It was a standard, London morning-gloomy, crisp and foggy. One could barely see an inch ahead of himself, which was not convinient. Espeically not if you were a woman, alone, not to add walking through the slums of Lindebo. All the things mentioned were true for Anastazia Bartos. Of course, there was more to add. Like the fact she was a fine dressed woman, with her wide, sky blue dress and a matching bonnet covering her hair. The latter, long and straight, boucned on her back, tied with a ribbon of the same color as the woman's eyes-light blue. According to the cirumstances, it seemed to be her color. It even suited her well, adding that special something to her slim figure. Anastazia walked with her head up high, her dress swelled by her full bosom. There was a shawl thrown carefully over her decolletage, but it slipped down, uncovering her beautifully shaped chest. The young woman seemed to remain oblivious of it, or she merely did not care for the detail this carelessness could lead someone to believe she was of the disrespectable kind. Honorless kind. Neither did she seem to mind the sight of her bosom could make any man's gaze stroll down to her tiny waist, then to the wide part of her dress--at that point, he might want to raise it and explore what lay underneath it. But was there one valid reason for her to mind...to care?

It was unseemly to her. After all, why should she hide the reason for men to come to her...when they did so all the time? Why should she hide her decolletage with shawls, when in the matter of hours she would have to uncover it again? And was there one reason why shouldn't men have the wish to raise her skirt...when every day, she had to raise it for them herself? Acting a respectable citizen would be the same as living in an illusion, an illusion which would last too short to be enjoyed. Yet still it would hurt, it would hurt unbearably and she would have to go through the painful process of giving up her dignity once more. She wanted no such thing. It was a long time ago when she was last an honorable woman...she couldn't even remember exactly how long. Oh, how distant those blissful times seemed, how distant was the shine of the ballrooms, the shuffling of the expensive ballgowns, the shining of the shoes men wore along with their plush suits...
And how distant was the warm embrace of her father, the softly spoken words of her mother...how far away was his touch...Not now, Anastazia. You can't think about that now.. His touch, his smile, his eyes, his hair...his body, his lips, his uniform, his voice...No...no, God, please, not again..Yet the memories were persistent. In a matter of seconds, thousands of them popped out in her head. They progressed so quickly, now she could picture him clearly in her mind. The feeling of his distance, even the fact that he was no longer among the living faded away, as if disappearing in the turmoil her feelings were in. Her protests stopped as well. She felt some warmth creep into her broken heart. She felt as if he was here, standing by her side. When her eyelids, heavy from last night's working, closed over her orbs, she could almost feel his breath on her neck, as well as his hand on her belly...

Once again, Anastazia Bartos was drawn into another life...a life in which she was not Anastazia, the prostitute in the nearby brothel, the woman who earned for living by offering her body to anyone that came along. No, no. In this other life, she was Miss Anastazia Bartos, soon to become Mrs. Rhett. A 16 year old lady from a respectable family, donning expensive gowns and being pampered by numerous governesses...with other words, a young soul who had not yet learned the cruel lesson of life. A one on whom no pain or suffering was yet inflicted. Then it all changed in a matter of seconds. Anastazia often recalled it with a simple metaphor-she was on the top of a mountain and then suddenly slipped and fell. And the fall did not end until she hit the bottom. Perhaps sometimes it looked as if the bottom was this-being a prostitute, a whore. But for Anastazia, the bottom was hit when James died. When the love of her life was taken away by that one bullet...Oh, for how many times did she curse that bullet! For how many times did she curse the runaway slaves that shot him...but it did her no good. It only embittered her more and more, taking the will for life further and further from her grasp.

She felt the anguish inside of her grow. This despair, this powerlessness, inferiority, inability to do anything, to go back were things that drove her insane. With a shaky inhale of the dirty air, which filled her lungs, Anastazia quickened her step. She wanted to get rid of this feeling, she wanted the pain to become number, she wanted it to go away...but it was impossible. Never to happen. For five years, she had been trying...and she still was doing so. Only she put much less effort into it. It proved pointless to concern herself with something that could never ever come true.
A silent tear crept down her fair skin, over her cheek and onto her chest. There, the droplet made its way into her dress, feeling more like a rock than like water. All of a sudden, Anastazia was very cold. Placing the shawl over her chest, she noticed that it was almost completely wet. Her gloved, trembling hand flew to her eyes. It was then when she realized she had been crying for all the time. Her palm slipped down from her eyes to her mouth, a soft exclaim escaping the latter. One was clear to her at the moment-she could not bear this burden any longer. It was destroying her, tearing her apart like a paper in a storm. One day, it was surely going to be the end of her. Perhaps that would be to her likings, for she didn't have many reasons to go on. The only thing that kept her from ending her life by now was the prmise she made to James. A weak beam danced on her full lips for a moment. Oh, how well he had known her...how well indeed, when he was aware she wouldn't want to go on agter his death...so he made her promise. And so she did. It was his dying wish, and she intended to respect it. As hard is it was, she was managing somehow. She was surviving.

Leaning against a brick wall, Anastazia let the sadness and the pain break through. She allowed the sobs to shake her body, the rivers of tears to flow down her cheeks, as she slipped down to the floor-a depicture of a woman torn apart.

Tirzah Grant-Freeman was on her way home. She was not happy at all. Due to her failing eyesight, she had to have her spectacles in order to work. She had forgotten them at home, and now she was going back there to get them, and it was this which made her unhappy, although indirectly. Her employer, from a long association of fifteen years with Tirzah, knew her to be trustworthy and capable. Thus he had sent her out of his tailor-shop with her work for the day. Take it home, he said, no need to have to work late coming back here to finish it. Save your feet the effort. Bring it back tomorrow. I trust you. So now Tirzah had her bundle.

She was very much afraid that the fellow felt sorry for the poor old lady who was going to have to walk. But since he also knew her personality, he had managed to phrase his comments in such a way that she couldn’t refuse without seeming too proud and haughty. And he was right, it would cost her an hour’s work-time to get the spectacles and bring them back. But still. She didn’t like it. Besides, the shop had bright light and overlooked the river. Tirzah’s little garret had almost no windows and had to be light by smoky oil-lamps—she couldn’t afford the gas-lamps or the newfangled electric-lamps that richer people could—and was not altogether the best place for working on delicate stitchery. But, she had to, so she would.

The road grew gradually worse, sliding from a good one with only the occasional cobblestone missing and minor debris along the gutters by the tailor-shop to a bad one with large patches of missing paving and huge wheel-ruts where the heavy merchant-wagons had destroyed first the cobblestones and then the ground underneath. This was the better part of the slums; Tirzah took a few turns and then she was in the narrow wending ways of the inner slums, where the lanes were too narrow for the wagons and carriages and sometimes barely wide enough for two people to pass without touching. Here there was only pathetic attempt at paving; if anything it seemed more like an earthen road with a few lonely cobblestones laying where they had fallen after being thrown at something. This was where Tirzah lived. She turned again and was walking along one of the wider closes; this one could fit maybe as much as five people abreast. And that was when she came upon the figure weeping beside the road. She went closer, to see, her automatic reaction to try and help; Tirzah would be the first to admit that this was not the normative reaction of people in the slums, and the first to then begin to orate in no uncertain terms that it should be.

The child was a whore, a girl who sold herself to make ends meet. Tirzah had no pity for such as she. They either chose their lives or were forced into it, but the end result was the same; a woman whom society looked down upon. There was not one of these white girls that had endured half the hardships that Tirzah had in her sixty-odd years of life—why should she feel pity for them where she did not for herself? Yet neither was she indifferent or cruel to them, as so many others were. They were people too, after all, just as Tirzah was a person way back in the old country, when no one but she had seemed to notice it. Tirzah treated the girls that roamed her neighborhood looking to sell their bodies just as she treated all people everywhere; she doused them with the full force of her compassion. Unless they happened to be the sort that thought that Tirzah wasn’t worth beans because of her skin, in which case she flooded them with all her contempt and harassed them until they left the area.

Thus, what Tirzah did just then, when she saw the whore-girl curled up against the smeared brick wall, sitting in all the gutter-filth and sobbing her eyes out, was exactly what she would have done for any other person in that situation. She hitched her work-bundle over her shoulder to keep it out of the muck and squatted down beside the girl, her multitudinous skirts and shawls bunched around her. She patted the girl gently on the shoulder.

“Lawssakes, chil’! Why tha riva o tears? Well, git thyself up, no use jest a-sittin’ there, now i’ there? Come an’ ha’ a cup o’ tea an’ yah kin tell Tirzah what be tha prol’m. Come on, chil’, come on.”

"Lawssakes, chil’! Why tha riva o tears? Well, git thyself up, no use jest a-sittin’ there, now i’ there? Come an’ ha’ a cup o’ tea an’ yah kin tell Tirzah what be tha prol’m. Come on, chil’, come on.”

When Anastazia heard the words, a hand was already resting on her shoulder. At frist she jerked almost violently, for she did not hear Tirzah approaching through her sobs. Then, she looked up with her red eyes, noticing an old woman standing above her. She couldn't be any younger than sixty, assumed by her snow-white hair and wrinkled face. Anastazia remembered her mother, Agata, telling her each wrinkle on a person's face stood for one hardship they had endured in their lives. Whenever she would see a wrinkle, the girl would wonder-for which hardship did it stand? Physical abuse? Sexual abuse? Social abuse? Extreme poverty? Loss of a beloved person? When she was younger, it was her private game, guessing these hardships. If she had been a little girl, she would attempt counting Tirzah's worries and hardships. She would see a book, not a woman before her. But her will for games had left her a long time ago. All that her eyes recognized was an old lady offering to help her. An old lady of black skin.

Firstly, Anastazia was a bit taken aback. For a moment, this old lady was slave in her eyes. Or at least she thought she should be. Despite the fact her home country abolished slavery and serfdom long before her birth, those two years in Richmond affected her opinions greatly. Perhaps not so the fact she lived in a city which could be referred to as rather pro-slavery, but the man she fell for. James. Both Agata and Lajoss, her parents, had a certain dislike for the black people. But it was far from wanting them enslaved. Anastazia, as a child, believed slavery to be a moral evil. But when she met James, it was clear to her he won't abide opinions like that. Not that it would prevent him from marrying her or loving her. It would simply prevent his family from accepting her, which could result with him being estragned from them, even disowned if it went truly far. In her mind, a crossroad appeared, a crossroad with only two paths-accept his beliefs or lose him. Without hesitation, she chose the former. It turned out to be easier than she thought it would, for within a few months, she took those beliefs even more to her heart than he did himself.

Her resent for the black people continued after his death, the asset of him being killed by runaway slaves helping it evolve. There was even one tad of hatred within her heart. Just that she did not show it anymore. If there was a dispute on that subject-or any other, as the matter of fact-she would draw out of it, moving as far as she found possible. The fire within her had died but the flame had not been taken out yet. So, when she first spotted the woman leaning over her, she thought of jumping away from her, even shaking off her hand. But then, in this torn state she was, she started to see less and less sense in that course of action. This was England. Slavery was abolished here for half a century, if not more. The blacks were completely free, with all the rights of a human being. Even if she would show spite for this woman, it would only result in making an enemy, what she didn't need, considering the fact she had no friends at all. It was hard to stand up to someone on your own, no matter how weak or old the said person was.

Besides, the old woman's eyes showed nothing but compassion and good will to help. It was something Anastazia rarely saw in anybody's eyes. There was no pity, no racism, no resent...the woman just wanted to help her. So, why not go with her? As appalling as the idea seemed at first, it slowly became much less so. Surprisingly, the guilt she felt because of that also reduced. James would not mind it if he was there, alive. Surely he would not! At his plantation in Georgia, there were plenty of slave women, and James's younger sisters went to them for advice for numerous times. Not to mention they were comforted and helped by them. Was there much difference between talking to an enslaved black or a free one? And it would be just talking, not supporting any of her causes or anything among those lines. Foricng a smile, Anastazia spoke, her voice soft and still a tad whimpery.
"Thank you...Madam." As she pushed away from the floor, she felt the pause before 'Madam' was too long. The other woman was going to doubt now. Anastazia had to talk quickly if she wanted it to remain unnoticed, "Thank you a lot."
Regardless her mind working a hundred miles per hour, she could not think of anything else to say.

(OOC: I figured you’d follow, but if you had planned not to, just let me know, and I’ll change it. :) )

The girl seemed surprised, but Tirzah was used to that reaction. Many people simply could not believe that another person might care to lend them a hand without being connected by relation, or without asking anything at all in return. Tirzah felt that if each person made it a point to lend such a hand without asking for anything at least once a day, then the world would not only be a much better place, but people would be happier themselves. ”Thank you,” the girl said, and Tirzah was about to assure her that there was no need to thank her when the girl added, ”Madam.” Tirzah’s eyes narrowed slightly. What was this? The girl added, ”Thank you a lot.” But Tirzah was still back on the “Madam.” Did the girl think that she was a brothel-owner? No, it couldn’t be that, not with Tirzah dressed as she was, and with the color of skin she had.

So the girl had to be using it as a title of respect. It should have come much sooner then, or not at all. The girl could have gotten away without any such term added to the thanks; often in the slums people forgot the niceties of “proper” society. Was it that she didn’t think Tirzah deserved it, perhaps because of the fact she was coloured? Well, if that was the case, it would come out soon enough, and the girl would find Tirzah’s helping hand swiftly withdrawn and reapplied as a shove to her back on the way out the door. But until then, Tirzah would just ignore it. The girl had managed to stand up on her own, so Tirzah straightened from her crouch. The girl towered over her, but Tirzah was used to that; she had yet to meet a person who was not a child under the age of twelve that was shorter than she was. Tirzah said, “No nee’ ta thank ol’ Tirzah, chil’, no nee’.” But it was nice of her to do it anyway, she noted to herself.

Tirzah saw that the girl’s dress, which was a beautiful light blue creation that showed far too much of her breasts to be decent, had gotten spotted and stained from her time in the gutter. The old seamstress brushed at the more obvious speckles for the girl, but some of it was just plain not going to come off without a wash. Tirzah wondered if the girl knew how to wash such a delicate fabric herself, or if she had to have it done by a laundress. Eh, well, no matter. Tirzah was well-experienced in fabrics, and could do it for her. Of course, the girl would have to be persuaded to take it off and wear some of Tirzah’s own clothing for a while, but if she was in the garret for a cup of tea anyway, she should see the sense in taking care of it while she was there. “These spo’s, chil’ they come righ’ ou’, don’ yah worry none. Tirzah can hel’ yah wi’ tha’ too. Well, come on, then, chil’, this way.”

She started to walk up the street, adroitly avoiding the piles of trash careless people had left out. The girl followed her, and Tirzah let them both into the building where she rented her garret. They climbed five flights of stairs, steep and narrow, before they got to her set of rooms. Tirzah unlocked the door, bustled in and set her work-bundle on a rickety table, and withdrew her spectacles from a hard wooden case on a spindly side-table. Slipping them on to her nose, she bustled back over to the girl, getting her first good look at Anastazia. “Well, yah are a purty one, chil’. Well, come in, no use, stannin’ on the step li’e a potato. Come in, an’ we’ll ge’ the tea started.”

She held the door wide, pulling Anastazia in, and then shut it. She ushered the girl over to the table with the work-bundle on it, sitting her in a comfortable old chair with a worn look about it. “Mah name be Tirzah Grant-Freeman, chil’, but yah kin jest call me Tirzah. Ain’t always bin Tirzah, but by golly Ah will be till the day God calls for me, now. And wha’s thy name, then?”

Anastazia felt a surge of relief pass her when the woman showed no signs of noticing her short reluctance. Only now did she notice how short Tirzah really was-in comparison, she herself seemed like a tower. Althogh it was obvious this woman could not truly hurt her phisically, Anastazia found it clear there was a lot of things she could do to make her life worse. If of mean nature, or at least proud and vengeful, Tirzah could spread bad rumors about her, repulsing her potential clients. That would result with her eventual dismissal from the brothel, for the owner would not tolerate any lack of publicity, not to mention he had more whores than he actually needed to earn for a decent living. Then, she would really have no place to go to and nobody to turn to. Perhaps the shabbiest hotel would take in a whore nobody wants to sleep with...except for sham who cannot afford anything better. If she, on the other hand, made friends with Tirzah, or just kept their relationship at neutral, her numerous clients would continue coming in. That was why she smiled politely, following the old woman into a nearby house up the street. It was not much, she noticed, but at least she had a house, unlike herself.

“Mah name be Tirzah Grant-Freeman, chil’, but yah kin jest call me Tirzah. Ain’t always bin Tirzah, but by golly Ah will be till the day God calls for me, now. And wha’s thy name, then?”

Anastazia managed to decipher Tirzah's words, although some did give her a hard time. Still, she was not going to mention it and neither could it be seen on her face. Before, in her childhood and at the time she met James, she had been really impulsive. She had often acted without much thinking, and her face was a clean reflection of her feelings. In the years she spent in her current profession, it became much easier due to common use. When you are a whore, when your customer is there, you have to act the way he wants you to, be who he wants you to be, and, in other words, do everything he pleases. As his slave. He would not care for you having a bad day, being confused, etc. Once, back in Budapest, she heard one noble man say: 'An actress is not always a whore, but a whore certainly must be an able actress.'

"Anastazia. I'm Anastazia Bartos."

When she took a better look at it, this was the first time she introduced herself to anybody within the past few months. Rare customers asked for her name, most just came by and took her, or gave her one. She recalled the last calling her Lotte. His little Charlotte, he called her. It was a particulary gentle one, not leaving a single trace of their act on her. He was very unlike one other man, who called her Denise and left a nasty bruise on her face. Of course, it did not stop the customers from coming, because there were some perverted souls who were excited by bruised women. Of course, she could rarely get a night off. Actually, she never even asked for one.

Anastazia took another good look of Tirzah's home. It was not that bad at all, providing its location. Nearby a window, the young woman noticed a small, round table and three shabby chairs. As unseemly as it may had sounded, this seemed like heaven to her. Oh, what wouldn't she give for a house of her own, a place she could call home! And for a decent life, even if it would bring her half less profits than the brothel. Her imagination carrying her away, she imagined herself working as a shopkeeper, or a maid or a governess...for a decent employer, of course. Then she would have better chances of getting married,having a big family...

It was definitely time for her return to reality. These dreams would do her no good. Walking over to the chair, she cast another beam at Tirzah.
"May I sit down?"

“O course, chil’, o course. Make yaself at home,” Tirzah replied, somewhat surprised that the girl thought it necessary to ask. Did she think Tirzah would bring her to the house for a cuppa and then have her stand the whole time? That would be ever so rude, not to mention that it would hurt Tirzah’s neck to have to crane up at the girl the whole time.

As Anastazia sat down, Tirzah bustled over to the kitchen of the measly set of rooms she rented; hardly larger than three metres long and two wide, it was tiny. She stuffed wood into the pot-bellied stove contained therein, and kindling, and sprinkled on a little kerosene and lighted it on fire. Soon enough a good blaze was going, and she set water in a kettle to boil. She pulled down a couple of chipped cups from the cupboard above the sink pump and set them on the counter, along with a tea-strainer. Then she went back into the room where Anastazia was.

She immediately saw the spots on the girl’s dress again. Oh yes. She had meant to wash the dress before the girl left. She walked over to a clothes-chest of things that no longer fit Tirzah herself, or had never been hers in the first place. She pulled out a few of her old clothes, from when she had been thinner and younger, and held them up, mentally fitting the girl in them. It was such a humorous image, thinking of stuffing the girl into clothes meant for a woman so much shorter than her that Tirzah chortled to herself as she refolded them into the chest. It would have to be something old of Rachel’s then. She pulled one of her daughter’s bloomer outfits from the chest and hung it across her arm, turning back to the table and Anastazia. She settled herself into a different chair. “Now then, chil’. Those spo’s come righ’ ou’ if yah jest let ol’ Tirzah wash tha dress fo’ yah. Won’ be no ex’ra effor’ neither, Ah was warshin’ mah clothes to-day anyway. Yah kin wear mah girl’s ol’ clothes while Ah do; she was a bi’ higher but Ah ‘spect i’ll fi’ jest fine.”

The kettle whistled from the kitchen just then, and Tirzah placed the set of clothes she intended to have Anastazia wear while her clothes were washed in the extra chair and walked back to the kitchen to make the tea. The way Tirzah walked was with such controlled energy that it almost seemed that at that moment the world must revolve around her. It was as if Tirzah would never be crushed, and never die, as if her spirit was of such ferocious will that she would continue forever in her life, going her own quiet way. She strained the tea into the chipped cups, which did not match each other, and brought them back to the room where Anastazia was. Setting one on the table by the girl, without placing a saucer underneath it for Tirzah had no saucers in the house, Tirzah plumped herself into her chair again.

She sipped the tea appreciatively and commented, “Ain’t nothin’ finer than a cuppa when yah be down in tha dumps, chil. Now then, yah was goin’ the tell Tirzah abou’ why yah was cryin’ in the stree’. No’ exac’ly safe, chil’. Wha’ is the prol’m then?”

Anastazia sat down, careful not to ruffle her dress. The effort seemed meaningless, though, for it was already stained and dirtied. Madeline felt something inside of her quiver-this was the same dress she wore on the day she met Tom---it was the only one of her belongings she could not bring herself to sell to survive. All the others were gone. Not only dresses-jewlery, paintings, music boxes...no, she was wrong here. There was one music box she had also not sold in the times of need; one she kept safely hidden under her cupboard. It was something Tom had given her for her seventeenth birthday, only a month before the...tragedy...happened. Her father was already dead at the time, as well as her mother, so Tom took special care of her...as always. That very same music box, with an engraved yellow rose and golden letters which said 'Anastazia', was merely one of the tokens of his appreciation. One dearest to her heart. Made of finest carved wood, when opened it'd play "Yellow Rose Of Texas". Madeline felt warm around her heart when recalling that comforting sound-it had always been their song-her and Tom's. He used to call her like that-his Yellow Rose of Virginia, for they weren't in Texas.

The chair made a loud screech as it felt her full weight, causing her to fret about it breaking. That worry only lasted for a second, though. Chairs don't break under people of normal weight. They only break under those who are overweight. Anastazia was not overweight, but she still sat stiffly, almost afraid to move. She had already embarassed herself, there was no need to do so any more. Breaking a chair would definitely be counted as an absolute embarassement.

“Now then, chil’. Those spo’s come righ’ ou’ if yah jest let ol’ Tirzah wash tha dress fo’ yah. Won’ be no ex’ra effor’ neither, Ah was warshin’ mah clothes to-day anyway. Yah kin wear mah girl’s ol’ clothes while Ah do; she was a bi’ higher but Ah ‘spect i’ll fi’ jest fine.”

Again, Anastazia was taken aback by the old woman. Washing her dress? That was nice. But the thought of wearing her daughter's one...not so. Quit that, Anastazia. A dress is a dress. Besides, you don't want to seem rude, insolent or anything alike...not any more than you want your dress to be stained forever. It was a matter of her own heart now-could she possibly look into the good eyes of the old woman and cold-heartedly refuse her offer? No, of course not. Surely she couldn't. So her response was spoken gallantly and politely, with a bob of her head.

"Thank you, that would be very nice of you." She eyes the dress, and only then noticed-it was no dress! It was a mixture of...trousers and a very short dress. Definitely not something she was ever seen wearing. Of course, she had heard of it. It was one of those infamous 'Bloomer Outfits'. Worn by women attempting to be more like men...Anastazia personally found that dumb and annyoing. Women were women, men were men. The fair sex had their rights just as males did, only they were not allowed to vote, mendle with politics and such. Anastazia liked to make a political remark here or there, but it was nothing you could call obese. Besides, walking around in a bloomer outfit would feel like walking around in underwear. She was not a decent woman, but at least she would try collecting as much of her dignity she had left and never step into one of these ridiculous things. Her lips pressing against each other, she wanted to refuse, but decided otherwise in the end. It was not like anyone would see her...forsake this old woman, who would not mention a word to anybody.

Taking the outfit carefully into her hands, she wanted to ask for some privacy, when the old woman walked to the kitchen to get the tea. As quickly as possible, Anastazia slipped out of her dress, jumping into the weird outfit. Lord, I could have simply worn my underwear instead! Still, she did feel a bit more clothed this way. Laying the dress on the third chair, she sat back down, waiting for the tea to arrive. During that period of time, she pondered her situation. Was she really about to tell this woman about her troubles? It was a very difficult step-she had never told it to anyone living before. Ah, well. If Tirzah asks anything, she will form a simple, undefined answer. Yes, that was for the best.

Tirzah returned, with two cups of tea in her hands. She put one before Anastazia, sitting down and taking a sip out of her own.
“Ain’t nothin’ finer than a cuppa when yah be down in tha dumps, chil. Now then, yah was goin’ the tell Tirzah abou’ why yah was cryin’ in the stree’. No’ exac’ly safe, chil’. Wha’ is the prol’m then?”

Anastazia fiddled with the cup a bit before sipping the warm liquid and allowing it to climb down her throat. It really did feel good, refreshing in a manner of speaking.
"Well...life can get hard at some points, can it not?" Too easily seen through. She might as well say it all now, "I...really don't know where to start. Perhaps with...losing my parents? My fortune? Having the only man I ever loved killed by some Neg...." She wanted to say Negroes. It was not a good step, but the damage was done now. How could she possibly repair it? How silly of her, how insolent, how rude! She could only hope Tirzah would understand.

Tirzah listened to the girl, and the stained dress was forgotten on the extra chair. Life could get hard at some points, the child said, as if that would fool Tirzah that it was something small to make the girl weep like that. Unless maybe the child was high-strung? Tirzah trained a steady eye on the girl, silently using the force of her presence to command the girl to either spill the beans or try harder for an excuse. The girl apparently felt it, because she said haltingly, ”I...really don't know where to start. Perhaps with...losing my parents? My fortune? Having the only man I ever loved killed by some Neg..." She wisely did not finish the sentence, perhaps realising the peril she put herself in.

Tirzah gazed steadily at Anastazia. For a time there was nothing but silence between them, as Tirzah contained her anger. The child had lost her man, apparently, at the hands of black people. She spoke in rage, and anger made people say things, and feel things, they might otherwise consider wrong. The child should be given a chance to change. So Tirzah did not speak again until her voice was flat and calm. “Negros, yah meaned ta say, chil’? Or niggehs? Did yah mean tha’, in yah angah, chil’? I’ canno’ ha’ scarped yah notice tha’ Ah am black, chil’. Yah migh’ guar’ yah tongue mo’ caref’ly in tha house o’ ladies wha’ keeps a Winchesser o’er tha mantle, jest in case no all o’ them is as kin’ and unnerstannin’ as Ah am. Do yah ha’e niggehs, then, chil’?”

The old lady slipped off her chair, which did not actually raise the height of her head at all. She held up a hand to forestall anything that Anastazia might attempt to say and began to take off her shawls. A pile of them grew on her chair, until she wore nothing but her blouse. She began to unbotton the front and turned her back to Anastazia, letting the blouse slip to her waist, displaying her bare back to Anastazia. “Do yah see tha’, chil’?”

It would be instantly obvious what she was referring to. Tirzah’s back was a mass of ugly scars, stretching from the back of her neck where her bun rested all the way down to disappear under the fabric of her skirt. Even the backs of her arms where the blouse hung from had scars. They were long, evil-looking things, and far too many to count, crisscrossing everywhere. After a moment, Tirzah shrugged up her blouse again, buttoning it up and turning to face Anastazia. Her eyes drilled into the whore's.

“Ah go’ tha firs’ o’ those at no mo’ than nine. I’ was whites wha’ did tha’ ta me. Ah gave birth ta mah firs’ chil’ a’ four’een. He was dead when he came ou’ and the masser’s slavedriva too’ his li’l corpse from and on’y gave i’ back ta me ta bury when ah begged fo’ i’. ‘Gi’ Lemon her boy’s body, masser Higgs, be kin’ an please gi’ Lemon her boy’s body.’ Ah had ta beg, chil’, jest ta ge’ his bo’y back ta gi’ i’ a propa fun’r’l. Ah buried Joseph’s corpse in a ol’ shoe-box the masser’s wife ga’e me, tha’s all tha coffin Ah ha’ fo’ him, poor creature. An’ the masser ha’ me flogged agin within six hours.

“Ah bin sold, chil’. Ah bin trea’ed worse than yah woul’ trea’ the meanes’ critter. Yah love was kill’t by blacks? Mah love was a slave, chil’. Ten years Ah live’ with him, and all tha’ love was taken from me one day fo’ the price of three hunner’ dollas. Tha’ was wha’ Ah was worth, chil’, when Ah was sold away from mah husband. Ah nevah saw him no mo’. All this was done ta me by whites, chil’.

“Do yah thin’ Ah mus’ ha’e yah all for i’? Ah don’. Ah canno’ be bothad ta ha’e yah and waste mah life ha’in’ yah. Ah woul’ on’y be doin’ mahself mo’ harm. Do yah thin’ Ah mus’ ha’e tha whites as done i’ ta me? Ah don’. They ain’t here and they canno’ hur’ me no mo’, lessen Ah dwell on them and festah in mah own rage. Ah don’ think o’ them a’ all. Ah on’y remembah mah husband, an how lovin’ he was; mah firs’ baby an how he kick’t in mah belly; mah strong bo’y an’ how i’ mended from tha cuts o’ tha white men.

“Yah kin si’ there, chil’, an thin’ abou’ the Negroes, tha niggehs, wha’ kill’t thy man, an yah can hol’ mah skin agin me. Don’ try an deny yah don’, Ah saw i’ in yah eyes when yah firs’ saw me. Yah kin do tha’. Bu’ yah wastin’ yah life o’er thangs yah canno’ change. Now, yah still wan’ ta tell me wha’ yah weepin’ fo’, only this time yah wan’ ta try an’ realise i’ ain’t all blacks is bad?”

The anger that flashed through Tirzah's eyes confirmed Anastazia's fears-she had done a terrible mistake. The long silence between them made her feel uncomfortable and ashamed. What did the old woman do to deserve that? Nothing but treat her kindly. Perhaps Anastazia did not deserve to be treated kindly. Perhaps she did not deserve to be talked to, or to be treated with compassion, or to be nice to. No, it was for the best to leave her-the worthless whore-alone. Alone in her misery and unhappiness, alone in her pain and anguish. Anastazia would leave on the spot, if there was no conscience within her. If there was no feeling for right and wrong, which glued her to the chair, with an apologetic look on her oval face. She might at least wait for Tirzah to throw her out. She owed her that much. Silently, she promised herself she will never, ever again allow her feelings to overwhelm her in front of others. From now own, she would leave them behind in her bedroom, trapped, only reclaiming them after she is done with her job and all her other duties.

Unable to move, the young woman was equally unable to mouth a word. Her throat went sore and the sole sound she could produce was sensless screeching. Not that she tried-she was aware of it without any experiments. Still, she could not stop a silent exclaim when Tirzah spoke: “Negros, yah meaned ta say, chil’? Or niggehs? Did yah mean tha’, in yah angah, chil’? I’ canno’ ha’ scarped yah notice tha’ Ah am black, chil’. Yah migh’ guar’ yah tongue mo’ caref’ly in tha house o’ ladies wha’ keeps a Winchesser o’er tha mantle, jest in case no all o’ them is as kin’ and unnerstannin’ as Ah am. Do yah ha’e niggehs, then, chil’?” It was a sentence strangely formed, a mixture of a threat and a rehtorical question. Anastazia did not know what to say again, but a thought did run through her mind. If Tirzah was only not kind and understanding! If she was only a mean, ill-tempered person who would impulsively grab her Winchester and shoot her! How easier it would be then. And how lovely-to be reuntied with James, to dance with him on the clouds and kiss him on the Sun...Suddenly, Tirzah jumped off the chair, the sole thing stopping Nastazia from doing so as well being a firm movement of the black woman's hand. With both surprise and horror, she watched Tirzah take of her dresses and petticoats, only to reveal a back covered in scars. Scars of all shape, form and color. By watching them, Anastazia wondered how did each one of them incur. Was it created by a whip, a log, a human's hand?

“Ah go’ tha firs’ o’ those at no mo’ than nine. I’ was whites wha’ did tha’ ta me. Ah gave birth ta mah firs’ chil’ a’ four’een. He was dead when he came ou’ and the masser’s slavedriva too’ his li’l corpse from and on’y gave i’ back ta me ta bury when ah begged fo’ i’. ‘Gi’ Lemon her boy’s body, masser Higgs, be kin’ an please gi’ Lemon her boy’s body.’ Ah had ta beg, chil’, jest ta ge’ his bo’y back ta gi’ i’ a propa fun’r’l. Ah buried Joseph’s corpse in a ol’ shoe-box the masser’s wife ga’e me, tha’s all tha coffin Ah ha’ fo’ him, poor creature. An’ the masser ha’ me flogged agin within six hours.

“Ah bin sold, chil’. Ah bin trea’ed worse than yah woul’ trea’ the meanes’ critter. Yah love was kill’t by blacks? Mah love was a slave, chil’. Ten years Ah live’ with him, and all tha’ love was taken from me one day fo’ the price of three hunner’ dollas. Tha’ was wha’ Ah was worth, chil’, when Ah was sold away from mah husband. Ah nevah saw him no mo’. All this was done ta me by whites, chil’.

“Do yah thin’ Ah mus’ ha’e yah all for i’? Ah don’. Ah canno’ be bothad ta ha’e yah and waste mah life ha’in’ yah. Ah woul’ on’y be doin’ mahself mo’ harm. Do yah thin’ Ah mus’ ha’e tha whites as done i’ ta me? Ah don’. They ain’t here and they canno’ hur’ me no mo’, lessen Ah dwell on them and festah in mah own rage. Ah don’ think o’ them a’ all. Ah on’y remembah mah husband, an how lovin’ he was; mah firs’ baby an how he kick’t in mah belly; mah strong bo’y an’ how i’ mended from tha cuts o’ tha white men.

“Yah kin si’ there, chil’, an thin’ abou’ the Negroes, tha niggehs, wha’ kill’t thy man, an yah can hol’ mah skin agin me. Don’ try an deny yah don’, Ah saw i’ in yah eyes when yah firs’ saw me. Yah kin do tha’. Bu’ yah wastin’ yah life o’er thangs yah canno’ change. Now, yah still wan’ ta tell me wha’ yah weepin’ fo’, only this time yah wan’ ta try an’ realise i’ ain’t all blacks is bad?”

Swallowing deeply, Anastazia slowly let the air in again. After all she had done, Tirzah still wanted to talk to her? She was..somehow..able to oversee it? Forget about it? The old woman's words settled in only now. Nastazia found herself believeing a great part of the monologue to be correct. But correct in general did not nescessarily have to mean correct to her.

"My behaviour was insolently rude. But you must see I've spoken in hatred and haste. The same way you, Mrs. Grant-Freeman, feel about the man who seperated you from your husband, I fell about those...people who had killed my fiancee. I don't hate black people...I only hate those black people who killed my James and I don't feel guilty about that. I am sorry if you are under the impression my hatred reaches you, for I do not feel that way. I am not going to be rude to you, because you showed me nothing but good will and kindness, but I am also not going to lie to you. So know, it was eerie for me to see a woman of color above me. But I did not show you any disrespect and neither do I plan to. As for your life in the South...I don't deny it was hard to endure. I don't deny you have been through a lot, either. But I also will not deny there are...certain opinions I hold about the issue of slavery. Opinions which I am not going to voice, but neither change. If for nothing, then for the memory of my departed fiancee."

It was a long time ago Anastazia got drawn into a conversation of this sort. But somehow, she could not help it. As always, it happened at the most inconvenient time and place. Still, she was confident her words represented no offence. It was merely her honest opinion. Taking a deep breath, she continued. She was far beyond the point of no returning now.

"I do not think you are a bad person, Mrs. Grant-Freeman. In more time than I can remember, you are the only person who ever reached out a helping hand to me. And you are right when you say-it is useless to fight over something neither of us can change. I propose for this to be forgotten and from now on not mentioned anymore."

Anastazia was quite an orator, it only took her effort. She solidly believed in the righteousness of her last words. The current topic had to be dropped, if they wanted to avoid a powerful conflict.

NB: Tirzah’s back looks like this.

Tirzah gazed at the girl wondering if she were soft in the head. Couldn’t she hear herself? Didn’t she know what she said showed no respect to Tirzah, only the rudeness and disrespect that the child had said she would not burden Tirzah with? Hard to endure her life in the South, Tirzah had been through a lot, had she? And then to say directly afterwards that she believed in slavery, and that she would not change from that stance? What exactly did she think that slavery was except hatred? You could not whip people until their backs looked like Tirzah's without the motivating force of hatred. You could not purposefully split a man and his wife, make them as good as dead to each other, without hatred. You could not take a child from his mother without hatred. You could not use them like animals, raping them whenever you pleased, without hatred. Anastazia thought it was bad to be a hooker? Tirzah hadn’t even been paid for her trouble.

It was strange, Tirzah thought, that someone such as this whore, who was mistreated by the majority of society, who had obviously lost her parents and a man she thought was dear to her, not to mention her former status and wealth—it spoke something of her, Tirzah thought, that Anastazia thought that was worthy of mention in the same list of misfortunes as the previous two—would have so little empathy with slaves. Tirzah neither expected nor wanted pity, but the girl was curiously heartless. Perhaps Anastazia truly was like a child, someone who had no understanding of the sufferings of others and cared only for her own misery. There were many people in the world like that; small children who never grew out of it.

Tirzah let the girl finish, since the girl had let her say her own piece without interruption, but by the time the girl reached the end, Tirzah couldn’t keep silent; the girl had clearly misunderstood what Tirzah had meant by her last comments. “Hol’ up there, now, girl. I din’ say i’ was useless ta figh’ somethin’ ya can’ change. I sai’ i’ was useless ta le’ tha pas’ rule yah, ta ha’e blin’ly cause of thangs wha’ happ’n’d in tha pas’. Ah’m a big believer in figh’n’ ta change presen’ injus’ice. Bu’ tha’s no the ques’ion here, now, is i’? Yah wan’ me ta fo’get wha’ yah jes’ sai’?”

Tirzah snorted. “Yah canno’ really ‘spect me ta do tha’. No’ when yah seen mah back, when yah hear’ jes’ tha’ li’l bi’ oh mah story—yah though’ mebbe tha’ was all o’ i’, chil’? yah ain’t hear’ a tenth o’ i’—and yah kin still thin’ Ah shoul’ be a slave. Yah say yah ain’t goin’ ta be rude ta me, yah say yah ain’t goin’ ta disrespec’ me, an yah say ya don’ hate me. Ah pity tha’ poor creature ya hates, girl, if yah thin’ slavery ain’t hate. Yah thin’ the coloured people ough’ ta be slaved. Yah thin’ we ough’ ta work an’ swea’ an blee’ so the frui’s o’ our labor can go ta make a rich white man e’en richer, so he kin no’ have ta work a day o’ his life. How can yah si’ there an look me in tha eye an say slavery ain’t wrong? Fo’ tha sake o’ yah departed fiancé?”

Tirzah leaned back in her chair and favoured the hooker with a look of utmost scorn. “Pros’itution suits yah, girl. Yah whore yer integri’y and moral judgemen’ ta a dead man.”

Tirzah's icy stare told Anastazia more than a million words would. The old woman did not forgive her. Obviously, she did not believe Anastazia was entitled to her own opinions. Obviously she could not abide the whore's opinions. Anastazia felt a quiver of annoyance in her heart. She could easily blame Tirzah's daughter for wearing these ridicolous rags, but she was not doing that. Besides, believing in slavery was much more decent than wearing these Bloomer Outfits to promote suffrage. Promote suffrage! Dear Lord, this was promoting embarassement! Perhaps deep inside, that was promoting suffrage, but some people simply could not see that far. It was the same with slavery-some people could not see it as anything else but hatred for the black. Anastazia did not hate blakcs-she merely wanted them enslaved. She merely believed they should be that way. Maybe those were not her opinions-maybe she was forcing herself to believe them for the sake of her 'dead lover', who knows. That was beside the point. What mattered was they were here. She did not intend to express them daily, but if she was forced to, as now was the case, she was going to voice them.

The old woman's words had angered her. For the first time in years, she felt a vigorous, fierce feeling, feeling of wrath, agner and repletion---for the first time since James's death, she felt alive. A glint of life flickered in her eyes, and she was ready to fight. She was ready to stand by her beliefs, defend them and prove them right.

Sadly, it lasted for a moment only. Within seconds, that feeling of triumph and pride reduced back to a more flaming, but equivalently dangerous feeling. It was a tiwngling, wiggly feeling in her heart-a feeling of shame. There she was, a whore from the nearby brotherl, fighting over something that cannot be changed, something that had died decades ago-slavery. There she was, defending the Southern tradition abolished in a bloody war. What would James think of her? An image flashed in front of her eyes. An image of James just before his death. The look of his green eyes when he recognized the runaway slave-there was the eternal Southern pride, yes-but there was also something else; compassion. No, that was not the exact word. Sadness would be more appropriate. Sadness and the same feeling she felt now-shame. Admittance of defeat. Oh, for years the last emotion he felt ran through her mind, but only now did she realize what it had meant. James was sorry. He had realized it was useless fighting for a cause already lost. The war was over and lost. He had realized that.

A silent tear slid down her cheek. God, she had been so horrible to this woman! Had been. Now, when she looked at her, the hatred was gone. All she saw was a woman, a friendly old woman who had just offended her as much as one can...but all that was forgotten. Oh, her heart was so easy now, as light s a feather! But the old woman surely had not forgotten...yet.

"Mrs. Grant-Freeman..." She stuttered, compressing her lips, "I can only say I'm sorry....Yes, I do deserve to be a whore and nothing more...for I have forgotten...in my anger and grief and sorrow, I have forgotten...that James has learnt not to fight a war already lost...Only that he did not live so long to learn me..."

She could say no more, for she broke into sobs again.

Tirzah saw pride flare in the whore’s eyes, and expected very much that the girl would open her mouth to spew some ridiculous defense of slavery or her dead lover. Perhaps she would say something about it not really being hatred, and then spout the old arguments. Tirzah prepared to counter what she said, having had ample time over her life to think very clearly about it. Any of the old arguments that Anastazia used, Tirzah would have an answer to.

Slavery was sanctioned by the Bible, the slavers had protested. Tirzah had memorized the New Testament—she had to if she wanted to know the Word of God, because she couldn’t read—and knew several passages that supported the freedom of all and specifically denounced slavery. The slavers had twisted the meaning of the Bible to get it to support their point. Slaves were better off as slaves instead of free men and women back in Africa, the slavers had argued. Who could be better off being raped in front of their own children, being beaten until their backs were jelly, falling sick to the white diseases, being locked in tiny rooms far smaller than the meanest African hut, losing children, dying early? How was that better than living free, no matter how hard a life it might be, in Africa? Slaves were inherently inferior to white men. Virtually every single coloured man that Tirzah had known would have been able to beat his white opposite of the same age; the slaves worked hard and had the large musculature that went with it while the white slave owners were not required to work at all and were pasty, limp things.

With these arguments running through her mind, Tirzah was caught by surprise when the pride faded from the whore’s eyes and instead tears began to roll down the girl’s face. What was this? Some kind of ploy, trying to make Tirzah feel bad? She would not feel bad for anything she did; the girl was wasting her time if that was what she was doing. Tirzah said and did what she felt was right in the moment, and looked at all her past actions in that light, allowing her to never regret anything she had done. Tirzah was unable to regard the tears without suspicion, and said, to buy herself time to fairly consider Anastazia’s words, “Miss. It’s Miss Grant-Freeman. Ah ain’t never married no one wi’ tha’ las’ name. Ah chose it, because Ah wasn’ gi’en one when Ah was born. Slaves don’ always ha’ las’ names.”

Sipping her tea, Tirzah focused all her attention on the girl. What was to be done with the child? She didn’t seem to understand very much about the world, for all that she was a whore. Anastazia would always be a whore, would always find herself pushed around like a feather on the wind, until she found the gumption to think for herself and then act on those thoughts. Life was a constant struggle, and it was only over when you gave up. Tirzah decided that would be her approach to this situation. She would make the girl state her own opinion and then deal with her accordingly. Plucking one of the many handkerchiefs she carried about her from a pocket of her skirt, Tirzah extended it to Anastazia.

“Why would yah ha’ needed ta be learned by this James o’ yours? I was married fo’ ten years and nevah once did Ah le’ mah husban’ tell me wha’ ta think. Yah must think fo’ yahself, girl, whether slav’ry be righ’ o’ wron’.”

Anastazia extended her trembling hand to take the hanky. It landed softly onto her palm, but she was too shaken to raise it all the way to her face. She kept on sobbing, although a bit more silently now. She did not know why was she crying herself. Perhaps because she had been fighting a lost battle for so many years? Not just a battle; a lost war. For if it had been just one battle, there would not be so much hatred, pride and fire, so many feelings that brought only pain and nothing more. It turned out she was right about one thing-through the years, she became much more of a Southern patriot than James was himself. In her endless love, and her blind desire to please him, she remained ignorant of the fact he did not care not care. He had not cared about what her beliefs or thoughts were-he would have taken her anyway. As an abolitonist, a radical republican, anything. For he had loved her. Anastazia Bartos. But she failed to see that. Why? Was she lost in love? Or fear? Fear of losing him? Or had she felt so out of place with her anti-slavery beliefs in Richmond, or in Georgia, that she felt the need to 'merge with her surroundings'?

Whatever the reason was, it had been strong enough for the young woman to be filled with hatred, for her heart to bleed, for her soul to slowly die. Had been. For now, it was gone. That terrible feeling inside had disappeared and left only shame. Shame and sadness. For the first time since James had died, Anastazia felt what she could call mere sadness. No anguish, no hatred, just sadness. And for the first time since than, she could think back on the times she had spent with James with happiness. She could recall those good times, not only the last moments of their life together. Not only that faithful bullet that had taken his life. How could have she been so blind? So ingorant? So...so...plain stupid! Would James want her to be sad, desperate, a shallow creature filled with anger? Would he want her to be a simple whore? Was that what he meant when he used his last breath to whisper: "I want you to go on"? Until now, she had believed she was honoring the memory of James by being pro-slavery. But how could have she not seen that, in that deludement, she was dishonoring the man she loved...and still loves? Being able to think only of a revenge that could never come true, an unfulfilled revenge, she was not fulfilling his, James's, last request. She thought she was, but she had been doing only half of that. She had been surviving. He had not asked her to survive. He had asked her to go on. Those were two different things. Two completely different things.

“Miss. It’s Miss Grant-Freeman. Ah ain’t never married no one wi’ tha’ las’ name. Ah chose it, because Ah wasn’ gi’en one when Ah was born. Slaves don’ always ha’ las’ names.”

Anastazia nodded her head, forcing a weak smile. Only now did she press the handkerchief against her wet, face, wiping the tears away. Silently, she promised herself these shall be the last tears cried because of James. From now on, she was going to go on. Truly go on. Shape her life into something worth living. Create a whole new world for herself. James would like that. Oh, he must be so proud of her now, gazing at her from the skies...he must be thinking: Finally. May he rest in piece, for now he finally can. Oh, how many thanks she owed to Tirzah Grant-Freeman! The old woman made her change her view of her life-made her let go of all the negative, painful feelings. She had surely changed her life-or at least shed a new light on it.


“Why would yah ha’ needed ta be learned by this James o’ yours? I was married fo’ ten years and nevah once did Ah le’ mah husban’ tell me wha’ ta think. Yah must think fo’ yahself, girl, whether slav’ry be righ’ o’ wron’.”

This time, Anastazia was going to do exactly what Tirzah suggested. She was going to voice her own opinions. Not the ones she deemed to be James's. She made another silent vow-if she ever falls in love again, she is not going to try to change for him. He is going to have to take her for who she was. If he does not do that, he does not deserve to have her. Anastazia sighed, closing her eyes and than opening them again.

"Miss Grant-Freeman...I don't know what to say, but I must...I can't elide...Until now, I've thought I was doing the right thing by supporting these views...these views I only thought James shared as well. I also only thought I was honoring his memory by doing so. But what I failed to notice...was the fact I've been dishonoring his memory since the moment he died. For I have not been trying to fulfill his last request-to go on. I have been surviving...but there is a great difference between the two terms." Her eyes met Tirzah's, full of thankfulness, "Miss Grant-Freeman...you made me realize that. You made me realize I should let go of that senseless hatred...And thanks to you, I can look back on those times I've spent with James with bliss....bliss because I was blessed to have him in my life..."
((Click here -a theme song for Anastazia and James)))

(Staff-edit: OOC comments in posts should be kept to a minimum. The lyrics used in this post were clearly OOC and are in the OOC-forum here.)

Tirzah simply could not believe the child. She was so mercurial that it was hard to follow her words, let alone guess at her chain of reasoning. But it became clearer towards the end of Anastazia’s halting explanation, and Tirzah knew what troubled the girl. She had found a lover, and she had been one of those types of girls who attached themselves so strongly to the ones they loved that they completely subordinated their own opinions, wants, and needs in favour of those of the loved one. Then when the loved one had been removed, she had nothing but what she had built around him to sustain her; her own strength had been crushed beneath the weight of the extra opinions and thoughts she had burdened herself with to try and please him, and the hollow framework of the ideology she had constructed to honour him was all that remained.

Now that framework was collapsing, and Anastazia had not even known it was there until it was tumbling down around her. The child was becoming an adult, and she had no one to show her the way. Tirzah took a small measure of pity on the girl—the same thing had happened to her, only it had happened when she was seven and finally comprehended what was happening to her mother when the master came to “play” with Mama. She spoke gently, calmingly. “Girl, yah should always look back at tha time ya spen’ wi’ a loved one wi’ bliss. If ya ha’ lost him then remeb’rin’ the bad times ain’t servin’ no purpose. Remember only the good times, only tha times ya loved him and tha times ya knew he loved ya back, and wrap them aroun’ yaself. Treasure ya memories, they’s all yah ha’ and they’s what’ll keep yah goin’ in hard times.”

Tirzah sat back in her chair, tapping her lips meditatively. She couldn’t say that she exactly was fond of Anastazia, not truthfully. The girl had only a few minutes ago expressed the opinion that Tirzah should still be a slave, an object, to be treated in the cruelest manner possible and live a life resembling that which would be led in Hell. True, the girl seemed to have a sincerely different opinion now, and she had apologised, or at least she had said the words, “I’m sorry.” But she had given Tirzah the gravest insult possible to give; there was absolutely nothing that could have affronted her more, nothing at all. Did she really want to continue an acquaintance with a girl who had held those views at any point during her life?

But according to what could be puzzled from the disjointed thoughts the girl presented, she had not always thought that way, but had changed her opinions to try and make herself more desirable to her now-dead lover. Probably it had happened at a time when the girl was young, perhaps not even older than fifteen or sixteen, and malleable. Not everyone had led the life Tirzah had—thank the good Lord—and not everyone had been forced to grow up by the age of seven; was Tirzah to hold the fact that Anastazia had suffered from the same flaw that so many children did against her? That she had not had the strength of character in her youth that Tirzah had? It would really be holding the girl’s fortune and upbringing against her, since that would have been what allowed the child to grow up so naïve and trusting as to change herself so blindly for someone she loved.

But of her own accord just now, Anastazia had realised that she had been wrong; it was a decision made in her adult years, a time when she was what she would be forever. Tirzah made her own decision; judge based on the here and now, not the past. She told Anastazia, “Ah canno’ hide tha fact tha’ ya have offended me terribly this aftanoon. Ya canno’ possibly know how it makes mah blood boil ta hear anyone say they thin’ Ah shoul’ still be a slave. Howeva, ya ha’ said ya are sorry fo’ it, so Ah will do this. I will thin’ abou’ fo’givin’ ya once ya ha’ told me ya own views on slav’ry, ya own ideas an’ not tha ones ya thin’ James woul’ ha’ wanted. An’ not the ones ya thin’ Ah want eitha, chil’. An’ Ah will know if ya lie ta me an’ say what ya thin’ Ah want ta hear."

Tirzah seemed to be pondering over something-deep in her thought. Anastazia gathered she was trying to decide whether to forgive her . Whether to return rudeness with kindness, or to follow the good old 'an eye for an eye'. Only now did she see how strongly had she offended the old woman. She actually told her she holds she should still be a slave! And she said those words within the walls of her own house! The house to which she had invited Anastazia open handedly, regardless her shameful profession and her skin color. Not to mention Tirzah had the full right to hate both her and the entire white race, for the misdeeds they had comitted on her people. But the old woman decided to let go. To forget the hatred and instead rejoice. Rejoice for being a free, independent woman. Well, as independent as one can be. Here was where most likely lied the reason for Tirzah's daughter wearing Bloomer Outfits and obviously supporting suffrage. Tirzah probably raised her daughter not to allow anyone ever deny her her rights again. Anastazia could comprehend the old woman. If she had been unlucky enough to be born into slavery, she would surely be acting the same way.

Silently, Anastazia prayed for Tirzah to be able to find forgiveness for her. She had to admit it was not likely to happen. It was more likely the old woman was going to throw her out of the house, together with the dress she had offered to wash before. Because, why should Tirzah forgive her? She was a fully grown, independent and free woman, who had been to hell and back. She had experienced all the worst things life could possibly give. Why should she stand the offenses of a puny whore, who barely lived through the first two decades of her life? Who could possibly deny her the right of throwing Anastazia out of the house, forgetting all about her? Tirzah had a daughter, a house and a job. A decent one, unlike hers. If there were spectators, they'd probably take her side. Despite all that, there was still a tiny piece of hope within her heart.

Another thought popped up in her head-her job. Before, she had no desire to change it. But now, it seemed so dirty, shallow, shameful! Anastazia felt she simply could not go back to that house of doom, get into that bed with another man and pleasure him. The mere thought of it made her stomach turn. It seemed awful, undesireable. No, unbearable was more appropriate. Anastazia wanted to put an end to it. She wanted to stop being a toy for the passion-hungry men. She wanted to become a decent woman, with a life and hope for future. She wanted to be like others, she wanted to be able to dream. She used to have dreams before, dreams of finding a husband, marrying into a respectable family and moving into a nice house in the countryside...She wanted those dreams back, with all of her heart. But not solely dreams. She also had a burning desire for hope of them coming true. Unfortunately, there was little of it.

And all thanks to that one man whose children she had governed. He for once made sure she could never be employed in a decent post. Not really him-it was his wife's doing. But Anastazia did not blame her. She was a woman, a woman that had found her husband bedding another member of the fair sex. her anger was only natural. Anastazia knew how she would feel if she had ever caught James in a simillar position. Luckily, that had never happened. And even though the incident was hardly Anastazia's fault, the woman, naturally, believed her husband's version of the story. Because she loved him blindly. As Anastazia loved James. If her chances of finding a decent job were little then, they were non-existant now. Half the town knew her as a whore. Even if she wanted to change, even if she changed, she'd still be that-only a shameless woman that felt shame.

Perhaps there was an employer who would be willing to give her a job-for minimal salary, of course. That would still mean she would have to live in the streets, for how could she ever afford a house so quickly? Only if she'd rent a room somewhere. But that would also be far too expensive, even in the cheapest motel around. She could not count on a good soul to take her in, for all the good souls were poor as well. A rich man would never take such filth as herself in. That would dirty both his reputation and pride. And she would also be overly repletive to beg for mercy. But even if pretending all these troubles were somehow handled, no man would ever want to marry her. In fact, for most she would never stop being a whore, and they would never treat her differently. They would still feel entitled to her 'services'.

“Ah canno’ hide tha fact tha’ ya have offended me terribly this aftanoon. Ya canno’ possibly know how it makes mah blood boil ta hear anyone say they thin’ Ah shoul’ still be a slave. Howeva, ya ha’ said ya are sorry fo’ it, so Ah will do this. I will thin’ abou’ fo’givin’ ya once ya ha’ told me ya own views on slav’ry, ya own ideas an’ not tha ones ya thin’ James woul’ ha’ wanted. An’ not the ones ya thin’ Ah want eitha, chil’. An’ Ah will know if ya lie ta me an’ say what ya thin’ Ah want ta hear."

Anastazia had already almost forgotten about Tirzah and the fact she was in her house, hoping for forgiveness. Now the old woman's voice brought her back to reality. As she listened carefully to the sentences leaving her mouth, Anastazia started to see something she had not seen for years. Tirzah wanted to know her views and opinions on slavery. That was bound to be easy! But after a few moments, Anastazia realized, horrified-she did not know what to say! After years and years of blindly following opinions supposedly James's, she forgot about her own! Her heartbeat increasing and her brain racking, she found a simple solution. Yes, it still was easy! She'd just say she believes slavery to be a moral and a political evil, wrong, yadda yadda yadda...But it was not that easy. Oh yes, she opened her mouth, attempting to voice those thoughts, but she found that she couldn't. The moment she attempted, the South came back to her head. All those people she had known, her friends, almost family...how could she break all they had ever believed in? There was also another side of this conflict within her. It clearly stated: A war had already been fought over that. Our side had been defeated. So there is no use in fighting a war already lost. Plenty of Southerners shared that opinion. Tired of speculations , games and lies, Anastazia decided to speak her mind. She only hoped it was the right choice.

"Mrs...Miss Grant-Freeman...I won't lie to you. Over all these years, I have forgotten what my opinions were. Now, I decided I shall be faithful to them. But when I try to mouth what I had thought before, I can't. I am divided between my own views and the ones I thought James's. But, to answer the second question...James believed there was no use in fighting a war already lost..." Here she smirked gently, closing her heavy eyelids for a moment. When they opened again, there was a glint withing them, a silent glint of life, "Oh, of course, there was his Southern pride...the pride that has, somehow, passed over to me...her would never admit slavery was wrong, even if he would think so. But he had never joined...Ku Klux Klan or any simillar organization. To clarify...if he had been alive during the war, he would have fought for slavery. But he would know how to be a decent loser. As for me...yes, the age of slavery is finished once and for all. And I share James's opinion...there is nothing that can be done. And there is nothing that should be done. I'm glad you're free, I'm glad your daughter's free, and I'm glad your whole race is not enslaved any longer."

There. She said it. Did she truly mean it? She was not sure herself. She was not sure whether it was what Tirzah wanted to hear either. But it had been said. Perhaps it did not truly reflect her inner state-nothing could now, but it was for the best. The age of slavery had ended, and supporting it could only bring her trouble. By giving up those rather racist veiws, she had moved on. A smile curved her full lips. James would be proud of her now. He was proud of her now. This whole situation reminded her of a line from 'The Yellow Rose Of Texas'.

You couldn't see beyond yourself
Your pain and wounded pride
But now you know the truth is
In the way you feel inside.

Rachel pedalled down the street rapidly, the bicycle jarring every bone in her body over the uneven cobbles. The thin, hard seat concentrated all of the shock on the narrowest part of her bum, and if she was not careful it could shake her teeth out. There was a reason the machine was often called a "boneshaker", although the rubber tyres helped absorb some of the worse bounces and it wasn't as bad as the earlier velocipedes. She could not go too fast over the kind of roads they had in the Slums.

After making sure Anneliese was secure earlier that morning, she had gone on to the office, and then headed down to the tailor's where her mother worked to see that things were all at rights. Tirzah often scolded her daughter for her worry; "how'm Ah s'posed to get any work done with ya hangin' 'bout over me a' the time?" Rachel couldn't let more than a couple of days go by, however, without swinging by Kearney's shop and just looking in, even if it was only for a few minutes. Today she had gone in and found that things were not all at rights; Tirzah was nowhere to be seen, and she had gone through some unpleasant moments before finding Kearney and hearing his explanation.

She did not know whether to be angry at her mother's employer or not. Of course, it would not do to have her mother strain her eyes trying to get her work done without her glasses. But Tirzah was aging and it was a long walk from her house to her workplace. Kearney should have...well, it was hard to think of exactly what he should have done. Tirzah Grant-Freeman could be a difficult person to deal with sometimes. She wouldn't accept what she thought of as pity from anyone else, which meant she wouldn't allow anyone else to do the sensible, decent thing. At any rate it was another good reason to get her out of the Slums. If only Rachel's mother was not so devil-damned stubborn and set in her ways!

Rachel had been thinking about that for a long while now, and so far every scheme she had come up with, every persuasion, blandishment, wheedle, and threat she could present to Tirzah, had fallen flat before her mother's implacable personality. Lately she had been toying with a new idea, but it would require some cooperation from individuals that were...difficult to obtain cooperation from at best. In fact, it was probably completely impossible to get Olivia Townsend to play along with what Rachel had in mind. She had hopes of getting Katherine to agree, but no one she knew had the slightest bit of influence on the younger Townsend spinster.

With all the problems inherent in the plan, the idea didn't rate more than a couple of mental cogs grinding away in some back corner of Rachel's mind. Her attention was focused more on paying attention to where she was going as she turned down another of the dirt-paved closes. Anyone who didn't know where they were going in the Slums would quickly be lost in the higgledy-piggledy maze. And even if you did know where you were headed, if you didn't watch it it was easier than easy to take a wrong turn. The older residents supposedly knew their way around more by smell than by sight, which theory Rachel allowed might actually be plausible. One part of the Slums looked much the same as another, especially in the dim gloom between the layers of buildings put precariously one atop another, but different areas had mixtures of odours all their own.

Her nose wasn't sensitive enough to construct a mental map by scent, though. So she had to watch carefully to take the right turns. Pulling up in front of the building where her mother lived, she left her bicycle at the foot of the stairs, right out on the street. No one here would steal it. They all knew Rachel was Tirzah's daughter, and everyone in the building looked after one another more or less. It was as safe here as in her own home. And there was no way Rachel was going to lug the machine up five long, rickety flights of stairs to take up most of the space in Tirzah's small garret apartments when it really wasn't necessary.

She knocked first before trying the door, but there wasn't a sound from within. Unnerved and worried by the silence, Rachel knocked once more, louder this time, then turned the handle. It wasn't locked. That usually meant that Tirzah was home, but her mother would always answer the door. Always. She'd never just leave a visitor standing on her stoop, even for just a few moments, not unless something was wrong. Rachel's mother was old and growing more frail despite her unyielding attitude. Had she suffered a stroke? An attack of the heart?

Rachel threw open the door with a sudden movement of her hip, terribly afraid of what she might see. Her worry melted away into relief at first, however, and then into confusion as she was met with a very odd sight. Tirzah looked perfectly well, if angry, which Rachel attributed to her style of entrance. But it didn't matter as long as she was alright. There was also some strange girl, sitting at the table across from Rachel's mother, clad in what Rachel recognized as her own clothing from a few years back. They both looked up as Rachel came in the room.

"Mother?" Rachel inquired, her eyebrows lifted high on her forehead. She stood there in the doorframe for a moment uncertainly. Then in one smooth motion, Tirzah pulled something from beneath the table and Rachel found herself staring down the barrel of her mother's shotgun. She was not the slightest bit afraid, although absolutely and completely shocked, as she knew quite well that her mother would never shoot her, but something was very far wrong for Tirzah to be so jumpy. Something was horribly wrong.

"I'm sorry, Mother. My apologies, Miss." Sketching a brief bow in their direction, as if she hadn't seen the shotgun and still didn't see it, she backed out of the room, taking the handle of the door to close it again in front of her.

(OOC: Yay! We're back on track!)

Tirzah could understand that the girl might be having trouble phrasing her answer, and she initially respected the girl’s honesty in stating that exact circumstance. But Anastazia wasted Tirzah’s goodwill when the child closed her eyes and smirked obnoxiously when she said her lover had not believed in fighting a war already lost, and then continued to talk about his Southern pride, that he would never have admitted slavery was wrong, and kept the same glint in her eye as she said that these were the values transferred to herself. Southern pride. Southern pride! Southern pride was the vainglory and self-satisfaction of a population that had built themselves up by tearing Tirzah's people down. There was no Southern pride; there was only Southern arrogance, Southern conceit, Southern cruelty.

Tirzah didn’t hear anything after that, as Anastazia’s words brought on an upwelling of some of the worst moments in Tirzah’s life. She didn’t hear the knocks on the door. There was only a soft rumble in her memory, the sound of hoofbeats, and then a much louder, more insistent sound; a harsh sound. An evil sound. Gunshots. And then came the screams of Jessamine and Blackie. They had been shot down as they ran behind Tirzah, killed by the men on horseback. Tirzah had only escaped, clutching Rachel to her breast as she ran, because they had slowed down the riders long enough to allow Tirzah to plunge into the Yadkin River, carrying her out of range of the dogs and guns.

Then the door to the flat opened suddenly, and Tirzah was snapped out of her reverie, but only partially. The fear and anger that thirty years of slavery had taught her boiled up and she saw in the doorway a white man, a composite image of all the detestable features of the countless slave owners who had taken advantage of Lemon, Sukey, and all the others who had been Tirzah inside. Her hand automatically groped for the sawed-off shotgun under the table and she brought the barrel around to bear on the intruder, her aim steady as a rock. The tableau was frozen this way for a moment, and then she realised that it wasn’t a man at all in the doorway, but rather her own daughter Rachel. At once she lowered the gun, cracking the barrel to let the shells out, slipping them into her pocket as she placed the shotgun on the chair.

Rachel had already backed out of the room and closed the door behind her, so Tirzah leapt off the chair and hurried over, yanking the door open once again. “Ah’m sorry, Rachel. Ah wasn’ seein’ yah, yah know Ah woul’ neva poin’ a gun at yah apurpose.” And that, because Tirzah was a person who firmly believed in one sincere apology and explanation per error and no more, was all that she would ever say on the matter to Rachel, unless her daughter wanted to discuss it further. She drew Rachel in by her hand, firmly pulling her daughter into the room as she said, “Come in, then, love, don’ stan’ abou’ like a goose. No need tah be a stranger in yah own mother’s house.”

Once Rachel was inside though, Tirzah realised that Anastazia was still inside also. She had forgotten that the child was there for a moment. Oh well, no matter. She would have invited Rachel in anyway; there was no way that she would have made her daughter wait on the steps because some other person was already in the flat. Rachel was the paramount person in Tirzah’s universe. No one was more important, and no one came before Rachel, not even Tirzah herself. So she pulled out the third chair for Rachel and waved her towards it, bustling to the kitchen to pour another cup of the tea. Returning in less than ten seconds, she placed the cup on the table and then set about to introduce her daughter to the whore; not that she particularly wanted the two to become acquainted but rather to reduce some of the inevitable tension in the room.

“Rachel, this is Anastaz’a Bartos.” She then turned to address the prostitute, continuing, “Chil’, this is mah daughter, Miss Rachel Grant-Freeman.”

Anastazia gazed at Tirzah as the elderly woman traveled someplace in her thoughts. Anastazia couldn't tell what was she thinking about, but her closest guess was Tirzah was pondering over whether to throw her out in the streets or to accept her apology and believe her words. Now, as she had thoughtn for a few moments, the young woman was sure she had spoken what was on her heart. Slavery was curel and inhuman. And it had to be stopped one day. Those were her sincere views. But, so help her God, if James chose to stand by it, she'd follow him with no objection at all. She found him much more important than a million other people, white or black, and she'd be capable to kill a million other people just to have him back. She was glad Tirzah had not asked her a question concerning that, because she would never be able to lie about that. Not even if she'd put in her best efforts. Besides, she had asked her to be sincere.

A knock on the door made Anastazia jump up. It took her a few moments to recognize the sound, and when she had, her eyes flew back to Tirzah. There was an expression similar to the one from a few moments ago on the black woman's face. But not the same. Tirzah turned to the door, shock in her eyes. She glared like that for a moment, making Anastazia shiver. Was Tirzah alright? Was she feeling ill? No matter how contradictory their opinions might have been, Anastazia could never forgive herself if she was the culprit for the death of such a nice old woman who only tried to help her. And she had suceeded. Tirzah Grant-Freeman had helped her.

"Miss Grant-Freeman...there's somebody at the..."

She didn't have the time to finish her sentence, because the door shut open, and a younger woman, also black, scampered into the room. The moment Rachel entered, a horrified expression struck Anastazia's face. Tirzah's hand flew under the table, grabbing something she saw was a shotgun only when it had already been pointed at the newcomer. The shock was still present in Tirzah's eyes, copmbined with anger. No, not mere anger. Wrath. As if all the wrath that had been builfing up within her for the last few years finally came out.

But who was this woman?

All those thoughts ran through Anastazia's mind, but only somewhere in the far back of it. She was horrified, but not because of Tirzah's winchester or because of the madness in her eyes. She was horrified because of the other woman.

Not because of her skin color, though. It was her appearance, but not the color of her skin. Actually, Anastazia couldn't say what it was herself. She couldn't specify. But something, something in Rachel's looks reminded her of one person. One person she was never to see again...and she had never expected to see anyone similar to that person in this life again. But yet there was this woman, stanfing before her. Alive, made of flesh and blood, obviously, because Tirzah lowered the gun, rushing to her side.

“Ah’m sorry, Rachel. Ah wasn’ seein’ yah, yah know Ah woul’ neva poin’ a gun at yah apurpose.”

Rachel.No, Anastazia had never met her before. That was far beside the point, though. Whoever this woman was, something about her looked alot like him.

Like James Rhett.

Tirzah led Rachel to the table, where the stupefied Anastazia sat. Motioning to the chair, she spoke;

“Chil’, this is mah daughter, Miss Rachel Grant-Freeman.”

Collecting herself, Anstazia nodded her head hastily, murmuring a greeting.

"H-how do you do?"

(((OOC: I talked to Jess about Rachel being James Rhett's sister...I don't remember if I talked to you as well, Liz, so if I haven't, and if you want me to change my post, let me know :) )))

The door flew open in front of her again, disclosing Tirzah's stocky figure, and her mother seized her hand. Rachel, quite out of composure over the incident, allowed her mother to lead her inside and seat her, keeping quite silent but staring at Tirzah with questions obvious in her eyes. What or who was her mother afraid of? And why? She had obviously been expecting someone other than Rachel. Had someone been troubling her? Or did it have something to do with the other woman?

She had only just taken the trouble to really observe Anastazia when Tirzah introduced the two of them. The woman was staring at her in the oddest way, astonishment and something like fear in her eyes, and she answered with a soft stammer. Her mother angry, and this other afraid? Rachel came to the conclusion that it all devolved to this Anastazia Bartos in some way. A more careful look revealed that her lips were coloured. She was a prostitute. That didn't immediately drop her out of Rachel's consideration, as it might have for most people; sometimes a woman had nothing else to fall back on. She was not immediately sympathetic, however. Sometimes a woman simply took the apparently easy way out as well. And just now, Rachel wanted to know what was going on, rather than burning with curiousity to understand a stranger's life story.

So a terrified prostitute, a furious mother - Rachel could see from the tension about Tirzah's eyes that the anger was still boiling just underneath the surface - and a very confused daughter sat down about the little table to tea in chipped china.

Rachel, however, was determined not to remain in the dark for any longer. Tapping the edge of the teacup with one finger, she stared first at Anastazia, then at her mother. After a brief pause, she inquired without preamble. "Mother, what is wrong? And why are you," she rounded on Anastazia with one raised eyebrow, "staring at me like that? Have I suddenly grown horns and a tail?" The girl, she realized, wasn't really seeing her either; it was as if she was looking past Rachel at someone else, though her eyes were fixed straight on Rachel's face.

Her mother had seen an enemy, and Anastazia was seeing...something. It was an odd and uncomfortable position for Rachel to be in. So she squared her shoulders as if in attempt to shake off whatever phantoms Tirzah and Anastazia were looking at. "Who exactly were you expecting that needed to be shot, Mother?"

Rachel asked what was wrong, and then rounded on Anastazia for staring at her. Tirzah murmured, “Ya always had ‘em, devil-child,” and then hid a smile in her teacup when her daughter sent her an exasperated look. From her perspective it wasn’t true. To her there was no more angelic child in the universe than Rachel. But to other people, it was sadly true; many considered her girl to be demonic in nature, either for her skin, or for her sex, or for her dress, her independence, her ideas, or any combination of them. Rachel asked Tirzah whom she was expecting, and her eyes clouded slightly. She was not going to say that she had been remembering the wrongs done her by white men and had got a bad case of the collywobbles from it; at least, she wasn’t going to say that in front of the chit at the table. It would give the girl to know that she was afraid of it happening again. She was not afraid of anything or anyone; at least, the Tirzah that she presented to the world was never afraid. Rachel could know what happened after the prostitute left.

“Oh, it was jest mem’ries, only mem’ries. It wasn’ ya,” she said to her daughter. “It wasn’ ya.” She repeated the last statement softly. It would never be Rachel. Rachel was a good girl, who would cause no harm to anyone who didn’t merit it, as Tirzah had taught her. She would never inflict the kind of pain that that Tirzah had been remembering on any living soul, because that kind of pain was purposeless pain, pain without cause or reason. Tirzah frowned as she yanked her thoughts off that track and onto a more relevant one. What could Rachel be here for, anyway? Her daughter knew that Tirzah normally worked during these hours; she wouldn’t even be at the flat at this time under usual circumstances. Oh, of course: Rachel had stopped by the shop and discovered from Kearney where her mother had gone. She had probably then flown into a storm of completely unnecessary worry and hurried here to make sure that nothing was amiss. Tirzah had noticed that her daughter was an excessive worrier; she visited every couple of days and hovered as if she were the mother and Tirzah the daughter.

Not that Tirzah minded the visits. Far from it, she enjoyed every chance she got to spend with her daughter. It had been the hardest thing she had ever done to send Rachel off to London—on more than one count, she ruminated—and now that her girl was back it was wonderful that she was devoted enough to come by so much. Many children forgot their parents, and Tirzah was not one to take Rachel’s continued love lightly. It was just that Rachel was a busy woman and didn’t really have time to spare like this. She had columns to write, people to interview, things to think of, places to go, and a life to live. Important things; she didn’t need to be wearing herself down worrying about an old woman whose life was almost over. Tirzah was happy, as she had assured Rachel many times over, and there was no need for her daughter to keep fussing herself about the state of Tirzah’s affairs.

Besides, her daughter couldn’t do anything about the three things that Tirzah regretted. There was nothing anyone could do about them, so it was best to move on. She had lived for almost forty years without seeing Joel, Daniel, or Nathaniel; she would continue living without seeing them. Indeed, most days she managed not to think of them, pushing the regret into the background and concentrating on Rachel. Rachel was her lifesaver in many ways, although Tirzah would never tell her this particular way. It would only inspire the girl to do something foolish, and worry more about her mother. She might start taking time out of every day, instead of every two or three days. It would be unconscionable to be the cause of that. And besides, there was also the small annoyance in the fact that Rachel always, without exception, managed to bring up some scheme to help Tirzah move out of the slums. The plans always revolved about Tirzah taking the hard-earned money that Rachel made and wasting it on pointless comforts for an old woman.

She should know by now that if Tirzah needed help she would ask for it. All of her daughter’s offers of money or other assistance went unheeded because the simple fact was that she was fine where she was. So the garret was not always the most comfortable place, and the work at Kearney’s somewhat long some days. And what of it? That was life, and she would not go mewling about like a baby, crying for help, simply because it wasn’t always easy. She had endured hardships that made her current circumstances seem positively rosy, and lived in a hovels that made the garret palatial by comparison. But of course, now she was thinking about things that needn’t be thought about; she stopped at once.

She decided to deal with the probable offer of help from Rachel when it happened, hopefully after the prostitute was gone. Turning to Anastazia, she frowned when she realised that the child was still staring at Rachel in an uncomfortably intense manner; much as if, actually, the girl were one of those who saw Rachel as a monster. Pursing her lips, she glanced at Rachel to confirm that there was nothing unusual about her appearance—and there wasn’t, as she knew there wouldn’t be—and then told the prostitute, “Ya eyes is fallin’ out of ya face, chil’. Wha’ abou’ mah girl be so shockin’?”

It wasn't surprising that both Tirzah and Rachel had noticed her staring. But what Anastazia did find eerie was the fact the younger woman turned to her, openly asking her about it. Despite the fact she had been a prostitute for the last few years of her life, she knew what manners were. And she had been taught that, if somebody did happen to stare at you, you didn't just tell him to stop or ask him about it. You coughed, or cleared your throat, or started talking...Yet again, Rachel had been raised in a different world...A world that had no such restrictions as manners. Or it had them...but they came in a different form and shape. Silently, she scolded herself for looking down on these two, even for a brief moment. How could she have done so, when they were both of higher standing than herself? They both had lives, they had decent professions...which she didn't. Her previous thoughts seemed more like childish dreams to her now. Changing...becoming something decent, something honest and better...as if anyone would take her in! As if anyone would employ a former whore. She was a creature with no dignity, and even thinking about manners was imputed to be above her. A whore talking about manners...even the rudest man in this world would get more respect from his peers...

“Ya eyes is fallin’ out of ya face, chil’. Wha’ abou’ mah girl be so shockin’?”

Now that Tirzah set her mind on having her answer the question as well, there was no way the young woman could elide. her previous self-loathing thoughts were immediately replaced by the same shock and numbness that had been when she saw Rachel. Why on Earth did she resemble him so much? It was impossible for them to be related...or wasn't it? Her heart started hammering again. The Rhetts did have slaves. And masters slept with slaves, that was well known. There were some who didn't, but Josiah Rhett hadn't seemed a man so faithful and godly he wouldn't have done so. Then, could it be...could it really be...Despite the fact she hadn't seen Tirzah anywhere on the Rhett's plantation, she had just as well never been to the fields...only to the house. And Rachel resembled him so...Why did she have to appear right now? Just when she had decided to finally let go of her past and start a new life...well, as new as she could? Tears almost started forming in the corners of her sky blue eyes. It was so unfair! What were the chances of her bumping into her dead fiancée’s sister's mother, and eventually his sister? Very little. Yet it had happened to her. The present questions was-should she tell them? Should she reveal her doubts to the woman she'd just mortally offended?

Her first thought was-no. She shouldn't. She should apologize for the intrusion, thank Tirzah for her hospitality, pick up her dress and head her own way. To the store, and then to the brothel...to pick up the leftover pieces of her shattered life. It was going to take all the strength she had not to fall apart if she intended to become a new person...somebody new, not Anastazia Bartos, the whore. But she would be damned if she wouldn't try. If not here in Lindebo, then in London, or anywhere else, even id she'd have to swim over the ocean. She wanted to be sure she had done everything possible before giving up. But then, there was another part of her. A part that couldn't just get up and walk away. If this woman was James's sister...Anastazia felt that walking away would be just the same as walking away from James. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Was that necessary to start a new life? No, she decided. She might lie and cheat and steal and fight to become a better person...but she was never going to forget James to reach her ends.

So, with some new confidence in her eyes, which looked a tad less sad now, she looked Tirzah in the eye, swallowing deeply before speaking; "She reminds me of...she bears a striking resemblance to James...." She paused, but then, just in case, added his last name, "James Rhett?" Although she hadn't intended it to, it sounded more like a question than like a statement. Perhaps that was going to make Tirzah remember? Anastazia only hoped the discovery...lest there was one...wasn't going to come as such shock to her as it had to Anastazia-the old woman could easily suffer a heart attack.

(OOC - sorry, I know it's crap. >< )

Rachel put her cup down with a clink on the table and glanced at her mother with vexation clear in her eyes. She could see Tirzah drawing down into herself stubbornly, she could see that she was not going to get any kind of clear answer out of her, and it was purely maddening. 'Jest mem'ries'. Pull the other one, it's got bells on!

Her mother was the most obstinate old woman in the world, and quite possibly the silliest as well. Not that Tirzah was not capable or intelligent; quite the opposite. But sensible she was not. She never would share anything with Rachel, never would let her daughter help when she needed it, and refused to admit that she could ever even possibly need help. She was growing so old, and her vision was going; it was completely insupportable that she should keep on working herself so hard. Rachel could not stand to see it. And she would not stand it for much longer; she could be just as determined as Tirzah and she would see her mother properly and comfortably situated. She just had to figure out a way.

At least the girl was unlikely to be quite so recalcitrant as Tirzah; Rachel was fairly certain that with a proper application of pulling and prodding she could find out what was going on in that quarter. But although Anastazia showed the most curious progression of thoughts on her face, from surprise to sadness and almost fear, and then to a suggestion of increasing assurance and trust, for several moments she remained silent.

Rachel was ready to go and literally shake it out of the girl - she assumed that whatever the matter was with Anastazia, it was probably at least vaguely related to whatever had been troubling her mother, the coincidence was too strong for anything else to be likely - when Anastazia finally hesitantly spoke. The girl addressed Rachel's mother rather than Rachel herself, but that was only polite as Tirzah was the elder and had asked the same question that Rachel had; it was appropriate and respectful that she would answer Tirzah rather than Rachel.

"She reminds me of...she bears a striking resemblance to James....James Rhett?"

The name meant nothing at all to Rachel, and so she sat blank-faced and confused.

“She reminds me of...she bears a striking resemblance to James....James Rhett?”

Tirzah heard Anastazia’s comment, but gave her only a blank look in return. James Rhett. The son of the master, Josiah Rhett, on the last plantation to enslave Tirzah. Of course Rachel looked like him, she was his older half-sister; they shared the same father. Why would Anastazia say something so purposefully stupid, why would she remind Tirzah about that when it was a source of degradation, that she had been violated time and time again, enough to produce a child from a man noted for having had to try very hard to seed one on his wife. Fury stirred in her again; the insolent chit perhaps thought Tirzah less for it? And what gave her that right? And then her mind connected it. The James, the James that Anastazia had been talking about, her dead lover, that James—that James was James Rhett.

At once there was a roaring in her ears as her pulse sped up and blood rushed through her head. Tirzah sat without expression on her face, and the roaring of her bloodstream changed to the roaring of a different stream; the stream that ran through the Rhett plantation in Virginia. Tirzah had been bathing, along with the other slaves, under the supervision of an overseer. There was no privacy, but anyone who had been a slave as long as Tirzah had learned quickly to dispense with modesty. Bathing was not a regular thing on this plantation—it was on some, but Rhett was a master who exercised tight control on his slaves—and so it was necessary to make all that could be made of the opportunity. She had looked up after dipping her hair, and seen Rhett on the bank. He had pointed straight at her and remarked to the overseer, “That one. It’s clean enough, and not too ugly.”

And the overseer had called her out of the water, and Tirzah had gone. She had know what was going to happen—it had happened before, on other plantations, and would happen again—but she followed Rhett without a fuss, without a word of protest. And when he had raped her, she made no noise. The compliance did not mean that it was not rape. She didn’t fight it, but it was still rape. She followed him on her own accord, lay down on the bank of her own accord, spread her legs of her own accord, but it was still rape. She was compliant because she had no choice. If she had fought, it would only have gone ill for her. Rhett would have overpowered her, being the stronger of them, and she would have been raped anyway. But in addition, she would have been flogged afterwards, and the rest of the slaves would have had some minimal privilege taken away for a while, and she would have lost what friends she had there for the better part of a year.

So by her logic it was better not to struggle, but also not to say anything or to cry, because it seemed to make the white men happy to cause pain to a slave. So she suffered that rape without comment, and all the subsequent ones, until the day she told Josiah Rhett that she was pregnant, with his child. He had laughed and pinched her cheek as he had pulled himself free of his trousers, and said, “That’s my Sukey, so devoted to her master! Now I’ve got two for the price of one!” He had laughed again at his own supposed wit, and told her afterwards that he would let her have the last month on half-labour, plus he would give her a peppermint humbug if it was a boy. Tirzah had bowed and thanked him, and the helpless rage in her breast grew darker.

All through the pregnancy Tirzah had thought viciously about the quadroon child that would be born. It would carry something of Rhett’s features as well as Tirzah’s. Would it carry his poisoned spirit, the monstrous evil that allowed him to treat another human being so cruelly? This child was not like the other two she had raised for five years each; this child was the product of rape, and the father was one she hated and despised. It was not a child born of love at all. Tirzah was sure that she would not be able to bear the thing suckling at her breast and being under her care. But when Rachel was born—and she was Rachel despite that the master called her Pug—and Tirzah had held her in her arms for the first time, she had instantly forgiven Rachel, unable to hold anything against the child of her own body, and loved the girl. But she did not forgive Josiah Rhett his treatment of her.

Tirzah’s eyes focused on the present. There was Anastazia across from her. This girl. This girl, this girl in front of her, sitting at her table in her room, had loved James. She was one of them, one of the white people who had kept slaves, one of the mistresses who would order Tirzah beaten for looking at them wrong. She had loved the son of the man who had raped Tirzah until Tirzah could no longer number the times on her fingers even when she let each one stand for ten. And she sat at Tirzah’s table, she had the gall to say it to Tirzah, to mention that evil place and those evil times. Tirzah stood up abruptly, intending to tell Anastazia to leave, get out, go away; to slap the girl for daring to open her mouth, to hit her as she could not have hit the girl’s lover, as she had not hit his father.

But something halted her as she rose, so that she stood braced with her fists on the table but nothing more. Do I have so little forgiveness? Will I really hold this against her? That she could love James Rhett, who was not his father, who could not have raped slaves because he was only three years old when slavery was abolished? Will I hold her lover’s father against her, when the war was over before this girl was ever born, when she can’t possibly have treated anyone as bad as he did, lacking the strength and cruelty and even the anatomy to do so? And she came to a decision. To hold that against the girl would be to lower herself to what Anastazia had been only minutes ago; a blind bigot, thinking ill of a person simply because of her skin colour.

Tirzah sat back down just as suddenly as she had stood. She put out a hand and took her tea-cup woodenly. A firm resolve kept her face emotionless. She would not cry. She never cried. She was stronger than that, to blubber now because of something in the past. She had not cried then, she had not cried when Rhett had named her daughter Pug, she had not cried when he had made it a point to call to Tirzah that he was sorry, but no peppermint humbug when she gave birth to such a Pug as her daughter, ridiculing her precious child in front of everyone. She had only remembered it, and bought a pound of peppermint humbugs when she made it to the North with Rachel, five years later. Those had been the first candies Rachel had eaten, and the joy on her face had been such a thing to see.

She would not cry. Her voice perfectly calm, hiding all the hurt and anger and disquietude, she informed Anastazia, “Tha’s ‘cause James was her half-brotha. If tha’s gonna be a por’lem, then ya ha’ best—” But her voice cut out and she turned to stare out the tiny garret window. She could not look at any one any more.

Tirzah was shocked again, that much was clear to Anastazia. Her heartbeat increased just as the old woman's-did all these feelings Tirzah seemed to be experienceing mean Rachel was James' sister? They had to...she could feel it. For why else would Rachel resemble him so? Could two completely unconnected people look so much alike? Why, she had certainly never heard of something like that...Because, every person was unique, and had no living clones with which they shared no blood, right? Not even in fictional stories did such things happen...there was always a connection between thing similar. Otherwise, the world would make no sense. Suddenly, that statement seemed ironical to her. Did the world truly have sense? Did it make sense to be crazily, deeply in love with a man long gone? No..foremostly, it had no sense for that man to die and for the person whose love for him could never fail survive...Had God been merciful...had there been God, he would have let the runaway slaves kill Anastazia as well. With those kind of thoughts filling her mind, the possibility of her being wrong seemed all more likely by the second.

“Tha’s ‘cause James was her half-brotha. If tha’s gonna be a por’lem, then ya ha’ best—”

Tirzah got up suddenly, then plopped down again, her voice being firm as she spoke. Yet somewhere underneath, Anastazia saw the pain. The same kind of pain she had to live with every single day-the pain of having been wronged by somebody. Just that Anastazia had been wronged by men most likely Tirzah's friends or acquaintances, while the other woman had been wronged by Anastazia's father-in-law to be who had never become that. Yet the pain was the same...there was no difference between what the two of them felt. Actually, there was one-Tirzah had forgiven...or so it seemed. Perhaps actually she had not, but she certainly was not showing it. It was hard to find forgiveness, easier to hate. This proved that easier was not necessarily better-hatred would slolwly bite on you on the inside, until you were gone, a shadow of the person that used to possess your body.

Now she had found out. She had been right...she was talking to James' sister...half-sister, and her mother...But what did that mean? What was she going to do? James' sister could not bring him back from the dead...and neither could she tell her anything about him she hadn't known...for Rachel had never met James. On the other hand...Anastazia could tell Rachel about James...and she would have somebody to talk to about that topic, about him. And that would make things at least partially easier for her. Of course, if Rachel would want to talk to her...she certainly didn't seem all that friendly...and it looked like they didn't have much in common. Plus, she certainly was not on Tirzah's good side right now...Well, she was going to leave as soon as possible...but she wanted to stay for just a bit longer, only to determine on what terms was she to be with these women.

"I have no problem with it, Miss Grant-Freeman...It merely surprises me." She swallowed; "It surprises me that the world can be such a small place...and that so many unusual things can happen..."

No. No, she couldn't stay here any longer. But she also couldn't just go away...plus, she was wearing Rachel's outfit, not her dress...and it seemed very rude to her to ask Tirzah to give it to her right now...So staying was her only option. Anastazia wondered how was Rachel going to react. Surprised? Yes, of course. The rest of her emotions could not be guessed that easily, although Anastazia reckoned Rachel would be angry. She would probably be angry as well in her position...

The instant Tirzah stood up, Rachel rose as well, mirroring her mother's movements, only she was not focused on Anastazia. Rachel's eyes were fixed on her mother's, on the twisted grimace that had flashed over her features just briefly before the mask dropped back down over it again. And when Tirzah sat back down, Rachel did not; instead she stood all the way upright and moved to stand beside her mother. She did not touch her mother or speak, she did not even look down at Tirzah but instead stared flatly at Anastazia. There was no particular hostility in Rachel's eyes, but neither was there friendliness. Whatever was going on here, she doubted that Anastazia was trying to hurt anyone, yet she was about ready to throw the girl right out of the window regardless of intentions. Not out of hatred, but simply because Anastazia was upsetting Tirzah, and consequently needed to be removed from her presence.

Then her mother spoke in a flat and neutral tone that implied utter indifference...until she stopped abruptly. Tirzah never had difficulty with saying anything. Never. Half-brother? Rachel felt something twist in her gut, a sick feeling, as faint light came to her mind. She did not know a tenth of her own mother's story, she knew; Tirzah kept almost everything to herself. But as a small child she had seen obscenities against humanity; she knew little of the story but she could have guessed at the rest. It was a story reiterated over and over again among the slaves. All Rachel had to do was look in a mirror to see part of the story in her own face, in her own skin that was paler than Tirzah's.

This half-brother of hers...James Rhett...the name had had no meaning to her two minutes ago, but now...she did not know what to think. She tried to sort out her feelings and gave up; Anastazia seemed to be going through a similar struggle, but Rachel quite frankly did not care about her right now.

Tirzah was steadfastedly refusing to look at anyone or anything; she was staring at absolutely nothing out the window. Rachel knew that her mother would not want to be touched, or to be spoken to; but that the best thing would be to just stand there. To be there beside her.

And to deal with Anastazia so that Tirzah did not have to. "Yes," she acknowledged Anastazia's statement. "It is a strange world that we live in. Miss Bartos, I must ask you for some privacy for a few moments." Rachel spoke levelly, without inflection, but when she stepped forward towards Anastazia it showed clearly that she wasn't making a request. If Anastazia did not get up and step out of the room of her own accord, Rachel would take her by the arm and physically drag her out.

The girl did not say anything for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words. That was fine. Tirzah could well understand. Perhaps just now words were not the best thing at all, and a silence until thoughts and feelings were under control was the wisest course of action. Anastazia did get finally say something, though. “I have no problem with it, Miss Grant-Freeman... It merely surprises me.” The whore swallowed some emotion down, and Tirzah could see that there was sympathy and a wish to be conciliatory and understanding of Tirzah’s discomfort. “It surprises me that the world can be such a small place... and that so many unusual things can happen...” The girl saw the pain of memory in Tirzah, and thought she understood.

Tirzah boiled at the thought of it. Don’t give me your sympathy, girl. Don’t pity me. You haven’t the right. You think you understand, but you don’t. You don’t understand the half of it. You sit there, at my table, in my flat, and you dare to think that you can empathize with me. You can’t. You think the life of a whore is bad? You think you can understand me because you’ve been raped, once, twice, maybe more? You don’t understand at all. You chose that life. You could have borrowed, you could have begged, you could have refused to sell yourself and gone to the poorhouse and sweated in the factories and made the best of it on that kind of work. They take everyone at the poorhouse, everyone. I know, I’ve worked there myself, they took even me. But you chose to whore instead, and now you think you can understand me because you imagine men use you as they used me.

You think we’ve suffered the same pain? Not until you’ve lost a child and had to work the next day. Not until you’ve had your two living children sold out from under you. Not until you’ve been sold away from your husband. Not until you’ve been sold at all. You think you understand because a whore sells her body? You sell yourself, child, others don’t do it for you. You might have been raped, but at least you could fight when you were instead of being forced to submit quietly because your husband or daughter would be punished as well if you didn’t. You’ve not been raped in front of your family while they stood by, helpless. You’ve not been forced to sleep in your own excrement because you had an overseer that cleaned out the slave-pens once a month. You’ve not set your pride away and bought your daughter’s future with your body because no white man would lift a finger to help her without inducement and your money wasn’t good enough because of your skin colour.

You don’t know nothing, girl.

Movement distracted Tirzah. Rachel had moved to stand behind her. Her daughter didn’t touch her, or speak to her, or even look at her. She merely stood with her, silent, and that was enough. That was enough. Rachel understood Tirzah well, that she did not want sympathy from anyone who did not know what she had gone through. Her daughter knew that physical comfort, an embrace or a helping hand extended, was something that Tirzah freely gave to others but rarely, if ever, accepted. And if she ever did, it was from family and no one else. When she’d been sold up the river from Nathaniel, that had been the end of Tirzah’s desire to be embraced. And when she’d had to sell herself to get to the North, that had been the end of looking to anyone for help. Tirzah could rely on herself, her daughter, and God, and that was it.

“Yes. It is a strange world that we live in. Miss Bartos, I must ask you for some privacy for a few moments.” Tirzah heard Rachel speak, and realised that she should do something. But what? Talk to Anastazia? She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to hear the girl’s pity expressed to her. She didn’t need pity. So she’d been raped by the father of the girl’s lover many years ago. That was the past. She’d moved on. It was only times like this, when the past snaked out a head to bite her in the arse that Tirzah remembered it. Talk to Rachel? She didn’t want to do that very much either. Her daughter would have questions, even if she didn’t ask them. And those questions would lead her to think of other questions, ones that Tirzah also didn’t want to answer.

But she had to do something, and right now, she didn’t want face Anastazia’s pity. She couldn’t do it and keep a civil tongue in her head. So she gestured to one of the two other rooms in the flat, her bedroom, without looking at the girl or at Rachel.

“Yes. It is a strange world that we live in. Miss Bartos, I must ask you for some privacy for a few moments.” Rachel moved over to her mother, and it was obvious that she wanted a word alone with her. Anastazia could understand that as well. Rachel had just found out she had a brother. In her situation, she'd want a chat with her mother too. Especially if it was a half-brother. That'd mean her mother cheated on her father, or had a child with another man previous to their marriage. Anastazia was sure that would have completely shocked her had it happened to her family...Especially if she found out about it so late. Well, late was better than soon; as an adult, she could understand everything much better, for she had become more mature...Or so she hoped. With all she must have been through, Rachel had surely become more mature than she was now in her tenth...Their lives were so different. So very different...

Of course. What had she been thinking about? Naturally Rachel was not going to react as she would have! Naturally she wasn't going to question Tirzah about how could she have been unfaithful to Rachel's father...when it had bee him that raped her. Even if that hadn't been the case, Rachel had very likely learned at a young age that a lot of injustice was done to her mother. A lot of things Tirzah could not have controlled in any way without endangering the lives of her and the ones she cared about. Since Rachel herself was among the latter, she could truly put no blame on Tirzah. Nobody could. Just as nobody could blame Anastazia for becoming a whore, or for living the life she was living now. Although the two cases truly could not be compared. It was far beyond Anastazia's imagination, being a slave. It sounded horrible, but she could not picture it at all. What she had seen in America was only the nice part of it...Tirzah was a living example there was much more. There had been much more.

Anastazia slowly started getting up from the chair she occupying, ready to leave for wherever she was supposed to go. Had Rachel meant for her to leave the house or merely enter another room? Unsure, but not wanting to ask and disturb Tirzah, she waited for one of the other two women to clarify that point to her. They were either going to show her the door or the other room. It appeared to her that Tirzah was avoiding looking at anybody. Perhaps she wanted to hide the pain she felt, or the anger, or whichever feeling came along. Ansatazia didn't attempt to say anything to comfort her now. Her previous attempts had gone unnoticed. One thing really angered her-it looked to her like none of the other two regarded her with seriousness. Tirzah didn't seem to take her for nothing but a puny whore who thought she understood, and Rachel...well, for somebody who had upset her mother. As if it had been her fault!

She had to admit she had been very rude to Tirzah firstly. But had she not apologized? Had she not tried everything to amend her mistake, to explain herself? Yes, she had. So she believed she had the right to be slightly angry at Tirzah and Rachel for treating her like that. Even though they didn't do anything at all. But still. If she wanted to go on, she needed to get her self-respect back. And people with self-respect and self-esteem were angry when they thought they weren't treated right. Actually, they even said something...but it would have been utterly improper to say anything just now. It would have been improper to show any of her feelings, so she kept them hidden, waiting for instructions. Now, if she was to go to the other room, she might as well take her dress and put it on...after all that had occurred, Tirzah was very unlikely to still want to wash it for her.

Finally, the old woman motioned at the door to the other room, most likely a bedroom. With a brief nod of her head, Anastazia walked away. Before leaving, though, she snatched her dress from the chair. She opened the door and then gently closed it, checking her surroundings. The room was like the rest of the house, poor but efficient. Again, she reminded herself, better than anything she was going to have any time soon. Sighing, she leaned against the door. Was she going to eavesdrop? No...That would be extremely rude. For starters, she was going to get into her old dress again. As she put on the blue satin, she closed her eyes. It would always remind her of the good times...Once she was done with the dressing, she fixed her hair in a small mirror. Then, she gently dropped onto the bed,