<br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br/><br/><strong>Faction:</strong>()<br/><br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876<br/><br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>afternoon<br/><br/><strong>Location:</strong>leaving the bank, walking to watch the ‘Grand Opening’<br/><br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>open<br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/>The hem of the mourning dress whirled dust in a number of miniature tizzies as slippered feet carried her with quick steps toward the ruckus of the new establishment.  The blue eyes flashed in thought, dimming the dark smudges under them.  It was clear that the tear swollen red rims had given over to a rising ire during her brief visit with Mr Scheinbaum.  If only she’d taken the time days ago, as the deputy suggested, the pieces would have fallen together so much sooner and the pain of her father’s betrayal would have been alleviated.  No matter; she understood more clearly now.  And that damned Reverend would burn in hell for this alone, of that she had no doubt.<br/><br/>After a long visit the day before from the local seamstress, and with the woman’s friendly insistence, Jaelyn had put two new day dresses on order.  “I’m sure you’re good for it,” she said, smiling knowingly.  One dress for mourning was planned in a deep, dark blue - “near enough to black for propriety’s sake”-  and the other a  “pale butter” shade of yellow, “to draw out the pretty highlights” in her hair.  Both pieces were simple, with a row of buttons closing a high collar.  The seamstress tutted as she took Jae's measurements over the thinness of her body, then cooed over the four thin lengths of scar striping her upper arm.  “You poor dear.  Well, you’re home now, right?  Gomorra ain’t as tonny as some places, but it aint as bad as other places neither.”  This was followed by another knowing look.<br/><br/>Jaelyn was relieved when the chatty woman finally left, chalking the entire visit up to the incessant whirl her life had taken on since leaving Lost Angels.  Still, she had to considered some of the woman’s comments.  Perhaps this was home, after all.  Where else did she have to go?  Certainly not back to the Cathedral in Lost Angels.  And wasn’t this building her birthright?  Wasn't she owed a little something for surviving the first level of hell?<br/><br/>It was while pondering such questions that she found the letter.  It was among a few of her father’s things that  the deputy, Charlie Flatbush, had packed before her unexpected arrival.  The envelope was large and oddly shaped, the ‘sent to’ printed in large block letters with ‘Return to Sender’ scrawled over top of it.  It was the address, though, that had caught her eye, because it was the very place she’d been living, under the charitable care of one Reverend Grimme and his Guardian Angels.<br/><br/>Inside was a daguerreotype of her father.  In a spiffy set of clothes he stood in front of this very building, all handsome and proud.  Fresh tears welled, to spill onto the aged paper as she read words so full of love and pleading as to re-break her heart.  He’d wanted them to come, had begged Renae to travel just the one time across The Maze to join him.  Jae trailed back to the letter’s start seeking the date; a good two weeks before her mother’s accident.  Over two years ago!  She collapsed then, a fresh round of  frustrated, mournful sobs wracking her body until finally there was nothing left but a blanket of blessed sleep.<br/><br/>After waking in the same spot where she fell into a cry jag the evening before, Jae took a few minutes to gather her thoughts.  Then she heated enough water for a leisurely bath, dressed once again in the borrowed gown, her own being too far gone for a public showing, and pulled her hair back in a loose bun.  The collar was a short fold of black lace with matching trim at the wrists.  On impulse she threaded her father’s wedding band onto her mother's charm necklace.  She felt close to them with it around her neck, and held a childish hope that they found each other on the other side.<br/><br/>She had no scheduled meeting, but had been assured that the bank was eager to meet with her.  All of Gomorra seemed to wonder what would become of Jones’ Mercantile & Trade.  Jaelyn wasn’t at all sure until she took a moment outside to look upon the large whitewashed building, it’s large plate glass window behind a protective grate.  She could picture her father standing there, all his sacrifice and hard work filling her heart with love and pride.  He hadn’t given up on his love everlasting, after all; she’d given up on him.<br/><br/>The meeting with Saul Scheinbaum had been enlightening, surprising even, and she was happy to find out, the two dresses on order would not break the bank.  The monthly stipend being sent to Lost Angels would stop immediately.  She hadn’t seen any of that since her mother decided to sign the coin over to Grimme for their tithe.  Their keep was covered by charity and labor.  Charity there carried too heavy a price.  Thommy Jones could not have realized that.  Her father was a good man, he’d never support the likes of Ezekial Grimme and his purely evil ways.<br/><br/>It was a short walk to the Babel’s Tower; still she missed a bit of the mayor’s speech.  Any wondering if she should go inside stopped short upon seeing the woman with a red lipped smile and breasts bare to the world linking her arm with the Solomon fellow.  Jae felt the warmth of a blush under the blazing afternoon sun.<br/>