"No one will tell me what to say and think," I replied defiantly. He didn't laugh this time, but he held his smile for a moment and then grew serious.

"There's a different sound in your voice, an accent I detect. Where are you from?"

"New Orleans," I said, but he shook his head.

"No, before that. Come on, I can hear things more clearly, more distinctly. Those consonants . . . Let me think . . . You're from the bayou, aren't you?"

I gasped at his accurate ears. He put up his hand. "Wait . . . I'm an expert on regional intonations.″

"I'm from Houma," I confessed.

He nodded. "A Cajun. Does my grandmother know your true background?"

"She might. Mrs. Ironwood knows."

"And she permitted you to enroll?" he asked with sincere surprise.

"Yes. Why wouldn't she?"

"This is a school for pure bloods. Usually, if you're not a Creole from one of the finest Creole families . . ."

"But I am that too," I said.

"Oh? Interesting. Ruby Dumas, huh?"

"Yes. And who are you?" He was hesitant. "You play beautifully," I said quickly.

"Thank you, but I don't play. I cry, I scream, I laugh through my fingers. The music just happens to be my words, the notes my letters." He shook his head. "Only another musician, a poet or an artist, would understand."

"I understand. I'm an artist," I said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I have even sold some paintings through a gallery in the French Quarter," I added, finding myself bragging. It was not like me, but something about this young man's condescending, skeptical manner put a steel rod in my spine and hoisted my flag of pride. I might not be blueblood enough for the eyes of Mrs. Clairborne and her grandson, but I was Catherine Landry's granddaughter, I thought.

"Have you?" He smiled, showing a mouthful of teeth almost as white as his piano keys. "What do you paint?"

"Most of my paintings are scenes I did when I lived in the bayou."

He nodded and grew more pensive-looking.

"You ought to paint the lake at twilight," he said softly. "It used to be my favorite place . . . when the dying sun changes the colors of the hyacinths, shimmering from lavender to dark purple." He spoke about colors as if they were long lost, dead friends.

"You weren't always blind, then?"

"No," he said sadly. After a moment, he turned back to his piano. "You had better get back to my grandmother's tea before you're missed."

"You never told me your name," I said.

"Louis," he replied and immediately started to play again, only harder, angrier. I watched him for a moment and then I returned to the tea, feeling very melancholy. Abby noticed immediately, but before she could ask me about it, Mrs. Clairborne announced that our tea had come to an end.

"I'm happy you girls could come to see me," she declared and then stood up. Leaning on her cane, she continued. "I'm sorry you have to be going, but I know you young women have things to do. I will ask you all up here again soon, I'm sure. In the meantime, work hard and remember to distinguish yourselves by being proper Greenwood girls." She started out, clicking her cane over the marble, that stopped watch dangling on the chain around her neck like a small but hefty burden she was sentenced to carry the rest of her life.

"Come along, girls," Mrs. Penny said. She looked very pleased. "It was a nice afternoon, wasn't it?"

"I nearly got a heart attack from the excitement," Gisselle said, but she looked at me suspiciously, curious about where I had been and why my mood had changed too. I wheeled her out, and Buck came hurrying up the steps to help get her over the portico. Once again he lifted her gently out of the chair, only this time she deliberately saw to it that her lips grazed his cheeks. He shifted a quick gaze at Abby and me, and especially at Mrs. Penny, to see if we'd seen what Gisselle had done. Both of us pretended we hadn't, and Mrs. Penny was too oblivious to have noticed. He looked relieved.

Once we were all inside the car, Abby asked me where I had been so long.

"I met a very interesting but very sad young man," I said. Mrs. Penny gasped. "You went into the west side of the house?"

"Yes, why?"

"I never let the girls go there. Oh dear, if Mrs. Clairborne finds out. I forgot to tell you not to venture off like that."

"Why aren't we permitted to go into the west wing?" Abby asked.

"That's the most private area, where she and her grandson really reside," Mrs. Penny replied.

"Grandson?" Gisselle looked at me. "Is that who you met?"

"Yes."

"How old is he? What does he look like? What's his name?" she followed quickly. "Why wasn't he invited to the tea? At least that would have made it more interesting. Unless he was as ugly as she was."

"He told me his name was Louis. He's blind, but he wasn't always that way. What happened to him, Mrs. Penny?"

"Oh dear," she said instead of replying. "Oh dear, dear."

"Oh stop and just tell us what happened," Gisselle commanded.

"He became blind after his parents died," she said quickly. "He's not only blind but he suffers from melancholia. He usually doesn't speak to anyone. He has been that way ever since the deaths of his parents. He was only fourteen years old at the time. A great tragedy."

"Was Mrs. Clairborne's daughter Louis's mother?" Gisselle asked.

"Yes," Mrs. Penny replied quickly.

"What's melancholia?" she followed. Mrs. Penny didn't respond. "A disease or what?"

"It's a deep mental depression, a sadness that takes over your body. People can actually pine away," Abby said softly.

Gisselle stared at her a moment. "You mean . . die of heartbreak?"

"Yes."

"That's so stupid. Does this boy ever come out?" Gisselle asked Mrs. Penny.

"He's not a boy, dear. He's about thirty now. But to answer your question, he doesn't come out much, no. Mrs. Clairborne sees to his needs and insists he not be disturbed. But please, please," she begged, "let us not dwell on this anymore. Mrs. Clairborne doesn't like it discussed."

"Maybe she's why he's so sad," Gisselle offered. "Having to live with her." Mrs. Penny gasped.

"Stop it, Gisselle," I said. "Don't tease her."

"I'm not teasing her," she insisted, but I saw the tiny smile sitting comfortably in the corners of her mouth. "Did he tell you how his parents died?" she asked me.

"No. I didn't know they had. We didn't speak very long." Gisselle directed herself at Mrs. Penny again.

"How did his parents die?" she pursued. When Mrs. Penny didn't reply, she demanded an answer. "Can't you tell us how they died?"

"It's not a fit subject for us to discuss," Mrs. Penny snapped, her face firm. It was the first time we had seen her so adamant. It was clear the answer wasn't coming from her lips.

"Well, why did you start telling us the story then?" Gisselle said. "It's not fair to start something and not finish."

"I didn't start anything. You insisted on knowing why he was blind. Oh dear. This is the first time any of my girls have wandered into the west wing."

"He didn't seem to mind all that much, Mrs. Penny," I said.

"That's remarkable," she said. "He's never spoken to any of the Greenwood girls before."

"He plays the piano beautifully."

"Whatever you do, don't gossip about him with the other girls, please. Please," she added.

"I don't gossip, Mrs. Penny. I wouldn't do anything to get you in trouble."

"Good. Let's not talk about it anymore. Please. Did you all enjoy the little cakes?"

"Oh, damn," Gisselle said. "I forgot to take some for Chubs." She stared at me a moment, and then she looked at Abby and nodded. "I want to speak to you two as soon as we're alone," she ordered. Then she fixed her gaze on Buck all the way back to the dorm.

Once Mrs. Penny had left us inside, Gisselle spun around in her chair and demanded to know how we knew Buck. I explained about our walk to the boathouse that first night.

"He lives there?"

"Apparently."

"And that's all? That was the only time you saw him?" she asked, obviously disappointed.

"And once mowing the lawn," I said.

She thought a moment. "He's cute, but he's just an employee here. Still," she said thoughtfully, "he's the only game in town right now."

"Gisselle. You stay away from him and don't get him in any trouble."

"Yes, darling sister. Now you tell us about this blind grandson and what really went on between you two or I'll be the one who spreads the gossip and gets Mrs. Penny in trouble," she threatened.

I sighed and shook my head.

"You're impossible, Gisselle. I told you everything. I heard the music, looked into the room, and spoke to him for a few minutes. That was all."

"Did he tell you how his parents died?"

"No."

"Well, what do you think happened?" she asked.

"I don't know, but it must have been something horrible." Abby agreed.

"Well now," Gisselle said, smiling from ear to ear, "at least we have something to find out and something to hold over Mrs. Penny if she ever so much as threatens us with a demerit."

"Stop it, Gisselle. And don't start anything with your fan club either," I said, but I might as well have been talking to myself. The moment the other girls set eyes on us, Gisselle was ready to tell all, from Buck to Mrs. Clairborne's grandson.

Alone back in our room, after we had taken off our nice clothes and put on jeans and sweatshirts, I did tell Abby more about Louis. We lay on our stomachs, side by side on my bed.

"He doesn't think much of Greenwood girls," I explained. "He thinks Mrs. Ironwood and his grandmother turn us all into puppets."