Grace had signed herself later in the afternoon for a guided tour around some of the plantation mansions in New Orleans, a quest to make up for lost time, and perhaps also to kill the time that stretches when you are no longer needed.

They were brought there in a mini-bus. The bus drove through a set of large iron gates, and proceeded through a wide shady path that cut through a large forested area of the plantation. Grace was impressed by the sheer size of the property and wondered how the master of this plantation would have been regarded in 19th century New Orleans. He would have been respected, and even feared then as Le Bon Temps was one of the largest plantation mansion in Louisiana. In an aside Grace wondered about the financial status of its present owner that had been reduced to putting up the property for tourist visitation. She had often heard of these old Creole families that had little else but title and pride to their names.

They were met by their guide for the tour, a Mrs McClure who lived in the mansion. She also serves as a curator of the de la Croix Family Archive. Grace was mildly intrigued by these large Creole families that had archives for everything pertaining to the family, from Great-Grandfather's sword used during the Battle of New Orleans to Baby's first tooth or photographs of Baby Crawling, Baby Walking, Baby Wetting itself and Baby Breathing.

Grace barely paid attention to Mrs McClure as she introduced the history of the place, from its construction somewhere in the middle of the 1700s. She was preoccupied with the decor and the antique furniture, most of it French, of course. An aesthetic blend of light colors--predominantly white, gold or cream, with occasional dashes of flamboyant velvet or watered silk. And she believed that velvet couch in the middle of the room was from the time of Louis XIV. Brocade chairs. Of course. Gilted gas lamps of painted glass. Crystal candleholders on the mantel over the red-brick fireplace--frosted crystals gilted with gold and silver, patterned with lilies. A faint aroma from the half-burnt candles--lavender scented. An antique China vase with fresh white and pink Birds of Paradise. There was an Old World feel to the place as soon as she entered it, along with a smell of nostalgia and the dusty musk of preserved age. She touched the curtain drapes briefly as she moved near the windows; it was real silk. She glanced out and looked out to a large garden with neat geometrically shaped beds of flora--definitely well-tended--low green bushes and shrubs and some stone benches around the place. The fresh scent of greenery drifted in with the humid breeze and somewhere out of Grace's sight was carried with the breeze the swooshing hum of a water fountain.

Grace was trailing behind the rest of the tour as the group was being led up the stairs. The staircase with its polished brass banister and waxed gray marble steps. Gray with veins of black quartz. She had deliberately distanced herself to spend more time just exploring the sitting room of Le Bon Temps. She paused before a alcove now with a small altar set up for the Virgin Mary. It was the exquisite marble figure of the Virgin Mary that caught her eye. She bent forward to examine it closer, and found the gossamer web of gold leaves on the garment of the figure too intricate to be cheap. Nothing below a thousand in this day and age. And it appeared old, like the rest of the room. This only meant the family owning the mansion was so rich they could afford to keep something so expensive and still maintain the mansion. Then she wondered again why the Bon Temps was being put up for a tourist visitation.

She could still hear the footsteps of the rest of the tour upstairs, and the voice of the tour guide, Mrs McClure, the middle-aged Southern lady with the most impeccable manners and speech.

She moved on to the art works that hung on the walls around the room. There were several oil paintings. It was mainly the largest painting that caught her eye. It was a portrait, and very well-done too. In it a woman was seated with a small child standing by her side. The woman was light-haired, the lighting accentuating the golden glow of her hair and around her face, while child was dark, both in features and in the almost unflattering allocation of light for her. It was as though all the artist's attention was on the woman, (perhaps the mother) and the child was just an inconsequential piece of accessory, like a brooch, or a small ring. But Grace marked the similar deep green of their eyes and especially around the eyes there was similarity. Yet the nature of their countenance was disturbing. The girl was all seriousness, not the impatience of a normal children over having to stand still for a prolonged period of time. Instead it was aware, understanding. A precociousness that was disconcerting. The woman however seemed all the child, the corner of her lips just curled so subtly, fluttering on the edge of a mischievous smirk. Like Gabriel.

Grace breathed deeply as she engaged in self-castigation. You are here to experience New Orleans, Grace. Forget about the Schattenjäger JERK for a moment! You've been fired!

She checked small cursive signature at the lower left corner of the painting. She could barely make out a 'G. Jarre.' She wondered why the name seemed familiar, but shrugged it off.

Then she came to a set of sliding doors. Curious, Grace opened them, and found the dining room. Someone was having a cheesecake with tea at that very moment. Dressed in casual jeans and a pleated worker's shirt, she seemed all too at home to be a tourist.

The stranger rose erect to meet Grace. One at either side of the door they both stood silently still, watching. The stranger had short dark hair--an expensive haircut by the look of it, and uncanny deep set eyes. Two straight strokes of eyebrows gave her candid stare a shadowed predatory quality to it. She scanned Grace up and down in a quick visual sweep and came to the most logical conclusion.

"This is not part of the tour," she said simply. There was an accent in her voice, but not New Orleans--a slight British to it in fact.

"I'm sorry, but do you live here?" Grace asked politely.

"Maybe." Matter-of-fact.

"I know this may be an unusual request, but I was wondering if--"

Another female sauntered into the dining room from the doorway behind the stranger. She was younger, Grace judged her to be between eighteen to earlier twenties. She carried herself with an ease around the dining room that also hinted that she belonged here. But in contrast with the dark-haired stranger she was blond, with a haircut that was boyishly shorter. She wore a black The Sandman T-shirt and blue jeans cut off at the knees, somewhat fitting for her youth.

"Who's this?" the blond asked.

"A lost sheep," Dark-hair replied.

"Ah," and all the wisdom of twenty odd years summed up in that terse response. Then, "Do you believe in God?"

"Pardon?" Grace was baffled.

"Jesus Christ. Do you believe in him?" Blond glided over and placed both hands over Grace's. "Trust in Jesus Christ, my child, and You. Shall. Be. Saved. That's right, all you lost lambs out there, Jesus Christ is there for you! Just BELIEVE, my people! BELIEVE in Jesus Christ and you SHALL BE FOUND!"

Grace was genuinely tickled by the antics of this young blond stranger, the deliberate way she went about imitating a TV evangelist, or 'salesmen-churchmen' the way her mother called them, those con-artists who promise cures and blessings as long as you send in the cheques. She chuckled a little until she saw the unforbidding expression on Dark-Hair.

"Jade. What was that for?" Dark-Hair intoned. Blond (or Jade) just shrugged carelessly.

"Just living up to my image, Ash. Hi, I'm Jade. Sourpuss there's Ashley. I call her Ash. You may call her Miss Tremayne."

"Hello, I am Grace Nakamura," Grace smiled back. Jade beamed with the carefreeness that came with her youth. Grace wondered if she had ever been that young.

"How impressive," Ashley Tremayne drolled. "You were asking something a moment ago?"

"I was wondering if you're the owner of Le Bon Temps. Or at least if you might know them."

"Yeah, Ashley owns this place. Don't you, Ash-Tray?" Jade teased rudely. Apparently Ashley must be used to it because it hardly enticed the bat of an eyelid.

"Well, I was wondering if I could be allowed to paint this mansion. It's so beautiful."

"Yeah, it's great isn't it? And the view of the plantation's great too. That's why I live up in the attic. Of course there's other reasons for that too, but--"

"Just take photos. Like everyone else," Ashley cut in. She seemed impatient and exasperated with Jade but she continued to stare. She was starting to get on Grace's nerves.

"Oh, c'mon. It's perfectly fine." That was Jade. Grace likes her.

"Don't be crazy," Ash retorted. Jade gave a bubbly laugh in reply.

"Mad Woman in the Attic, remember? Trying to live up to a name here."

"So, now that we are onto living up to glorified nomenclatures, perhaps we should examine 'Jade'. I believe it is a stone prized for its brilliant lucidity. Perhaps you could aspire for that instead?" Ashley rebutted unexpectedly.

"Nope. Real world's too depressing. I like my hallucinogenic visions better. Just like Joan of Arc."

"They burned her."

"All geniuses are touched with fire, Ash-Tray. And my fire never dies."

"So are the damned in hell."

Grace observed, at this protracted instant, that the chairs in the dining room are imported Japanese lacquered teak. On the backs there are carvings of the traditional Japanese cranes inlaid with mother-of-pearls. Fascinating.

"You must be really lucky that I'm feeling too high to insult you," Jade swung back. Ashley stared back.

"You're really lucky that I'm too civilized to smack you."

"Ash-Tray, go to Hell," Jade beamed cheerfully.

"As long as I am with you, I am in Hell."

"You bring with you your personal bit of Hell, Ash."

Grace tried to smile back, but it came out awkward. "I'm sorry, I have to go," she said hesitantly, knowing how lame that sounded.

"Goodbye, Miss Nakamura." Ashley Tremayne went back to her cheesecake.

Jade pushed through the sliding doors just before Grace slid them shut. She shrugged a little, and inquired, "You know The Attic, right here in New Orleans?"

"Yes, it's a fancy theme restaurant, isn't it. For all the artsy-fartsy crowd."

"Well, yeah." Jade grinned. "Look, if you're not too busy tonight, or anytime this week, why don't you swung by The Attic in the evening. Say, around seven."

"You work there?"

"Technically, yeah. I'm on tour and since the gang at The Attic owns my contract I need to stop at every Attic

whenever I'm in town."

"You're a singer?" Grace was surprised. Then she recognized Jade. "You're Jade Nolan? Nolan? I thought--"

"Parents divorced. I took my mother's name. Cool, huh? So, seeing you?"

And Grace decided, "Why not?"

* * * * *

The tour continued outside the mansion and onto parts of the plantation itself. It meant walking quite a while because of the mini-bus was not allowed beyond the front of the house. Behind the mansion was the slave quarters and other amenities the earlier owners had built. Grace was surprised to learn that it was basically self-contained, with its own school, hospital and even a small church on the Bon Temps. Then she wondered about the existence of a school when slave owners rarely cared for educating their slaves. She asked Mrs McClure that.

"Oh, but the servants had children. And the school provided classes for both children of servants whether they were white or free people of color," Mrs McClure replied.

"What about the master's own children?" Grace asked. "Do they share the school with the other children?"

"Oh, no. Of course not. A private tutor was usually employed for the master's children. And the tutor usually lived in the mansion with the family."

They visited the church next. As a form of respect, Grace dipped her fingers into the fountain of holy water and genuflected even though she was Methodist. Many of the tourists followed her example and Grace could see that Mrs McClure was pleased at this. When they happened to meet each other's eyes Mrs McClure smiled to her privately.

Grace looked up the altar at the slightly larger than life clay sculpture of the Virgin Mary. It was not painted, and the earthy gray hue of the sculpture gave an ascetic contrast to the twelve stained-glass window along the walls next to the pews--each window depicting one of the twelve disciples of Jesus. But it was the one of Judas Iscariot hanging on the tree after his guilt overcame him that was the most eye-catching. Grace found it interesting that the artist had thought to include this here.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Mrs McClure said from behind her. Grace started.

"I'm sorry?"

"The glass windows. They were designed by Gilbert Jarre around 1830."

Jarre. G. Jarre. "Did he do the large portrait back in the mansion?" Grace asked.

"You've noticed, I see. Yes, he did. Madame Florence de la Croix was a patron of the multi-talented artist, and commissioned many art pieces for the Bon Temps from him. In fact, after the Madame died, her husband commissioned the Virgin Mary and the designs for the stained window for the second church."

"Second church."

"This is the second church," Mrs McClure said, gesturing around her. "The first church was burned down around 1840. The poor lady of the house, Madame Florence de la Croix was disfigured in an accident some time before them. She had been a vain but exceptionally beautiful woman for all the life she had known, and she turned absolutely insane over it. Her husband, Monsieur Phillipe de la Croix took care of her personally because she could not bear anyone seeing her the way she was. He was a devoted husband. But one night when he was asleep she ran out of the house and came to the church. A fire broke out, and it was assumed that Florence de la Croix, in her frenzy, started the fire. It razed the first church to the grounds, and killed the lady of the house in the process. They found her charred remains near the altar."

"But, why isn't the Madonna painted. Looks a little plain."

"It was Monsieur de la Croix's orders. In tribute to his dead second wife, Isabelle. The church was rebuilt in the middle of 1843. Around the same time Phillipe de la Croix's second wife and his infant son died in a fire that broke out in the nursery. He commissioned the Virgin Mary soon after she died."

"I see."

"You know, there is a legend. They say that every night on the date of the second Madame de la Croix's death, the statue of Mary will weep blood."

Grace tried to hold back her skepticism on this. While she had witnessed a few miracles in her lifetime she was not prepared to believe every superstition and old wives' tale.

"Have you seen this?" she asked. Mrs McClure looked uneasy.

"Never," she said tightly, and moved away.

Grace looked up at the Virgin Mary. A husband's tribute to his wife to leave it unpainted.

* * * * *

At the end of the tour, Grace and the rest of the group were led back up the mini-bus that had brought them here. Grace had just decided that she was going to the library for a little research on the Bon Temps when she spotted a red Honda driving up the dirt path. There was something familiar about the woman driver that came out. Suddenly, Grace waved at the driver, who was surprised at first, but she waved back.

"Hold on a second," Grace told the driver as she forced her way down the bus, much to the disgruntled disapproval of the people trying to get up.

"Em!" Grace laughed as the best friend she had ever known since she was four.

"My goodness, I e-mailed you a few days ago," Emma Kobayashi said breathlessly as she put her arm over Grace's shoulder. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm touring the place," Grace replied. "What about you?"

"I'm meeting someone, about my research. My God, you look good. Look, are you free tonight. We MUST meet for dinner. I MUST have your address."

"Sure. How about this place called The Attic? There's a performance there tonight. It should be good. We'll have dinner, then talk. You know, catch up. How long have it been? The last time I saw you, you told me you got tenure at Princeton. That have been, like, seven years?"

"Yeah," Emma Kobayashi smiled. Just then, a jeep drove up past them. Grace saw that it was that girl, Jade.

"Look, Grace--I'm sorry. I'm meeting somebody. Six tonight--look, can you pick me up? I'm not that certain of New Orleans streets yet. Here, I'll give you my address." She took out a notebook and scribbled on a page. She ripped it out of the notebook and handed it to Grace.

"Sure," Grace piped as she kept the address. "My goodness, Em. This is such a coincidence."

"Maybe," Emma Kobayashi shrugged. "Just that I don't believe in coincidence."