The grating screech of brakes reverberated inside the cabin and she shook herself gently to coax the stupor from her body. The lethargic state had been a growing, constant source of irritation, causing a tinge of drowsiness to nagg at her from the back of her mind. The gentle rocking of the train in addition to the silence surrounding her, slowly threatened to lull her back into the comatose state and she concentrated on the images outside a small, double-paned window. It differed little from the scene that passed when the train was in motion. She loved nature; she and her sisters had whiled away many a sunny afternoon looking for birds and running through lush pastures sweeping the shoulders of the youngest sibling. However, the overabundance of green was starting to nauseate her.

The only ease granted her from the continuous stretchs of tree and field, were small ramshackle lean-to's consisting entirely of wood and nails. She thought it was quite ironic that the stuff of paper could and was used to such a remarkable effectiveness as structures that protected sometimes large families from whatever mother nature threw at them.

A small note of guilt crept up her spine and she did her best to ignore the cold tingle that spread over her flesh. All her life had been spent in a huge plantation house many times more massive than the largest number of people that had ever stayed there, Every wish and desire, she ever felt, was granted beneath those posh chandeliers attached to cathedral-high ceilings. She had never known hunger, cold, or more pain than afforded her by her first riding lesson. Punishment had never been physical, all she had to do was gaze into her father's azure eyes and the disappointment reflected there quickly sent the strongest reprimand hurtling through her petite frame harder and faster than any beating ever could. She had never been a bad child, but she was possessed of a stubborn streak her mother wished to clamp down and that amused her father till it passed along a razor-sharp edge she never dared cross. However, a few weeks before, she came as close as she ever had to that precipice and felt true fear for the first time in her young life. Remorse and guilt filled her vision as she looked around the pompous room with blank eyes. She concentrated her mind on one of the few times tears fell upon her alabaster skin and, even now, her startling green eyes were rimmed with red. But she was too preoccupied to rub at the faint sting barely noticeable over an aching heart and strained lungs fighting for the small amount of air her body inhaled.

She thought of the once complete trust she elicited from her father, now crushed beneath the image of those deep, blue eyes looking upon her with a thick mix of disappointment and anger and a small amount of disgust that truly hurt the most. She had always been the apple of her loving father's eye, his sweet, innocent Jade. She refused to imagine what he now thought of his eldest daughter , knowing she was no longer thought of as she once was, her memory tainted with the light amber stickiness of loathing. She knew she was not hated, though, that would almost be preferred to the radiating distaste she felt from her family even though her father forbid his wife to speak of it. He never breathed a word of it to her aunt and she felt a small amount of gratitude at the freedom it afforded her. Even though it would have made little difference to the older, stoic family member's already strongly ingrained sense of morals and social exactitude, Victoria knew it would have definitely made matters worse. At least, this way, she could pretend it didn't happen while she resided with the matriarch, that it was just another figment of her fertile imagination.

She could still hear her father's voice when he called her into his study. His baritone voice echoed down the wallpapered hallway and she felt an uneasy sense of dread as she walked over the patterned carpet. She stood at the door a moment trying to calm her erratic breath and the rapid tempo of her racing heart. The light brown of the door and darker tones of the various pieces of furniture littered around her, blurred together as she raised a sweaty hand to the entranceway and knocked.

She entered at his word of approval and walked over to him, his wide back turned to her. He stood before the impressive window and he seemed uncharacteristically tense; his arm rigid as he held the deep, burgundy material of the drapes away from the clear surface. Standing straight, her hands clasped in front of her, she felt the seconds tick away in a slow waltz. When it seemed they had stood this way for days, he turned, barely glancing at her before he walked in front of his desk. She turned to face him but was frozen to the spot by the very strange behavior of her beloved father.

He motioned her over with a slight crook of his index finger and she complied.A fear gripped her as she tried, and failed, to sense any degree of normalcy from the stranger standing before her. "Did he touch you?" "Father!?"

"Tell me the truth."

She took a deep breath. "No one has touched me but Rupert. You know that Father."

"I don't know anything anymore. I certainly don't know my own daughter."

Her breath caught as she realized he was close to saying she wasn't his daughter. "No, Father."

"Quiet." His voice was low, but tempered with steel. He pulled a small book from his desk and she noticed it was her diary. He absently flipped the pages and threw the books into her hands. "How could you do this? I brought you into this world and did nothing but love you. Nothing was ever wished that wasn't provided; yet you bring shame to this family. How could you?"

The last part was spoken with sob stolen breath and, for the first time, she noticed her father was crying. This scene found her at a loss for words and she glanced over the page. Falling into the task of deciphering the words, she struggled to attain some grip on the thread of control threatening to quickly slip through her fingers and shatter like so many slivers of glass upon the dead quiet of the house.

At first, when she read over the page, she did not see the monstrous prose leaping from the page that caused such a reaction in her father. A second reading caught a name and realization dawned. Her head shook with a fervent denial and she opened her mouth to speak, only to be cut off by her father's strangled voice. "Can you imagine what I felt when I read that? I thought it was about your fianc�, I was happy that you were pleased with my choice. Instead, I have to find out it was written about a n......." He cut himself off, remembering his daughter's strong aversion to the word. He continued, not fully understanding why he was making any concessions. "Colored."

He fought for control as he felt his restraint war with his temper. He had to remember that it was his daughter standing before him no matter how little she resembled the fair haired beauty he thought of as his Jade. "I want an explanation. I demand an explanation."

All Victoria could do was stare at her father, her brain numbed by the growing cold in his eyes. Her continuous stare only succeeded in further aggrivating his growing frustration and his temper won a small battle in his arm snaking out and grabbing her upper arm in a vice grip. They were both shocked by his reaction, it was the first time he had ever laid a hand on her. His grip loosened and his other hand cupped her cheek, stroking the petal soft skin with his thumb. "My sweet Jade."

Her resolve broke and a fountain of tears fought for release as her small hands covered her eyes. She couldn't remember how she managed to climb the stairs, only the she broke from her father and threw herself upon her four postered bed.

A short time later, Marzi came up to tell her that she would be going to live with her aunt, Thalia. The slightly older, chocolate skinned woman told her it was to make sure she was protected from the impending war as she was the oldest daughter and responsible for the caretaking of her home until a son was married. She knew the truth, though, had heard stories of her strict aunt and knew her father was hoping the older woman would herd her back in line.

Now she sat in her single, godforsaken cabin with only memories of what was and fears of what was to be to comfort her. In an effort to calm herself and stop crying, she stood and walked over to her valises, choosing one by fingering the clasps, causing the front to fall open onto the floor. She reached through the neatly folded clothes, pulling an object up to her chest and returning to her resting spot. Despite the fact that the small book had been packed beneath layers of satin and lace, the roughened texture of the caramel tinted leather cover felt warm beneath her trembling fingers. Her father told her that she would be allowed to keep the diary as a reminder of what she did. Every time she smelt the old leather, which always conspired to make her think of rawhide laden men astride horses and herding cattle into pens of wood and wire, she would remember the impropriety of her thoughts. It was her responsibility to keep the small book from her aunt's eyes as her father would not stand to have her misdeed made public. She sighed as the weight of that decision resettled itself onto her small shoulders and she turned to a blank page. Her hand was shaking slightly, causing the flawless french, rushing from her fingers, to be erratic and without the rhythmic loops and swirls of her normally excellent penmanship.