"Stop!" I cried, twisting and turning to break free. "Let me go!"

"It's party time!" he cried, and laughed that dry cackle again. But this time, as he brought his face toward me, I managed to pull my right hand out from under his arm and claw his cheeks and nose. He screamed and threw me back in a rage.

"You bitch!" he cried, wiping his face. I cowered in the dark as he lifted his head and released another sick laugh. Had I fled from Buster Trahaw only to put myself into a worse predicament? Where was Annie Gray's magical protection now? I wondered as the stranger started toward me, a dark, dangerous silhouette, a character who had escaped from my worst nightmares to invade my reality.

Fortunately, just as he reached out for me, a group of street celebrants turned into our alley, their music reverberating off the walls. My attacker saw them coming, lowered his mask over his face, and ran in the opposite direction, disappearing into the darkness as if he had fled back to the world of dark dreams.

I didn't waste a moment. I scooped up my bag and ran toward the revelers, who shouted and laughed, trying to hold me back so I would join them.

"NO!" I cried and broke loose to tear through them and out of the alley. Once onto a street, I ran and ran to get myself as far away from that alley as I could, my feet slapping the pavement so hard, my soles stung. Finally, out of breath, my shoulders heaving, my side aching, I stopped. When I looked up I was happy to see a policeman on the corner.

"Please," I said, approaching him. "I'm lost. I just arrived and I've got to find this address."

"Some night to come to New Orleans and get lost," he said, shaking his head. He took the slip of paper. "Oh, this is in the Garden District. You can take the streetcar. Follow me," he said. He showed me where to wait.

"Thank you," I told him. Shortly afterward, the streetcar arrived. I gave the driver my address and he told me he would let me know when to get off. I sat down quickly, wiped my sweaty face with my handkerchief, and closed my eyes, hoping my heartbeat would slow down before I stood in my father's doorway. Otherwise, the excitement over what had already happened, and my actually confronting him would cause me to simply faint at his feet.

When the streetcar entered what was known as the Garden District of New Orleans, we passed under a long canopy of spreading oaks and passed yards filled with camellias and magnolia trees. Here there were elegant homes with garden walls that enclosed huge banana trees and dripped with purple bugle vine. Each corner sidewalk was embedded with old ceramic tiles that spelled out the names of the streets. Some of the cobblestone sidewalks had become warped by the roots of old oak trees, but to me this made it even more quaint and special. These streets were quieter, fewer and fewer street revelers in evidence.

"St. Charles Avenue," the streetcar operator cried. An electric chill surged through my body turning my legs to jelly, and for a moment, I couldn't stand up. I was almost there, face-to-face with my real father. My heart began to pound. I reached for the hand strap and pulled myself into a standing position. The side doors slapped open with an abruptness that made me gasp. Finally, I willed one foot forward and stepped down to the street. The doors closed quickly and the streetcar continued, leaving me on the walk, feeling more stranded and lost than ever, clutching my little cloth bag to my side.

I could hear the sounds of the Mardi Gras floating in from every corner of the city. An automobile sped by with revelers hanging their heads out the windows, blowing trumpets and throwing streamers at me. They waved and cried out, but continued on their merry way while I remained transfixed, as firmly rooted as an old oak tree. It was a warm evening, but here in the city, with the streetlights around me, it was harder to see the stars that had always been such a comfort to me in the bayou. I took a deep breath and finally crossed down St. Charles Avenue toward the address on the slip of paper I now clutched like a rosary in my small hand.

St. Charles Avenue was so quiet in comparison to the festive sounds and wild excitement on the inner city streets. I found it somewhat eerie. To me it was as if I had entered a dream, slipped through some magical doorway between reality and illusion, and found myself in my own land of Oz. Nothing looked real: not the tall palm trees, the pretty streetlights, the cobblestone walks and streets, and especial-ly not the enormous houses that looked more like small palaces, the homes of princes and princesses, queens and kings. These mansions, some of which were walled in, were set in the middle of large tracts of land. There were many beautiful gardens full of swelling masses of shining green foliage and heavy with roses and every other kind of flower one could think of.

I strolled on slowly, drinking in the opulence and wondering how one family could live in each of these grand houses with such beautiful grounds. How could anyone be so rich? I wondered. I was so entranced, so mesmerized by the wealth and the beauty, I almost walked right past the address on my slip of paper. When I stopped and looked up at the Dumas residence, I could only stand and gape stupidly. Its out-buildings, gardens, and stables occupied most of this block. All of it was surrounded by a fence in cornstalk pattern.

This was my real father's home, but the ivory white mansion that loomed before me looked more like a house built for a Greek god. It was a two-story building with tall columns, the tops of which were shaped like inverted bells decorated with leaves. There were two galeries, an enormous one before the main entrance and another above it. Each had a different decorative cast iron railing, the one on the bottom showing flowers and the one above, showing fruits.

I strolled along the walk, circling the house and grounds. I saw the pool and the tennis court and continued to gape in awe. There was something magical here. It seemed as if I had entered my dreamland of eternal spring. Two gray squirrels paused in their foray for food and stared out at me, more curious than afraid. The air smelled of green bamboo and gardenias. Blooming azaleas, yellow and red roses, and hibiscus were everywhere in view. The trellises and the gazebo were covered with trumpet vine and clumps of purple wisteria. Redwood boxes on railings and sills were thick with petunias.

Right now the house was lit up, all of its windows bright. Slowly, I made a full circle and then paused at the front gate; but as I stood there gaping, drinking in the elegance and grandeur, I began to wonder what I could have been thinking to have traveled this far and come to this house. Surely the people who lived within such a mansion were so different from me, I might as well have gone to another country where people spoke a different language. My heart sank. A throbbing pain in my head stabbed sharply. What was I doing here, me, a nobody, an orphan Cajun girl who had deluded herself into believing there was a rainbow just waiting for me at the end of my storm of trouble? I knew now that I would have to find my way back to the bus station and return to Houma.

Dejected, my head lowered, I turned from the house and started to walk away when suddenly, seemingly coming from out of the thin air, a small, fire engine red, convertible sports car squeaked to an abrupt stop right in front of me. The driver hopped over the door. He was a tall young man with a shock of shiny golden hair that now fell wildly over his smooth forehead. Despite his blond strands, he had a dark complexion which only made his cerulean eyes glimmer that much more in the glow of the street lamp. Dressed in a tuxedo, his shoulders back, his torso slim, he appeared before me like a prince—gallant, elegant, strong, for the features of his handsome face did seem carved out of some royal heritage.

He had a strong and perfect mouth and a Roman nose, perfectly straight, to go along with those dazzling blue eyes. The lines of his jaw turned up sharply, enhancing the impression that his face had been etched out to duplicate the face of some movie star idol. I was breathless for a moment, unable to move under the radiance of his warm and attractive smile, which quickly turned into a soft laugh.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked. "And what sort of costume is this? Are you playing the poor girl or what?" he asked, stepping around me as if judging me in some fashion contest.

"Pardon?"

My question threw him into a fit of hysterics. He clutched his side and leaned back on the hood of his sports car. "That's great," he said. "I love it. Pardon?" he mimicked. "I don't think it's so funny," I said indignantly, but that just made him laugh again.

"I'd never expect you to choose anything like this," he said, holding his graceful hand out toward me, palm up. "And where did you get that bag, a thrift shop? What's in it anyway, more rags?"

I pulled my bag against my stomach and straightened up quickly.

"These aren't rags," I retorted. He started to laugh again. It seemed I could do nothing, say nothing, gaze at him in no way without causing him to become hysterical. "What's so funny? These happen to be my sole belongings right now," I emphasized. He shook his head and held his wide smile.

"Really, Gisselle, you're perfect. I swear," he said, holding up his hand to take an oath, "this is the best you've ever come up with, and that indignant attitude to go along with it . . . you're going to win the prize for sure. All of your girlfriends will die with envy. Brilliant. And to surprise me, too. I love it."

"First," I began, "my name is not Gisselle."

"Oh," he said, still holding a grin as if he were humoring a mad woman, "and what name have you chosen?"

"My name is Ruby," I said.

"Ruby? I like that," he said, looking thoughtful. "Ruby . . . a jewel . . . to describe your hair. Well, your hair has always been your most prized possession, aside from your real diamonds and rubies, emeralds, and pearls, that is. And your clothes and your shoes," he cataloged with a laugh. "So," he said, straightening up and changing to a serious face, "I'm to introduce you to everyone as Mademoiselle Ruby, is that it?"

"I don't care what you do," I said. "I certainly don't expect you to introduce me to anyone," I added and started away.

"Huh?" he cried. I started to cross the street when he walked quickly behind me and seized my right elbow. "What are you doing? Where are you going?" he asked, his face now contorted in confusion.

"I'm going home," I said.

"Home? Where's home?"

"I'm returning to Houma, if you must know," I said. "Now, if you will be so kind as to let me go, I—"

"Houma? What?" He stared at me a moment and then, instead of releasing me, he seized my other arm at the elbow and turned me fully around so that I would be in the center of the pool of light created by the street lamp. He studied me for a moment, those soft eyes, now troubled and intense as he swept his gaze over my face. "You do look . . . different," he muttered. "And not in cosmetic ways either. I don't understand, Gisselle."

"I told you," I said. "I'm not anyone named Gisselle. My name is Ruby. I come from Houma."

He continued to stare, but still held me at the elbows. Then he shook his head and smiled again.

"Come on, Gisselle. I'm sorry I'm a little late, but you're carrying this too far. I admit it's a great costume and disguise. What else do you want from me?" he pleaded.

"I'd like you to let go of my arms," I said. He did so and stepped back, his confusion now becoming indignation and anger.

"What's going on here?" he demanded. I took a deep breath and looked back at the house. "If you're not Gisselle, then what were you doing in front of the house? Why are you on this street?"

"I was going to knock on the door and introduce myself to Pierre Dumas, but I've changed my mind," I said.

"Introduce yourself to . . ." He shook his head and stepped toward me again.

"Let me see your left hand," he asked quickly. "Come on," he added, and reached for it. I held out my hand and he gazed at my fingers for a moment. Then, when he looked up at me, his face twisted in shock. "You never take off that ring, never," he said, more to himself than to me. "And your fingers," he said, looking at my hand again, "your whole hand is rougher." He released me quickly, as quickly as he would had my hand been a hot coal. "Who are you?"

"I told you. My name is Ruby."

"But you look just like . . . you're the spitting image of Gisselle," he said.