First I'll be needin' yer full name, honey. It's for my confidential records. Lord knows none o' the girls actually uses 'em.

They don’t? Can’t blame ‘em. Decent Christian names you wanna keep are hard to come by. Mine’s a real stinker. Mama named me Mercy Emer Fisher, but I don’t want anybody spoutin’ off that mouthful.

So what do people actually call ya? An' why?

Most folk been callin’ me Soona for the whole of my life. It’s part of a sayin’ down where I’m from, in the South, ‘as soon a’ this than that.’ Means your heritage is neither this or that. Mostly people say it when they’re talking about dogs. *smirks* Or me.

Age an' birthday? Just estimate if ya ain't sure, hon.

Aw, hell. Ah, excuse me. *glances at the ceiling, squinting a bit* 16? Yep, 16, born December 13, 1883.

Now you's gonna give me a physical description. Height, build, hair, eyes, the clothes ya wears--everythin' down to the last freckle, ya hear? *gives you a sober look* If one o' my goils goes missin'...well, it pays to be prepared, I always say.

That’s a good practice right there, ma’am. Let’s see, I don’t normally talk about that sorta thing… I’m one thing or another, like I said, so I don’t look like one thing or another. I’m about as American as they come, just a melt of all sorts of folks, white, negro, Spanish, Indian, buncha other stuff. I’m a bit of a mixed up pup, dear Lord himself would take a while to sort me out into something considered proper. I’ve got darker skin, a broad nose, a big mouth that gets me in trouble more’n I’d, old muddy brown eyes, and rough dark brown hair that’s got some lighter streaks in it ‘cause the sun. It’s sorta gettin’ long, shoulda cut it weeks ago, but…time slips away, y’know. I’m on the scrawny side, built like a poor girl’s ragdoll, not much fluff in me. All bones. And I’m small. Short, about five foot, give or take some inches. Don’t know were that came from, my Mama was a pretty, tall willowy lady. *smirks and then laughs* I guess I needed to be short to make up for all her height.

I know you'll be sellin' papes, but are ya doin' any odder kinda work? If so, I gotta know about it. *gives you a sharp look* Yes, even that.

*flicks her eyes to the fire and her normally animated face goes blank for a moment* That ain’t work, that’s hell. *looks back up and tosses the smirk on* Maybe I’ll play piana somewhere, that’d be nice. *stretches her long fingers*

What's yer personality like, dearie? Sweet, grumpy, shy, outgoin', overly fond o' the boys? *smiles* It's all perfectly fine here in Greenwich Village.

Ah. Huh. Let’s see, I already mentioned my big mouth. Me and Jesus talked it over, but he doesn’t seem to be shutting it up any time soon. I’ve got a habit of saying what I feel like when I feel it, and calling things the way I see ‘em. It doesn’t sit well with some folks, but the way I see it, people should want to hear the truth. There’s too many people out there lying about how they feel for me to add another liar to their ranks. I like talking, so I like meeting folks and yapping with them. Listening, too, if that’s what they need, as long as they don’t expect to exchange histories or nothin’.

I don’t sugarcoat things and I don’t rain on them either. I guess you’d call me a realist. *grins* I do like smiling, though, even when things are rough. Better to put a smile on than go through life with a sour puss, since that frown ain’t gonna help nothing. ‘Course, there’s times when I can’t conjure up a smile. When I get angered, I get quiet, so when that happens you should probably leave me ‘lone. *taps her fingers on his knees* I live in the present, not the past, and I make it by taking it one day at a time. Truthfully, I got a soft spot for the little kids; I’d rather one of them have my bunk than me sleep in it if they don’t have the money for a bed. It ain’t fair that they have to grow up so fast. I don’t think anyone would be calling me sweet. *smirks and shrugs* Maybe sassy. And feisty. I ain’t no flower.

Now, most o' the Village is real keen on the arts. Got any special talents I should know about? If ya sing, dance, act, draw, paint, write, or sweep a stage, I guarantee the goils'll find ya some extra work. *winks* You can tell me about any non-artistic talents while you's at it.

*jerks a thumb toward the piano in the corner* I can play some tunes on that. *fond look* My mama taught me. I can also fiddle some, and I sing at church. Otherwise, I can darn, sew, knit and spin thread in y’ give me a spindle. Do the laundry and a little bit of cooking. If you’d like help around here, I’ll give you a hand.

Any ghosts hauntin' ya that I should know about? I don't mean the kind that supposedly haunts the attic--I mean the bad things that follow ya from yer past, or the bad habits ya just can't seem to shake.

*eyes narrow a bit* That’s an odd question, ma’am… But…you won’t see me around here on Thursdays. Ain’t got no use for a bed those nights, don’t sleep. So don’t bother keepin’ my bunk for me on Thursdays. I usually forget my religion on Thursdays, but Scot keeps an eye out for me. *nudges one fingernail under her thumbnail*

Who ya know in the area, hon? Friend or foe, I wanna hear about it. An' have ya got any fam'ly left?

Friends, sure, got plenty of them.*beams a genuine smile* I know mosta the fine ladies of the house and then plenty of those boys over on Duane Street. Good friends with some of ‘em, and best with a few. Pretty damn close to Scot McDonall, like the brother I never wanted. Ain’t tried to make no enemies, but I probably picked up a few. I dunno ‘bout family. Couldn’t find my family up here, but I know I got some down south. Grandparents and the like, though I doubt they’ll be calling on me. *grins* Less it was to call me devil child.

Seein' anyone special, dear? *smiles slyly*

*snorts and picks at her skirt* Naw, ma’am, ain’t nobody seein’ me.

Now, last of all, baby, I need ya to tell me why you's here. Where'd ya come from, an' what kinda life did ya have before?

*sighs and gives a tight smile* That’s between me and Lord, Missus Heartwick. Just, y’know, I came from New Orleans and came up here to try my luck. Struck out, but I’m here and happy now. Just taking it a day at a time.

**Soona’s history is long and complicated, and she rarely tells anyone about it. She considers it her business, and since she doesn’t pry into people’s histories, she doesn’t expect anyone to poke into hers.

Her mother was Abigail McPherson, the daughter of a well-off farm owner down in Georgia, Martin McPherson. She was eighteen when a new man was hired to help take care of the horses, Donovan Fisher, a man of many heritages (African American, Cherokee, Spanish and white) who had a way with horses. He was the perfect gentleman, kind and strong, and his family had been free for a couple generations. He and Abigail fell in love and secretly saw each other with the intent to run away together and marry. However, Abigail became pregnant and plans changed. When they tried to run, Martin and his men chased them down, killed Donovan and brought Abigail back home. He locked her in her room and blamed her real mother, one of his former servant girls, a young mulatto girl. Abigail had been white enough that she had been taken from her mother and become a surrogate child for the infertile Mrs. Jane McPherson.

With the help of a cousin, Abigail escaped her parents’ house and fled south to New Orleans. She lived in her cousin’s home for a few years and Soona was born there, though she was called Mercy back then. The year Mercy turned five, Abigail’s cousin died, and they were turned out of the house. With nowhere to go, Abigail took her daughter and found work at a seamstress shop that was a front for a brothel. There, Mercy was given the name Soona by the other women who worked there. Abigail worked as a seamstress during the day and a paid-for lady during the night; when she was doing her second job, Soona usually stayed with another woman and worked on her sewing skills or practiced the piano that her mama taught her to play in a back parlor. When Soona was about nine, her mother died of tuberculosis. Soona stayed on in the streamstress shop working on embroidery and other things that were useful to have little nimble fingers around for. When she hit puberty, she left the shop before the shrewd owner could get any ideas about switching her over to the other side of the business.

She made her way up north to New York City since her mother thought she might have relatives up there. She didn’t find her family, but she did find a job working for a rich family, the Williamsons, in the Bronx. She was supposed to be a companion for their young daughter, Poppy, but she spent more time cleaning Mr. Williamson’s study and running errands for him. She was wary, but she didn’t think a stand-up man like him would take advantage of her…until he started having her come to his Thursday night poker games. Threatening to bring his own daughter in instead, Mr. Williamson took those chances to do as he pleased with Soona, though he didn’t deflower her. During those weeks, she befriended a young man, Scot McDonall, who worked as a newsie and a carpenter’s apprentice on the side. She was attracted to his lifestyle but couldn’t leave with Poppy in danger. But one Thursday night, Mr. Williamson tried to force himself on her; she managed to get away but barely. She warned Mrs. Williamson to take Poppy away and then left herself, unable to stay a minute longer. She made her way to Greenwich Village, where Scot had told her the girls’ lodging house was, and she’s been there for a few months, trying to forget what she’s seen and learning to live with herself.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Profile By: Stitches

E-mail Address: daydreamin_yet_again@yahoo.com

AIM or Other Screen Name(s): librarydreamer (AIM)

Character Song: Perfect by Pink