Serenity smiles patiently. “In the black community, back in the day, people with lighter skin tones were looked at as higher on the social scale.”

“By white people or black people?”

“Both. But it was black people who created the test. It started down in New Orleans. If you were going to an exclusive party, or thinking about joining a sorority, say, they would hold up a paper bag by your face and check your skin shade. If you were lighter than the paper bag, you were considered suitable. If you were darker, you didn’t get in.”

“Gyahh,” Annie says. “That sucks.”

“You said it. And I’m exactly the color of the average bag. Which caused me no end of problems. When you live on a borderline, nothing’s ever easy. Sometimes I was in the cool group, sometimes I was untouchable. I got to know both sides.”

“That’s kind of cool, actually,” Mia says. “For a writer, I mean.”

“I guess,” Serenity concedes. “But for a young girl trying to find her way, it sucked.”

Annie laughs, proud of having chosen the proper description of Serenity’s plight.

To change the subject, I say, “So, you taught Keisha in college?”

“As an undergrad. She had a lot of fire in her, even then.”

“Keisha’s so awesome,” Annie says. “She isn’t afraid of anything.”

Serenity smiles with her mouth closed, but I can read her response in her eyes. That’s probably not true anymore.

“Okay, guys,” I say, clapping my hands to punctuate the end of this exchange, “Serenity and I are going down to my office. I’m going to give her some background on Natchez and the Double Eagles.”

The disappointment in their faces contains more than a little resentment, but I’ll have to endure it. Annie’s not ready for the conversation Serenity and I are likely to have.

My basement office suite is centered around a twenty-by-twenty room, with brick pillars replacing a load-bearing wall I removed during the remodel. Two doors lead off to rooms I use for storage, printers, and the like, but now those rooms have cots in them, for the security guys to catch naps when they need them.

“Thanks for being so nice to Annie,” I say as Serenity walks to the bookshelves that line one wall and begins perusing spines.

“I like her,” Serenity says. “She look like her mother?”

“Spitting image,” I confirm, but I add nothing more on that subject. “I read your book last night.”

“Yeah?” She looks back over her shoulder at me. “What’d you think?”

“Honestly? I was stunned. I didn’t expect that kind of mastery in a first book.”

Serenity moves slowly down the row of books, dragging a forefinger along the spines. “What was your favorite line?”

Not many writers would ask this. Is she testing me? To see whether I really read her book?