soft, even if it were now cold.

Beside the basket a small dish contained what was left of the genuine sweet butter that had been shared among the three.

Picking up the gilt butter knife, Odette took a pat for herself, the metal tinkling against the china and started after the bread.

Nibbling at it and savoring the flavor, Odette took in another tapestry, showing what appeared to be fairies, tiny nude feminine figures, frolicking through oversized flowers.

It was so nice to have food again.

The knife made a louder clack as she avariciously scooped up the rest of the butter for herself--

And nearly threw the entire roll, when ahead of her, near the front of the car, a familiar voice called out,

“Taj, I hear you scavenging in the dining room, you Greedy Gut—bring me my cigarette case, please!”

Looking down at the table top, she saw that, yes, there was the silver and blue enamel case, at the head of the table where Mr. Jackson had presided over supper that evening.

“Taj!” Mr. Jackson repeated, his voice exasperated.

“It's not Taj, Sir...it's Odette....” She corrected him meekly, and vainly hoped she wouldn't be reprimanded for walking the floors at all hours.

“Oh!” The word was more gasped than spoken, followed by the sound of fervent scuttling.

Suddenly, in the doorway, he appeared.

Mr. Jackson, again wearing black pajamas, over which he'd draped a black robe, printed in a gold and silver paisley print, lingered, poking at the wooden floor with his own long, bare foot.

Odette glanced at him momentarily, then down at the half eaten roll and cigarette case (uneaten) in her hands.

He did appear quite fetching with his hair, usually smoothed and not a strand out of place, now mussed and falling into his face.

Behind which, his large, doe eyes focused on her.

If Odette hadn't so quickly broken the gaze, she'd have seen how those eyes wandered over her, wearing that simple, white nightgown, her own long ebony tresses tousled carelessly about her shoulders and down her back.

She was quite fetching herself, though she didn't realize it.

“I'm surprised to see you up so late...” He spoke slowly, approaching until he loomed over her.

Odette's delicate nostrils flared appreciatively, taking in his cologne, a fresh, strong musky aroma.

Why, he smelled as nicely as he looked.

“I trust you found your room and bed comfortable for our journey?”

“Yes, Sir, of course...” Odette stammered, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck raise as Mr. Jackson took the cigarette case from her. “I...I was just reading one of the magazines I got earlier--”

“What a coincidence...” He was smiling at her, those arched brows bouncing across his smooth forehead playfully. “...so was I. I was perusing the catalogue, trying to select your uniform. But seeing as you're awake, I'd like to get your input on it.”

Michael Jackson watched, in real time, as astonishment washed over Odette Dufrense.

The way both her light eyes and pinky mouth popped open and new color chased the anemic pallor from her cheeks.

“A uniform?” The head wagged from side to side and her own thick brows came together in consternation. “I get to have a uniform—but I already have dresses--”

“Those are for you to wear out and about in you free time, and to Mass on Sundays...not to work. And all of my servants have uniforms, like Chester. ”

A warm hand planted itself on her shoulder and Odette was being ushered nearer the front of the car to what Odette considered a mobile library.

Lining the walls were very many shelves, all of which were overflowing with varied tomes and periodicals.

The room itself was quite cozy, continuing to follow the blue scheme, with quilted leather divans and armchairs, faced by polished coffee and end tables.

Lamps with azure and aqua dragonflies adorned the tables, casting inviting glows here and there.

It was clear that Mr. Jackson had been on that couch for quite some time, as a mug of herbal tea had long since gone cold and a round ashtray contained ten mashed butts.

Beside both was a frankly fat, green hardbound book, the words Tremblay Apparel printed on the front in white block lettering.

The pair sat, with Mr. Jackson opening the book to a page that had been marked with a silver clip, the top of which featured a scrolling 'M' for Michael.

He had been looking over the portion of the book entitled Domestic Servants and the pages were filled with drawings of different styles of dresses, aprons and caps.

There were so many to choose from, as Mr. Jackson proceeded to flip a further twenty pages, that Odette was at once overwhelmed with so many choices.

Too many choices.

“Look them over, which do you like...” Mr. Jackson spoke casually, lounging against the leather armrest, producing a cigarette, and striking a match.

Having a choice in anything was still very new to Odette and a lifetime of being told was a habit that would take more than thirty-six hours to break.

“I'm....not certain....” She hesitated, running her fingers over the images, of different dresses. Some with hemlines that covered the feet, others more modern in that they fell to just below the knee.

Some had pleats, pintucks, dropped waists, buttons and lace while other were frightfully plain.

The prices ranged wildly also.

The plainest of frocks were about thirty cents, Canadian, to about three dollars for the fanciest, appearing to be trimmed in sheer floral lace about the collar and ruffled cuffs.

On the edge of the coffee table, a small golden clock with a pink face showed the time.

And counted from exactly four am until ten after during which Odette wrestled with herself, trying to compel a decision.

Yet, she was afraid. She didn't want to select anything too costly and have Mr. Jackson thinking she was taking advantage of his kindness; especially after he'd done so much for her thus far.

Peeking timidly over her shoulders, she found him, cancer stick to mouth, inhaling deeply, his eyes on her.

It was a glare that sent a strange chill running up and down her spine, that both frightened and excited her.

“I'm not sure what exactly to pick out...” She finally conceded in a near whisper of shame. “...you mentioned you had two other maids...what do they wear?”

“Um...” A perfect ring of smoke was exhaled, “Elsa and Mavis wear plain black dresses.”

“A plain black dress is perfectly fine.” Odette concurred, pointing out one of the cheapest dresses on the page, a simple shift without a button or trim to be found. A solid thirty-five cents.

She was going to work to earn her keep; she was to be a maid, not a fashion model.

“I can't envision you in a black dress...” Mr. Jackson declared, setting his cancer stick down in the ashtray. “With your coloring and features, I think a black dress would look too severe on you...”

Those deep orbs roved over the young girl's face, showing question marks where her eyes should have been, a clear indicator that not once in her brief existence had she ever considered her appearance when it came to dressing—what colors suited her and which needed to be avoided like the plague spun into fabric.

“All of the styles of dresses pictured are available in four colors: Black, Navy, Grey and Brown. I do believe a dress in grey will be most becoming on you, Odette. Especially to bring out your grey eyes. You know, you do have very lovely eyes. Not many people have true, crystal eyes like you. ”

Odette ducked her head, feeling her cheeks burning suddenly at the compliment and she so seldom received compliments.

“T-thank you, Sir.” Was all she could manage as she felt awkward and unsure of how to react.

A few pages were flipped and a long, whitened finger tapped at an image, Mr. Jackson stating with conviction,

“I think this dress will suit you quite nicely, Odette.”

The dress indicated was one of the more expensive modes, going for two-dollars and eighty-five cents. As noted it was a light, dove grey in color, featuring a sheer collar trimmed in two rows of white rickrack, a motif that repeated on the deep cuffs.

For an additional seventy cents, there was a matching apron.

Odette wanted to protest, decry the price as too much, but judging by the serene expression on Mr. Jackson's face, she could tell they were nothing more than numbers to him. Just a mild obstacle which he had the means to bound over with nary a worry in the world.

“There, that's settled.” Mr. Jackson slumped further in the seat, crossing one leg lazily over the other. “I'll send for your uniform when we arrive at the station in Canada... is something wrong?”

Unwillingly, at the mention of their arrival in a new country, Odette's face had shown displeasure by way of both the outer corners of her eyes and mouth dipping.

“Just...” Small hands began wringing in her lap. “...I hope I'll like Canada, and be able to get on well with the other servants in your house.”

His big hand encapsulated her smaller one, squeezing gently.

“You needn't worry about that Odette. A nice, sweet girl like you is sure to attract many friends. I wouldn't have hired you on if I didn't feel you'd fit in well with the rest...”

Mr. Jackson squeezed at her hand a second time, pleased to see the relief in that pale, oval visage.

Odette allowed her hand to be brought closely to his face, where her employer was giving it a much closer look.

The chapped, reddened dermis, the smattering of calluses about the tips and the nails, uneven and a strange yellowed color.

“Hmm, once you're settled at Rosewyck, we'll see about getting you a manicure and some lotion to help with healing your hands. Especially in the harsh cold weather up there. Girls aren't supposed to have rough hands—men are.”

Tickled by the statement, as Mr. Jackson himself was a walking contradiction, as he had the smoothest softest hands, male or female, Odette had ever felt and she told him so.

Mr. Jackson laughed outright at this, a tinkling, merry sort of noise and admitted,

“It wasn't always that way, believe you me.”

He went to his mouth with the cup of tea with his free hand, still gripping her hand in the other.

“Tell me, Odette, how far did you get in your schooling before you were sent to the Orphan Asylum?”

“About midway through the first grade, Sir. I...I wish I could have finished my schooling, but it just wasn't done while I was in the Asylum. None of us kids got any schooling.”

Odette turned from Mr. Jackson, unable to endure his gaze, but felt it on her back just the same.

“I wish I could have completed it—my late parents set a mighty big store by education. And, I did so enjoy reading and learning when I was a child.”

The divan bounced slightly as Mr. Jackson slid a bit closer, repeating,

“You enjoy reading?”

“Oh yes...” Odette nodded, still staring off across the car. “I felt rather...stupid at dinner tonight, listening to you and Dr. Jackson discussing that book by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned. I had no idea what you were talking about, but it was so...so exciting to hear intelligent conversation, even if I couldn't participate. No one at the Asylum really read anything and Madame didn't speak to us, just at us. Barking orders and the like. I'd love to sit and read and think deep thoughts and discuss them with people.”

Mr. Jackson slid further closer, and draped an arm around Odette's shoulders which he found to be trembling. And not from the cold as the interior of the private car was toasty and had been throughout the journey.

“One of my nieces, Cornelia, is downright ghastly at arithmetic, and her father—Taj's brother Taryll—has hired a tutor to help her keep up with her peers. If you are intent to complete your studies, I will consider hiring him on to help you, Odette.”

Odette Dufrense couldn't have been more shocked if she had put her finger in a live socket.

She was to receive schooling? She was going to be allowed to finish and earn her diploma? She was going to be able to fulfill her late parents' wishes after all?

“Mr. Jackson!”

Her voice rattled the walls as Odette threw herself against him, embracing his svelte form tightly.

“I don't know how to thank you for your kindness, Sir.” She was so very close to crying all over again. “I promise you'll I'll be the best gentleman's maid I can be! I swear it!”

Her hair was stroked, Mr. Jackson resting his chin atop her head.

“I know you will be, Odette. I don't know how I know, but I do know.”

Odette lingered, her head on his chest, the sound of his heart beating steadily against her ear.

She never wanted to forget this moment.

The sound of his heart, the feel of his silk robe and pajamas, the powerful aroma of his cologne and the mild smoky vanilla scent of the cigarettes implanted themselves in her mind, her very DNA, never to be erased.

A gasp bubbled from Odette as she felt Mr. Jackson's lips, warm, damp and ever so soft peck her forehead.

She found her face held in his hands, with him looking over her face.

How strangely he regarded her. How his eyes glowed. How his brows raised and there was something of a sadness in that look, in his appearance, but for the life of her, Odette couldn't figure why.

Again, he leaned and pecked on her forehead, Odette closing her eyes in what was possibly the closest she'd ever been to rapture in all of her nineteen years.

“You should head on back to bed.” Mr. Jackson advised finally. “It's far too late for a young girl like you to be up. Next thing you know it'll be morning and we'll be having breakfast.”

“Yes Sir.” Reluctantly, Odette rose, and started for the door, half expecting him to follow, to go about his own slumber. “Good night.”

“Good night to you.”

Instead, she found him reclining on the divan, putting his feet where once she sat and was picking up a book from the smaller side table.

Antic Hay by Aldous Huxley.

Glancing around the room at all the interesting books with even more interesting titles, Odette knew one thing.

She wanted to read books. Read all these magnificent books, fiction and non, and sit talking about them by the hour with Mr. Jackson.

She wanted to be intelligent and witty and bright. She wanted to impress him as he had impressed her.

Odette had no money, was erroneously unsure of her looks but she did have her mind. And like a cat going after a couch with zeal, she planned to sharpen her mind.

Intellect, as well as beauty, were more valuable to a girl than her own weight in gold.

Leaving Mr. Jackson to his novel, Odette began the long walk back to her room.

Coming to the back of the car, she found Taj Jackson, in black Watch Plaid pajamas leaning against his door frame, smoking.

Peering over the tops of those round lenses at her.

Odette started to bid him a good night also, but was interrupted,

“What's that shining on your face?”

Before she could stop him, Dr. Jackson had rubbed his thumb, roughly across her forehead.

“What is this—grease?” He was speaking more to himself than Odette.

The eyes shot back up when she informed him,

“Your...uncle...Mr. Jackson kissed my forehead.”

Dr. Jackson's mouth twisted off to the side and for a moment he rolled the tips of his thumb and index finger together, mashing at the substance.

“Hmm, his lip balm.”

Reaching up, he removed his spectacles, and cut a glare so lethal, Odette shrank back fearfully.

But he wasn't looking at her.

Dr. Jackson was looking towards the front of the car, where his relative still sat reading.

“Go on to bed, Odette.”

It wasn't a suggestion, as he gave her a shove so hard she nearly fell over her own two feet.

Staggering Odette regained her balance, and spun around to catch sight of Dr. Jackson hurrying towards the front of the car.

Confusion cloaking her, Odette retreated to her berth, her mind flying.

She knew something was wrong, but not what?

And whether or not it was her fault.

Odette spent the rest of night in tears.