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Dorothy frowned in near disbelief at Michael's explanation. Cora and Otto? It wasn't as though Cora flirting and flitting from sheik to sheik was far fetched, as the sassy dame would herself admit that she liked gaining male attentions. But Otto? Dorothy's observations had her under the belief that it was Michael who currently was the object of Cora's temporary affection.

But as she peered behind him and around the room, Dorothy couldn't find any evidence to suggest that Michael's story was false. Perhaps Cora had quickly grown tired with the lack of returned interest from their employer and had ventured elsewhere. She and Otto had looked awfully comfortable with one another over coffee that morning...

"Intrude? No of course..." Dorothy's gaze had grown rather vacant, and her green eyes lifted tiredly to Michael's face. It was very kind of him to make such an offer; taking care of Dorothy when her friend and family had disposed her to an uncomfortable situation. And with no word! "I just don't understand...well, what I mean to say is...why wouldn't Cora or Otto have said anything? It would have been less stinging and less burdensome to you, Michael."

As Dorothy grew more grounded in the belief that Cora and Otto had abandoned her for their own wild-abandon, her irritation grew as well. As did the enormity of her wariness, as confusion about Ben hung heavy on her shoulders. It, unfortunately, was enough to weaken her resolve and sense of better judgment. So she numbly accepted Michael's offer, "Thank you, yes, a room to stay in would be very appreciated. Though I haven't any of my things...could we stop by my dressing room? I've enough in there to get me through the morning."

She displayed a thankful smile upon her otherwise tired features, remembering again the room that Michael had created for her. Her initial instincts about the man seemed to be proving wrong. He was always willing to do so much for her, no questions asked.

"I suppose it is because one does not often think about these things when one is in the 'heat of the moment', Helen," said Michael, with believable apology. This was almost too easy. Where had the caution and reserve of the Helen of the audition gone? She seemed a little... out of things. Perhaps it was the effect of performing on stage in the Lagniappe for the first time, or perhaps it was because Michael was gradually climbing in her favour. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she would soon be in his home.

"Of course," he said. "Please, fetch your belongings. I will call for a taxi to take us home. My car is currently in the garage for repairs," he said, smoothly, leading her to her dressing room then swiftly leaving her to into the main area of the club.

"I need a taxi here as soon as possible," he said abruptly to Bertrand, who was getting ready to leave. The older man nodded. He was due to sign off in less than five minutes but he was aware it would not do to deny Michael Rivarde for such a trivial reason.

The doctor for Otto had already been called. He was the best in the city, or at least the best that could be bought with dirty money. There was nothing else to do but to return to Helen's dressing room and knock softly before going straight inside.

"There will be a cab outside shortly," he said. "Do you have everything you need, Helen?"

Dorothy hadn't even begun to gather the things she would need when Michael knocked and entered her room. She was beginning to believe that the rapping of his knuckles was just a formality, and that he'd just as well open the door without announcing himself. It wasn't as though he gave enough pause for her to call 'just a moment' or to pull an outfit on, were she in the midst of changing.

But her head was growing foggier by the minute. It seemed as though all the stress, not only from that day but from the entire life-change that moving to the Big Easy had been, was taking its toll. She felt fatigued, and a plushy bed would be like the embrace of an old friend.

"Almost. I'm sorry." Dorothy retrieved her purse and donned the light jacket that portrayed modesty. "Ready."

What would have happened that night if she'd been thinking more clearly? Dorothy likely wouldn't have accepted to spend the evening in a relative-stranger's home. She also likely wouldn't have been so quick to judge a friend based on the non-committal comments of said stranger. Michael Rivaled, however, didn't appear a stranger to her now. He seemed to be a source of simply, understanding solace that was in no way connected to Ben Goldberg.

They exited the Lagniappe together, and shared the backseat of the cab that stood ready for them once they set foot outside. Dorothy marveled that a taxi could be hailed so quickly, and without shrill whistles or throwing one's self in to the street to gain a driver's attention. With Michael, things just seemed to happen.

"I think things went very well tonight." The silence was deafening. Michael's presence wasn't uncomfortable, per-say. But the stalking thoughts in her mind convinced her that she needed to fill space with conversation until her head hit the pillow. Hopefully her dreams wouldn't be filled with visions of cooking lunch in a certain kitchen, strolls down New York streets, impromptu passionate kisses, or the tingling feeling of her fingers entwined with lean, ink-stained hands. "You have a marvelous band, you know."

"Oui," said Michael, enjoying the luxury of sharing the back seat of a cab with a beautiful woman. Not that it was an uncommon experience for him, but the woman in question was particularly beautiful and would be a particularly hard-won prize.

"I think it went very well indeed," he said. "You sang wonderfully, Helen. More wonderfully than your namesake. The house band are magnifique, it is true; I have employed them for over a year now, but it would not take a band very talented to allow you to shine. You do it exceptionally well by yourself."

Yes, there was definitely something different about her which contrasted to the aloof and defensive demeanour she had demonstrated during their first meeting. She did not take offensive at his sudden and largely unannounced entrance into her dressing room and here she sat, making polite conversation in the back of a taxi cab on its way to the house of a man she had only known for a few days.

Outside, the dark streets streaked past. They were becoming less full of life as they entered the suburbs of New Orleans, away from the hidden speakeasies, jazz clubs and dancing saloons of the centre. Michael Rivarde's house was set, like a pale, white-washed jewel into the headpiece of a hill just outside the heart of the city. It was a tall, wooden colonial-style house with ornately-decorated balconies that contrasted with the straight masculine Roman-esque pillars that framed the front door. It was quietly but obviously expensive and was set apart from its neighbours in highly-cultivated grounds.

The taxi purred through the open gates and pulled up outside. Michael wordlessly handed the driver a bill that was far in excess of what was owed to him and stepped out of the car, walking around the other side to open Dorothy's door for her.

"Welcome, Helen," he said, dismissively waving the cab driver on his way and leading her up the steps to the front door. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened it and went inside.

As he flipped a switch and the electric lamps came on overhead, revealing the sleek Art Deco interior of a house decorated in only the latest fashions.

"Please, make yourself at home. Can I offer you a drink?" Michael said smoothly, going into the living room that adjoined the main hall.

---

Three days later, New York.

Missy frowned as she finished the last sentence of Ben's letter. Folding it back up and putting it into the pocket of her dress, she tried to put pen to paper and phrase some form of advice to her cousin. Her attempt ended up being screwed into a ball and thrown into the wastepaperbin that sat beside the desk at which she usually did Doug's accounts. She silently cursed that bright young thing who had sent Ben on a wild goose chase all the way down to Louisiana. Obviously Dorothy had grown bored of the attentions of not one but two men (her beau in blue not even enough for her) and had decided to decamp to New Orleans to start afresh, perhaps in order to gain the attentions of a few more men who took her fancy.

Missy immediately regretted encouraging Ben to follow her and bring her back home. She had seriously misjudged Dorothy Byrd and now Benny was going to have to suffer another heart-break because of it. And yet...

Missy packed a canvas bag and placed it into the basket of her bike, locked up outside on the street. It would not hurt to pay another visit to Dorothy's charming brother before she penned her inevitable letter imploring Ben to return home (though she knew full well it would not make the slightest bit of difference- if he was determined to wait a few days, he would). Perhaps Clyde had a little more light to shed on the motivation behind the actions of his sister.

How could Dorothy not be impressed by the lavish surroundings, whose every detail had been carefully and thoughtfully planned to create a matching flow throughout the house. The large structure was a perfect fit for Michael, Dorothy noted; strong and masculine, clean and precise, and without a spared penny on luxury. While it was overly tailored to intrigue guests, she couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. It lacked the cozy feeling of home that she cultivated in her own surroundings. Even Ben's paper strewn- she pressed her eyes shut against the memories of him for the millionth time that night. They did not appeal to her right now.

Nor did a drink. Despite her fragile and impressionable state, Dorothy experienced something akin to a red flag flashing across her mind. It was nice of Michael to allow her a place to stay in her time of need, but she didn't consider it an after event for cocktails in his home. She wasn't here on an invitation for entertainment, after all. His offer for a drink was nice...perhaps too nice.

She turned to face him, taking a polite step further into the house but also away from Michael, and tried to hide the leeriness from her gaze, "Oh, thank you, but no. I really shouldn't. It's late and..." and it would likely give you the wrong impression, "...and I find myself very tired. A relaxing bed sounds wonderful right now."



Dorothy's charming brother was in the midst of practicing said charm on a rosy cheeked blonde, when a pleasant, bike riding dame peddled by. To his surprise, and the younger woman's dismay, Clyde was more interested in seeing this confidant than continuing his flirtations.

"Heya...you!" Had Clyde even learned this woman's name yet? He couldn't recall it if he had. None the less, he waved a hand to further draw her attention, and strode over to where she was dismounting the two wheeled vehicle that seemed to carry her wherever she fancied to go. "I was hoping to see the likes of you soon. I've been saving up the letters for you. Just got a new one today, and she left a return address this time around. Seems like she's missing home more than she's willing to let on, eh?"

Clyde held up a finger, signaling her to stay put momentarily, and he darted to the truck parked a short distance away. From the passenger side he withdrew the short stack of envelopes containing Dorothy's letters, and from his deep pocket he removed the one that he'd received that day. His goofy smile spread across his face as he approached Missy once more, "Any news on your end, gumshoe?"

Michael concealed a dark frown at her refusal of his offer, instead nodding graciously and moving to lead the way upstairs. Of course not. Here was some of the reserve of the Helen of two days ago showing itself, even from out of the finery he had decorated her in. In a way, he was glad; she had not completely cast off part of what had made her so attractive to Michael in the first place. She was still a challenge, not as brazen or uninteresting as Cora was.

"Of course," he said, as he walked across the hall and began to climb the wide, gently-curving set of stairs that led up to the next level of the house. One hand lightly tapped the polished brass banister as he went; the only outward display of irritation or anticipation. "This way, Helen. The guest rooms are already made up..."

The stairs led to a hallway that partially encircled the open space through which the stairs emerged from the floor below. Michael turned right, moving along the balcony then opening a door set into one wall. Beyond it lay an exquisitely-furnished room. A double four-poster bed framed in matt black wood stood against one wall, covered in crisp white sheets. Underfoot was thick carpet and the dressing table and cupboard were polished mahogany, set with mirrors that reflected the image of the two figures stood in the doorway from many angles.

"I hope this is to your liking," said Michael quietly, remaining where he was, so that she would have to move past him in close proximity in order to enter the room. Helen would fit in perfectly, he thought. She was more elegant that any sculpture he could buy, more intricate than any painting. She practically belonged here, amongst his possessions.

---

"'You'? You can can call me Missy, sugar," she said, her bike rolling gently to a stop before she hopped daintily off it. Missy took out a letter of her own from her dress pocket and tapped it thoughtfully against the back of one hand. A return address? Ben would probably find a use for it. Missy knew full well from previous experience that Ben could articulate himself extraordinarily well on paper (off paper... that was another matter) and thought perhaps that he might want to send his bright young thing a letter before he left New Orleans for good. But she was unsure of whether she should. Would she be encouraging him to stay and fight for a long lost cause?

"I've got a letter for you myself," she said, once Clyde had returned. She held out the letter Ben had sent. "You'll find out who the real gumshoe is if you read that," she added, with a smile. "I dunno if you've met him before. I thought I should let you in on it if you're gonna hand over your correspondence to me so nicely."

She waited whilst he scanned the brief letter Ben had penned. "So you see, I'm in a bit of a pickle. Perhaps you could help me think up a reply."

Dorothy followed him up the staircase, marveling at the true architectural beauty of this house. She couldn't imagine having to decorate it; a palate far to large for her tastes, considering the simple farmhouse with even more simple decor. She should have expected that the guest rooms, not one room but multiple, were already prepared.

They stopped outside a tall door, and Michael swung it open. She noted that he didn't step aside for her to step within, but stood within the doorframe. His countenance appeared unassuming, and so she tried to stifle the unease that took to her stomach. She excused herself passed him, and an awkward smile lifted the corner of her lips as her shoulder brushed his chest. Once inside, she found herself surprised anew. The room held a bed larger than her entire bedroom in New York. This said nothing of the quality, either. The sheets spoke of their richness and Dorothy could already imagine the softness that they boasted.

"To my liking? I beg of you to find me someone who wouldn't find absolute satisfaction in this room. It's far more than I need for one night, but thank you."



Clyde's eyes quickly scanned the page, passing over the parts about someone named Edison as it didn't register as important in regards to Dorothy. He did pick up on a familiar moniker.

"Newbury! Well I'll be damned," Clyde looked up and smirked ruefully, "Excuse the language. Forget about digging around for him. Otto Newbury is a cousin of mine, and a no good one at that. I don't know what he's put on for Dorothy to believe, but I suppose he covers his tracks well."

He resumed reading the letter before shaking his head again, "Lordy! So Ben ran off after my sis. And you've gotten yourself in the middle of it, yeah? A pickle is right."

Clyde paused thoughtfully, "Maybe he won't be so sour if you tell him she's taken to calling herself Helen 'round everyone. Even signs her name as Helen, see? I don't pretend to be wise, but if you'll let me be philosophical, I'd say that she wouldn't have run so far if he hadn't affected her in a big way. If she didn't care, why would she run? You think?" Clyde shrugged.

"It is my pleasure, Helen," said Michael, stepping towards her having relished the brief contact they had shared. The room seemed to close in a little; all the elegance and expense of the furnishings of the room acting only as a backdrop for her. "Anything, for you."

And now Michael came to a cross-roads. He had two choices; firstly he could leave her, allow her to sleep alone in a room that, though it did not contain him, was still resolutely his, that still had his personality stamped all over it. It would be a subtle and passive exertion of his control. She would feel she owed him something in exchange for his kindness. Secondly, he could be active in his attentions. Whilst his rational mind warned him that it was still early, that Helen was more intelligent and curiously reserved than most of his conquests, his irrational mind compelled him to make a move. How satisfying it would be to bend the will of those set lips into returning his kiss? Or take that slender waist in his hands?

"Although," he began. "There is one thing you might do..."

With that, in an unusual (for him) act of spontaneity, he crushed his lips to hers, snaking one broad arm around her narrow middle. He didn't know why he had decided upon that course of action. Perhaps it was because Helen was here, out of her element, surrounded by his things. Or perhaps it was because she had been rather less reserved than usual since her performance at the Lagniappe. Or perhaps it was because of the brief but vivid memory of the look the man waiting backstage for 'Dorothy' had given her before she had walked out to face the crowd. Whatever the reason, he felt compelled to mark his territory.

---

Missy pursed her lips thoughtfully at Clyde's assessment of the much-mentioned Otto Newbury and tapped her fingers on the basket of her bike. She had thought the same of Dorothy once she had uncovered the supposed reasons for her disappearance to Louisiana; her split with Benny must have balled her up good if she had to run that far away to clear her head of it. But he'd come after her... Why hadn't it ended happily ever after already?

"I don't know... I've only ever met the dame twice, you see," said Missy. "I was hoping you could shed a little light on this whole mess. I'll write back to him, of course, tell him that Helen is what she's going by nowadays, but I don't know if I'll be too late." Ben would be coming home soon, provided the bright young thing hadn't deigned to pay him a visit. Missy frowned to herself at the thought of Ben waiting for the woman he'd travelled a thousand miles to see to bother to see him.

"But- Why would she call herself something different? This cousin of yours; Mr Newbury, you say he's bad news... Could he be why? Is there some kind of shady business going on in New Orleans that he's involved with? I don't mean to worry you," she added, hastily. She genuinely liked the charming, unassuming Clyde and did not wish to make him concerned about his sister's welfare unnecessarily; it was just that things didn't seem quite right...

Dorothy, with an almost unassuming approach towards Michael and his comments, found herself unsure of how to respond to his comment. Anything for her? It was something that one would expect to hear with thick sarcasm, or from the lips of a beloved. Neither of this appertained to Michael's use of the phrase. In fact, the hollowed way that his voice shaped the words, and the chilly way that they traveled the increasingly short distance in the silent room sent a brief shiver down her spine.

She met his gaze with inquisition, hoping to find that perhaps his sarcastic expression had fallen flat, and his face would show bemusement. But the way his gaze, no stare, penetrated her unprepared gaze caused her alarm. What was it that she was looking into in those eyes? Anger? Desire? Malice? It wasn't an emotion she was accustomed to reading, but she could identify that it gave her the desire to press herself against the wall furthest away.

Her confusion was furthered as he suggested that there was something that she could do for him. It was a strange suggestion, as she hadn't requested an opportunity to replay his kindness. And yet he was drawing implications from her words that she was searching for a way to show her thanks. Her lips parted to reply, but were swiftly and unexpectedly stifled by a pressing kiss.

The force behind the kiss spoke as a demand. Ben had taken her by surprise with kisses before, but even if intense, they were tender, loving, and at the very least mutual. But this kiss bore down on Dorothy with fierceness, scaring her more than startling her. A moment passed before her mind could shout at her to move; move not into his embrace that was like a lock around her waist, but away from this unwelcome affection (that lacked any affection). Her hands braced against his chest and she pushed away. As she turned her head, she felt his lips drag across her cheek. She staggered backwards for distance, and disrupted a water pitcher from the dressing table. The spilled water darkened the carpet, and Dorothy turned away from Michael to hastily pick it up.

And while she didn't feel comfortable with her back turned to him, she felt far less capable of looking at him. She braced her hand against the ground, focusing too intently on cleaning up the mess she had made. Her words were a broken semblance of a sentence,"I'm sorry...it wasn't, I really didn't mean to be so clumsy. You..I was...perhaps it would be best if I left?"

Though where would she go? Her cousin and friend had rid her of her usual accommodations, and she hadn't paid enough attention to know where exactly she was even if she did know the city well enough to find a safe and affordable room for the night. Dorothy's hands trembled and inwardly she swore, wishing they would stop.



Clyde lifted a hand to rub a sore spot along the back of his tanned neck. Dorothy's name change had been something he'd been wondering about himself. He'd assumed that it was just some silly attempt to make a new name for herself, but now knowing that she was rooming with their unsavory cousin, Clyde couldn't help but wonder if she was involved in something more sinister than trying to escape her heartache.

He smiled at Missy's concern, "No, no. You're not worrying me. If anything, you're making me think a bit more seriously about all this. I probably should have done so sooner." He sighed heavily, and narrowed his gaze in thought.

"I honestly don't know much about Otto, other than that he's involved in a crime ring down there. His pa died when he was young, by the hands of some big name criminal, who in turn took Otto under his wing. Rivers? Rallard? I don't recall the name. He's crooked, no doubt about that, but I find it hard to imagine that Dorothy would have flown south to take part in his business. Says she's singing again, though. Another..."Clyde paused. He wasn't sure how much Missy knew about Dorothy's activities. It wasn't his intention to sully his sister's reputation, but knowing all the facts might help, and Missy was reading the letters after all. He lowered his voice, "She's singing at another speakeasy. Those places don't entertain angels, but Dorothy never mingled with the rougher characters there. Still, she isn't a stranger to that world."

Clyde tried to rack his brain again, lifting the letter that Dorothy had sent him in search of any other clue, "She mentioned Ben, here. I can't promise that she'll let him be her knight in shining armor, Missy, but that shouldn't stop him from trying. I get the feeling that Dorothy don't know from nothing what she's getting wrapped up in. She might not know that she needs rescuing. I wish I knew."

Even as he kissed her, Michael could feel tension suddenly shoot through her and a great flash of anger and dismay came over him as she pushed him away, turning her head to the side insolently. How dare she?

She staggered back into the dressing table, upsetting a jug of water that thudded onto the thick carpet and Michael fought to control himself. He stared down at the spreading pool of darkness as Helen fussed awkwardly over the now-empty jug and forced the anger and humiliation down into the depths of his mind where it could be summoned on later. If he cast her away now, into the humid darkness of a New Orleans night, then she would never be his. No, as much as he wanted to see her tearful and sorry for what she had dared to do, it would be far better to act the spurned suitor; polite but indignant. Then, in a small but subtle way, she would be even more in his debt.

"No, of course not. I will not retract my invitation. My apologies, it was just that I thought-" And here he inserted a heavy and well-timed pause. His tone; collected with an undercurrent of hurt, did not match the expression on his face as he fixed his dark gaze on the nape of her neck as she crouched on the floor to mop up the spilt water. "Good night, Helen."

With that, he pulled the door closed with a resounding click and walked back down the corridor. Once inside the rich sanctuary of his own bedroom, he helped himself to a large measure of the finest brandy money could buy in New Orleans and, after he had finished it in a single gulp, threw the crystal glass straight at the flocked wallpaper in an explosion of rage.

---

"'Rivers?' Or 'Rallard'?" repeated Missy thoughtfully. "I'll write to Ben and tell him. If he's working for a paper down south then he might have a few... contacts or sources or whatever news-hawks call them, who might be able to find out a bit more about this fella."

To hear what Clyde said about Dorothy was both heartening and disheartening. If she did have a legitimate reason for pretending she didn't know Benny then it sounded as if it was the kind of thing that Missy wouldn't want the bright young thing, much less her own cousin, to become embroiled in. Though, knowing Ben, if there was any possibility of that (or if the potential for a story became obvious) then he would undoubtedly do so.

Missy smiled at Clyde. "Well, I don't know how good Benny is at rescuing people; he seems to need rescuing himself an awful lot of the time, but I'll express those sentiments to him, sugar," she said, going back over to her bike.

"Here..." She took out a cloth-covered dish from inside the canvas bag in the basket of her bike and passed it to him. Inside was the beautifully-glazed pastry of an apple pie. "A little something I made with those apples of yours. Enjoy, and thanks; you've been the bee's knees, Clyde!" she called, as she hopped back on her bike and began to cycle away through the crowded market. "I'll be back when I get a reply from that cousin of mine!"

Had she even the smallest fragment of a clue as to where an alternate residence for the evening might be, Dorothy would have insisted that she stay elsewhere. But even as she'd voiced that option, it had ended as a hesitant question. She had teetered inwardly between the hope that he would insist she stay (so that she didn't have to rove the darkness alone), and the hope that he would agree that leaving would be a proper idea. After all, he might have known of another option.

But he gracefully helped the both of them avoid any additional embarrassment, allowed her to stay, and removed himself from the room to leave 'Helen' to herself for the evening. Dorothy ducked her head further as her ears caught the wounded edge to his careful resignation. She truly hadn't expected the kiss, but now felt that her startled withdrawal had been an over reaction. Not that she wanted to return the kiss; another relationship that passed anything beyond friendship was out of the question.

Had Michael been drinking that evening? Perhaps when she'd clutched at his arm after seeing Ben, he'd perceived the wrong impression. Had he all along been attracted to her in a more serious matter than flirtation? Is that what she had been reading in his eyes just prior to his lips smothering hers? In any case, she knew the lip lock had been uncomfortable.

And now it seemed that the enormity of the stressful burdens weighing Dorothy down were too heavy, this last episode being the last straw. She up righted the overturned pitcher, and set it back upon the vanity. Then, without trying to remove anything that she'd worn that evening, Dorothy collapsed on top of the covers, drew her knees towards her chest, and easily allowed her eyes to close and carry her off into a dreamless sleep.



Heavy drapery well masked the appearance of morning that otherwise would have been seeping through cheaper, flimsy curtains. Dorothy would have startled if she'd known that it was nearing noon, but instead she stretched and groaned lightly as she turned her face away from the makeup stained pillow. It took a moment, and when she remembered whose bed she'd fallen asleep in, Dorothy's eyes quickly opened and she pushed herself up in bed.

Hastily, she used the wash basin to freshen up, and exchanged her flashy outfit for a more modest change of clothing that she'd worn before performing the day before. Then she gathered her purse and cautiously opened the door and stepped into the grand hallway. Worry and discomfort started to creep into her stomach as she wondered if Michael was awake, and if not what she would do to bide her time in a foreign house before she could be returned to the city.

Michael had woken up many hours before and had spent the morning doing accounts and conducting affairs related to the aftermath of Otto's unfortunate injury the previous evening. He always awoke early, even if he'd been up late at the Lagniappe the night before as he had never found sleep to be a luxury. A few hours a night more than sufficed and they were invariably as deep and devoid of dreams as a well is devoid of light.

Dorothy would find him sat at the table in the marble-topped kitchen, pen in hand, as he jotted down row upon row of figures. Unlike Ben's haphazard, angular handwriting, Michael's was the painstakingly neat hand of someone who did not write much nor often and he held the pen tightly between the fingers of his broad hands with a degree of awkwardness that did not match the rest of his composed demeanour.

He had dismissed the humiliation of Helen's rejection almost as soon as he had woken up. In fact, he was becoming sure that it would work to his advantage. He had made his intentions clear and now he was in a position to withdraw them and draw back just as she had done last night. That, perhaps, would awaken her to his attractions. Soon, she would be his.

Michael looked up as she entered.

"Good morning," he said, looking up from his work with composure. Let her apologise for what she had dared to do; he would make no mention of it. "Helen, sit down and partake in a little breakfast," he added, gesturing to an empty seat. His housekeeper had been up early that morning preparing a meticulous breakfast of chopped fresh fruit and creole calas and it was laid out on the table in preparation for Dorothy's arrival.

---

Across the city, Ben awoke just a few minutes later than Dorothy. He sat up groggily and untangled himself from the sheets that appeared to have tied themselves in knots around his limbs during the night. Opening the shutters, the bright hot heat of a midday sun streamed through the cotton curtains and he squinted his pale eyes against it. He'd hardly drunk anything last night but he still felt like he had a hangover. In a way, he supposed he did. Just, it was the consequence of an unexpected and down-putting encounter with Dorothy rather than a half-bottle of gin.

What to do today... He half wanted to hang around the guesthouse for the next few days, so that he'd be there just in case Dorothy did make an appearance before he left New Orleans. But he was restless and needed something to take his mind off the whirlwind of possibilities that had been circling in his head since last night. The look the man Dorothy had been arm-in-arm with had set him thinking; he must have been a big egg to be backstage at a place like that, dressed how he was. Maybe this was Otto Newbury? But something about the way he had acted around Dorothy told Ben (as well as generating a healthy dose of dislike for the man) that he was most definitely not her cousin.

It was time to go back to the Picayune offices again.

"Good morning." Dorothy returned. Though her expression was placid, her green orbs sought to detect any trace of...anything in his face that spoke to his feelings about the night before. To her relief and dismay there was nothing. He was likely being a gentleman, not wanting to embarrass a lady by speaking of the awkward encounter. But if there had at least been a flash of embarrassment in his eyes, Dorothy would have felt more on par with him. Dorothy realized that embarrassment wasn't something she would ever see cross Michael's features. Now she found herself still feeling the need to tip toe around him as though she'd just broken something of value, half questioning if the unexpected kiss had been all in her head.

Michael offered her a seat to join himself for breakfast, a meal that Dorothy's mother had forbidden any of her children to go without. But for the first time in a great while, Dorothy had no appetite and was strongly considering declining his offer. Look at what accepting his last offer had lead to? She told herself that she would need to be more careful in the impression that she gave Michael.

She took a small step closer indicating that she was considering staying, but simultaneously began to retrieve her gloves from her purse, "Thank you, it all looks wonderful." Everything in the catered display did look scrumptious. When was the last time she'd eaten? Had she even made time for a meal amidst the busy events of her first night singing? "But I'm not hungry this morning, really. I'd like to get back and speak to Cora and ready myself for tonight."

Was this the part where she was supposed to ask him for a ride home? Surely he had a driver or something whom could deliver her back to the city. Then again, it could be rude to assume that he would be responsible for her transportation home. Could he call her a cab?

"If you- oh!" Dorothy had removed both pale gloves from her purse, and was in the process of lifting one to slip her graceful fingers into, when a folded piece of paper fluttered out from inside and drifted to the floor. She didn't remember tucking anything into her gloves, and wondered if Cora had indeed penned her a note regarding she and Otto's departure. Dorothy had been busy, after all, and Cora might not have had the opportunity to speak to her. She stooped to retrieve the fallen scrap.



Cora startled in bed, and withdrew a her arm from where it had been lying across her eyes. Afternoon sunlight drifted in and cut a sliver of brightness across the wooden floor of her room, and up and over her bed. The night prior had been a long and strenuous one, taking a physical as well as mental toll on the cigarette seller. She squinted against the brightness, and wondered what had roused her from what had been a deep slumber.

"Cora!" Otto's voice beckoned to her loudly again from the room beneath her.

So that is was had woken her. Cora felt mildly annoyed. Certainly her travels southward hadn't included plans to care for a bedridden cousin to her disgustingly successful friend whom, she noted, hadn't returned home last night. Otto and Anthony had assured Cora that Dorothy's absence was for the better. It would make it a much more feasible task for her to conceal what had happened from 'Helen.' She wouldn't have to try and explain to 'Helen' why she kept rushing to Otto's room, why a doctor was arriving in the early hours of the morning, etc.

"If Helen were to arrive home, you'd have to weave an elaborate story. And while I'm sure you are capable, Cora, it would be much more difficult to maintain the guise." Anthony had soothed with a hand on her shoulder before leaving the house with the doctor.

Her responsibilities now were to check and change the dressings on his wound, and bring him anything he might need to ensure that he stayed in bed for the remainder of the day. The bullet wound, after all, hadn't been a crippling one. It had grazed deeply, and had required a some delicate attention from the doctor, but it wouldn't keep Otto off of his feet for long. The doctor had simply advised that he remain in bed with his leg elevated long enough to let the would heal without fear of re-opening it when walking. And he wasn't to over exert himself for a week. Prior to seeing his activities last night, Cora wouldn't have thought that over exertion would have been an issue for Otto.

Now she made her way down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the bedroom found at the back of the building. Otto's room. She sighed heavily before stepping inside to see what it was that he needed.

Even as Dorothy stooped to retrieve the fallen scrap of paper, it was already in Michael's fingers. He had seen a brief flash of the contents of the note; the signing off as 'B' written in a masculine, angular hand, and a sudden surge of possessiveness had compelled him to deftly snatch it out of Dorothy's reach.

By the time he sat back, of course, there was not a trace of his thoughts on his features, which were as composed as they had been ten seconds prior. He placed the note into the inner pocket of his jacket and looked back at her. The discovery of the note might as well not have happened.

"You won't be needing that," he said, his tone like a scabbard concealing a blade. "It's a shame you won't stay for breakfast, Helen. But I did consider that eventuality; my driver is waiting outside. He will take you to wherever you wish to go in the city."

Michael stood up and walked across the kitchen, his highly-polished shoes clicking on the tiles. He opened the door in the corner that led to the side of the house. He could have let her out through the front door but allowing her only the back door seemed more in keeping with his mood. Though he stood there with razor-sharp politesse, waiting patiently for her to leave, inwardly he was itching to read that note. Obviously, she had not known it was there or she would not have allowed him to discover it. So what secret admirer had she already attracted on her first night? And how had they managed to get backstage to place it in her glove? He vowed to interrogate the bimbos who guarded either side of the stage tonight.

"See you at the Lagniappe, Helen," he said, with a smile.

---

"Evelyn?"

Evelyn Cotillard leaned back in her chair to see who was speaking to her. Upon seeing it was Ben, she promptly lean back again and continued with her work.

"Oh come on, I remembered to call you that, instead of Evie, didn't I? Look, I just wanted to ask-"

"Another dame? I don't know everyone in New Orleans, you know; you'll have to get some contacts of your own," she said, irritably brushing a strand of ash blonde hair out of her eyes. "I've got to make a deadline, Ben..."

"Won't take a second, I swear," said Ben, unfazed by her hostility. "Have you ever been to- this speakeasy, it's got a real funny name- the... Lagniappe. That's it. What do you know about the place?"

Evelyn looked up sharply, her pen poised over the page.

"I don't know anything about it. Why would I go there?" she said, in a manner that Ben privately thought was a little odd. Sure, prohibition hadn't come into effect back then (the country had bigger things to worry about) but Evie had never been the conservative or prudish type; why was somewhere like the Lagniappe suddenly so off-limits? "Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"No real reason. Just went there the other night, thought it was a real humdinger. Who owns the place?" he said casually.

Evelyn didn't believe what he said for one moment. That was Ben, though. He thought an easy-going attitude and playing it by ear could get you anywhere. He never bothered to think about the future. She made a decision.

"I don't know. Look, if you really want to know, then you can talk to Eddy Kailey. He's a rum-runner; he'll probably be able to tell you about the owner. But he's my contact, alright? So I'll arrange the meeting."

"Really? Thanks, Evie," said Ben, with a grin. He took his notepad out of his pocket and rapidly scrawled the phone number for Mrs Winston's Guesthouse onto a page before ripping it out and putting it onto the desk in front of her. She eyed it sceptically. "You can reach me on that."

She watched him go, as he headed for the stacks at the back of the newsroom where they kept all the back-issues of the Picayune, photographed on nitrate film. Once he had rounded the corner, she picked up the phone on her desk and deliberated for a few moments before dialling.

"Stephen? Yeah, it's me, Evelyn. Someone's been asking around about the Lagniappe. A new journo we've got in here. He wants to know about Michael..."

"See you at the..." Dorothy stammered. She stared after Michael was incredulously.

The note that had slipped from her glove had practically been snatched from her hand. Michael was, apparently, spry. Before she'd even thought to bend over and retrieve the fallen paper, he hand stood from his chair, bent, and stuffed the paper within his pocket. After she had straightened and shook off the initial stupor, Dorothy felt enraged. Her eyes bore into the spot where the note had found a new home.

Her footsteps, though petite, were thunderous across the tiled floor in comparison to Michael's as he walked away from her. His carefree swagger infuriated her further. As he dismissed her to the driver, she stormed in front of him and bristled, "You must be kidding, mister Rivarde. I can hardly imagine that the note held much significance, but none the less it is mine."

Though her anger would probably satisfy Michael like an expensive glass of liquor, Dorothy couldn't stop the words coming from her lips. With something between fear and frustration she spoke, her tone low, "And excuse me for saying, mister Rivarde, but you have no authority telling me what I do and don't need outside of the Lagniappe. That is, of course, if you wish to continue seeing me there."

Dorothy wanted to stay and fight for what was hers. She had sensed something within his kiss the night before; something that was reflected in his dark eyes now. But in the long run she knew it was only a piece of paper, and that by turning and walking away from him without a goodbye, without allowing him the last word, she had what she perceived to be the upper hand. Which is what she did.

"I don't think you have a choice but to continue..." said Michael, just within her hearing as she stormed around the corner onto the drive at the front of the house. Dorothy had been right; her anger had satisfied him but a timidity would have satisfied him more. Still, she had not put up as much of a fight as she might have done. He was getting closer.

Shutting the door behind him with a sharp click, Michael went back through into the living room to read the note. Taking it out of his jacket pocket and holding in his broad hands, he read it slowly, a cold rage mounting with each word.

So she had lied to him. She had known the dark-haired man backstage, the one who had addressed her as 'Dorothy'. Who else but him could this be from? Although his mind rapidly began to fire on all sixes, considering who this man was; (an old flame, someone from her home city of New York?), he was mainly focused upon one fact: she had something to hide, something that she did not want Michael to know about. And by knowing something that he did not, she had one up on him.

That would not do.

He stowed the note away carefully in his pocket diary. He would know every resident of the guest-house on Thalia Street by this time tomorrow; he would make sure of it.

Cora and Otto both lifted their heads and turned their ear toward the direction of the sound they'd just heard. Even though Otto had repeatedly assured her that they were out of harms way when in his home, Cora couldn't help but startle at every unfamiliar sound. And who could blame her after what she'd witnessed? Only the slumber from the night before had given her nerves a brief reprieve.

"It sounded like a car door." She offered into the silence that followed the dull thud from outside. Cora looked back to the worn looking man in the bed, and searched his eyes for direction. None was found. Otto didn't make eye contact, instead listening a moment longer before closing his eyes in what could have been fatigue or boredom.

It had been like this much of the previous night. Unless he had a specific request, or if Cora were to be persistent with a question to the point of annoying him, Otto had remained aloof and silent towards her. With a elongated sigh, Cora decided that if he wasn't worried than in mustn't be anything alarming. She rose from his bedside and closed the door to his room behind her just as Dorothy was yanking her gloves from her hands and brashly discarding them upon the counter.

"Dorothy." "Cora."

They spoke one another's names simultaneously. It was Dorothy whom was the first to continue, letting her eyes slowly take in her friend's disheveled appearance and then letting her gaze trail across the room to the door from which Cora had just emerged. With an anger that had steeped on the car ride over, Dorothy's questioning tone held a good measure of accusation, "Were you coming from Otto's room, just now?"

Anthony and Otto had been correct. Creating an instant and believable tale proved difficult, and Cora hesitated before her response. She couldn't tell Dorothy that what she'd just seen was false, after all. "Um, yes. I was. Are you just getting home?"

As though she'd been provided another option? Dorothy didn't appreciate Cora's lack of explanation. So she was ashamed, then. Or perhaps embarrassed, "Did you hear me return at any other time? Mister Rivarde's driver just dropped me off."

"Michael's driver...?" Confusion seeped into Cora's features.

Dorothy wrinkled nose and spoke with heavy sarcasm, "It is to him that I owe every thanks. His home and escort back to the city were so very pleasant." Dorothy looked absently out a window as she thought with frustration about the note and Michael's exertion of control. Then she remembered whose fault it was that she'd ended up at his house in the first place, and leveled Cora with a icy stare, "Or perhaps it is you I should thank, Cora. At the very least you could have informed me that you were leaving."

Dorothy was right, and Cora knew it. She hadn't thought far ahead enough to imagine an excuse for why she'd left with Otto, and why she couldn't have clued her friend in. But Cora's thoughts were spinning in an entirely different direction, and a burning envy reddened her face. His home? That is where Dorothy had been? "How dare you do such a thing to spite me. I thought better of you, really I did. But now I know that you're good for nothing more than treating men like toys, and throwing them away when you're finished. First the writer and then the cop. But this time it had to be one that I cared about, didn't it?"

"Don't you dare bring up Charlie or Ben! You don't know the first thing about them and I have no idea what you're going on about. I went with-"

"Spare me, will ya?" Cora spat. She didn't have to listen to the sickening details of Dorothy's night with Michael. How she'd remained with him at the Lagniappe, smiling at him from behind her microphone. How she'd clutched onto his arm and whispered suggestions of taking her home. How she'd spent the evening at his house -his house! She'd known that Cora was sweet on Michael and even that didn't stop her. "Why'd ya even bother coming home, huh?"

Dorothy was left without words. Her lips parted in utter surprise; the cruelty and coldness in Cora's words cut like a knife. First Cora flew off on a passionate whim with Otto, telling Dorothy nothing of it, and now here she stood refusing to acknowledge any of it. Dorothy shook her head, and turned away as she spoke, "This isn't home."

Minutes later she'd packed her few belongings into the trunk they'd only recently been relieved of. She'd donned a fresh change of clothes and freshened herself for the day, and then descended the stairs and walked passed Cora who remained poised with angry rigidity near the counter, "You and Otto enjoy yourselves. I hope it is worth it, Cora."

And then she left with the intentions of not returning. She hailed a cab and directed him to a cigar shop a few blocks away, where she had a message to deliver.

The Lagniappe was still hours from opening but Francis had arrived there early. In a sea of chairs unturned upon tables, the saxophonist had selected a seat in the very centre of the club. Here he sat, feet up on the table, a glass of iced tea just next to his brogues as he changed the reed on his instrument. The band would be here soon to jam and he wanted to get in a half an hour's worth of quality practising before they arrived. He was smokin' at sax, but he was smokin' for a reason.

"You'd better be cleaning that after you're done, Franny," said one of the waitresses from behind the bar, waving a cloth at him. "Your grubby boots are shedding river mud all over my sparklin' table." She threw the cloth at him and it landed on his head.

Francis wrinkled his nose and batted the cloth off his head.

"That stinks, Olivia," he said, throwing it back. It hit the waitress's shoulder and she squealed, flicking it away and brushing down her shirt.

"Just as well it landed on you, then," she shot back, sticking her tongue out at him. "Say, Francis, I was thinkin'... What you doin' after this place closes tonight?"

Fortunately, Francis was saved from answering that particular question (or proposition, depending on how you looked at it) by the arrival of the canary, and Michael Rivarde's new favourite pet, from last night.

"Helen!" he said, standing up and going over to her. "Hey, chick, what the hell you doin' here already? You're a little early, you know-" He paused. She looked a little upset. Word was; she'd gone home with Rivarde last night. Maybe he'd decided she was spoiled goods now and sent her packing from his ritzy house up on the hill. That was his kinda style.

"Say, are you alright?" he said, unlooping his saxophone from around his neck.

Dorothy had exited the taxi in a much different disposition than she had exited the fancy car Michael had sent her away in. She had been fuming then; now her anger had deflated to melancholy. Her bright eyes appeared dim, and her lips were down turned.

But she was still determined to execute her original plan, despite the fact that it would have brought much more pleasure if delivered in a temperamental frame of mind.

Seeing Francis was a great relief, as was his chipper greeting. He didn't know from nothing the happenings between herself, Michael, Cora, or Otto. He also didn't know a thing about Ben. In a way, he was like a clean slate; a fresh page that held no blemishes for Dorothy to deal with. But he was perceptive, and was kind enough to ask if something was the matter.

Dorothy attempted a smile, and cast a roughish eye around the bar before cautiously returning her gaze to Francis's concerned features, "Yeah, I'm just jake. Listen, you wouldn't happen to know where my dressing room is, would you? I can't quite remember."

It was hardly a believable request, but 'Helen' was fresh enough to the scene that no one would have enough know of her to think she had reason to lie. Francis seemed sharp, and able to see her underlying request to speak with him alone. And in all truth, Dorothy did have a brief note in her pocket that she needed to leave upon the dressing room's vanity. She instinctively knew that Michael would check for her there (if not right away, then when she was absent when she was meant to be on stage), and that he wouldn't hesitate it reading a note in her private dressing quarters. The thought made her clench her teeth slightly.

Behind the bar, the waitress narrowed her eyes as Francis nodded and set his saxophone down on the table.

"Sure thing, chick, it's right this way. Your's is the first on the left, I reckon..." he said, leading her towards the stage and through the door off to one side. Francis knew the canary hadn't really forgotten where the dressing room was, and, although he knew how it must look to the disgruntled Olivia, he also knew that she had nothing 'improper' in mind. However, he didn't have a clue what she would want to talk to him about in private.

Francis pushed open the door to her dressing room and grinned in minor disbelief at the plushness of the interior. Compared to the wooden floorboards and the ancient chairs in the band's dressing room, this place was practically the Taj Mahal.

"What's the haps?" he said, turning to her once the two of them were inside. He ran his hand over his cropped hair and tried to look receptive. He wasn't good at this kind of thing. The only other chick who tried to tell him things was Maggie and that was only because she didn't know any better.

"You sure you're OK?" he asked, cautiously. Closer-up, she definitely looked a little drawn. Prettier too, he couldn't help but think. But the thought of Maggie from just a few seconds prior seemed to linger and cancel that out.