<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>late in the evening<br/><br/><strong>Location:</strong>in her home (w/in the Mercantile & Trade)<br/><br/><strong>Tagged:</strong><br/><br/><hr/><br/>Jaelyn settled into the steaming water as quickly as her skin could stand it.  It was a slow process, but well worth the scalding agonies that creeped along her limbs and torso.  She’d found the bathtub tucked behind a privacy partition in a corner of the kitchen; more proof that her father had continued to hope for the arrival of his love and love child; and splurged on some sweet smelling soap from the store.  It was after all now her inventory.<br/><br/>All her days in Lost Angels never allowed for a bath such as this to wash away layers of dust, dirt and sweat while easing the ache of sorely used muscles.  So she revelled in bittersweet thoughts of what could have been -<em>what should have been</em>- while she scrubbed clean every inch of her body and then soaked in the still warm water for much longer than was deemed proper in the Cathedral of Grimme.  She laughed softly at the thought.  The Fathers were as different from Ezekiel Grimme as a right hand from a left foot.<br/><br/>Father Ortega, the kindly old padre serving Gomorra, had looked in on the store earlier, only to catch her and a half a dozen imps chasing each other with wet, soapy rags, a spontaneous break from the hard task of cleaning the place from top to bottom.  His visit was extended as he lent a hand in counting tins of beans and fruit, spoons, lanterns and whenever the children lost count or just plain ran out of fingers and toes.  All the while his eyes crinkled in the corners as the playful antics continued and his warm chuckle blessed the beams and boards.<br/><br/>Drying off, Jaelyn’s thoughts sobered, as she put on the only chemise she had.  It was sleeveless, white and growing thin enough to tear easily.  Mrs Clarke couldn’t come too soon with those new pieces.  As it was she’d have to wear the black again tomorrow.  Now clean fingers and nails  settled on the strange gift Father Ortega left. (http://www.catholicfaithstore.com/Inventory/CatholicFaith/10/PicAilgJs.jpg)  The necklace itself wasn't so strange as the Father's insistence that she never be with out it.<br/><br/>“Wear it, always, my child.”  He admonished gently.  She had looked at him curiously, noting the lack of laugh lines when he glanced back to the children still playing about as they finished up their tasks.  Patting her hands - nails filthy and knuckles raw from the afternoon’s efforts - in both of his, he let a gentle smile return to his lips.  “Please, Miss Scot-Jones… Jaelyn.  Humor an old man.”<br/><br/>Short of an outright promise, she told him she would.  It was a simple piece, not exactly pretty with Jesus dead on the cross, but on closer inspection, the Dogwood beads were lovely with a slightly pink hue.  Reverend Grimme never had much truck with jewelry or those that wore it, as such things are a vanity he can not stomach, as sinful as any murdering wretch.  But…  This was a holy piece; a rosary, the good father had called it.  Jae slipped it over her head, lifting her still damp hair so the beads lay against the skin of her neck, the cross resting on her belly.<br/><br/><div align="center">(http://www.catholicfaithstore.com/Inventory/CatholicFaith/10/PicAilgJs.jpg)</div>