A/N better late than never, right? I thought this chapter was finished and then I second-guessed myself all over the place. There's significant interaction between Belle and Scarlett - I don't think I've ever seen this much dialogue between them. And so, I struggled mightily to get right. Hope you enjoy -

This chapter's inspiration:

Stars cannot shine without darkness.

-D.H. Sidebottom

Life is ironic and the heart perverse. This will account for nearly any romantic conundrum you might encounter.

- misscyn, fanfic writer

Somebody fine will come along make me forget about loving you

And the Southern Cross

- Crosby, Stills & Nash

Chapter 24

If Eleanor Butler was shocked when she opened her front door early Sunday afternoon to find two burly longshoremen carrying her half-naked, sunburnt eldest son on a wide wooden plank between them up the landmark seawall of Charleston's Battery, her expression did not show it.

A slight change could be detected, however, as she regarded his gash of a head wound, deeply bruised torso, and oddly bent, bleeding nose.

"Go get a doctor," she instructed her husband's valet calmly, just before Rhett rolled over and vomited in her prize-winning camellia bushes.

A sudden giddiness and pin-pointed vision that she foggily recognized as a precursor to her somewhat recurrent bouts of hemicrania overcame her, and she sat down heavily on the brick steps.

"Bring two if you can."

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

"I wish you would let me pay you," Belle repeated, her tightly-gripped pencil digging slightly into the cheap, brownish primary tablet paper used by first-time readers. "I am more than willin' to pay."

Scarlett glanced up from reviewing the current lesson plan. Belle, dressed in dark silk again, and with barely any cosmetics whatsoever she looked even more like ten miles of hard road, faded old freckles and the occasional brand-new liver spot dotting her face and decolletage, more than a light dusting of powder could conceal.

She sported the pale lashes and eyebrows of a natural redhead, although nothing about the shade of Belle's hair had ever been natural - but yet here's the surprise, she'd given up the fire red color, and dyed her hair a deep auburn, Scarlett could see, although it was mostly covered by a dark, silken crocheted snood. Belle almost appeared - decent. Respectable, even.

If Scarlet looked very closely she could see the woman still had her handsome bone structure, held herself proud, and retained a few bare remnants of her former looks. She still possessed an earthiness about her, some suggestive quality that spoke of unspoken things.

But a person wouldn't notice all of that on a passing glance.

She'd come after dark and to the back door, of course, but Scarlett realized that at least a portion of Belle's appearance was for her benefit, and she didn't quite know what to make of that. No one would recognize this woman. Scarlett barely knew who she was, herself.

"I can't accept money. As I said before, I am continuing the tradition of my mother and Mrs. Wilkes." And I surely don't want any more gold coins tied up in my husband's handkerchief … .

Less than an hour into the lesson and Scarlett found herself at a loss, tapping her feet under her desk in frustration. Why had she undertaken this feat? Oh yes, the woman had called her house grand and beautiful, when no one else ever did; said she'd skin Rhett alive if he'd burnt cigar holes in her carpet, a full mark in her favor; and finally, gazed wistfully at the primers, which tugged at a single, shriveled, silken strand of Scarlett's hardened heart. No grown woman, especially a businesswoman, should ever have to look at a reading primer like that, with such pensive longing in her face.

Oh, and let's not forget the topper - she'd thought it would help her get over her husband if she became comfortable with his mistress, and perhaps have power over her if she taught her to read. Brilliant idea, that, as Tate would say.

And now she'd taken Belle in her office to discern her reading level and left Phoebe and Prissy working on their own lessons in the kitchen, as it was warmer and more intimate than the big, airy lobby. She stared at the woman, once her enemy, perhaps still so, currently occupied painstakingly copying the alphabet and simple words over and over. There was an anomaly here, and she couldn't figure it out.

Belle favored her left hand, which would never do if she was learning in a school, but that wasn't the entire issue. She appeared to have knowledge of the alphabet and copied the letters in handwriting a tad above first-grade level - mostly - but had trouble turning around the lower case bs and ds and gs and ps and qs. Not unusual for a child, a normal beginning reader. But Belle had been looking at the alphabet all her life, Scarlett had to assume.

She'd have to talk to Ashley about it; he'd taught so many people to read, surely he'd come in contact with it before. Damn. They were on fairly good terms after that last discussion, and she hated to rock the boat by asking a favor.

There were many illiterate people in the South, in the country, for that matter. But not many had achieved Belle's level of financial success. How had she survived and prospered without being about to handle any paperwork at all?

She must have some skills, Scarlett concluded, then inwardly sighed. Rhett had no doubt helped her immeasurably, and he said she was smart. Yet he wasn't around all the time, and even though he liked Belle - in several different ways - he was a busy man and wouldn't have spent all day holding her hand through her business dealings. And at night - well, she was sure at night they were busy with other matters.

This day will never end, Scarlett thought tiredly, pressing her lips together in frustrated concentration and tasting the leftover essence of kumquat. She let her mind wander away from the problem at hand to a few hours earlier for just a moment, to a handsome man's fingers, gentle on her wrist, his laughing, benevolent, shining eyes, the warmth and masculinity of his large, rough palm with its thickened skin when she touched it briefly, the strangely compelling Sunday morning scruff on his chin, that place on her arm where she could still feel the power of his restrained, oh-so-welcome touch … .

She'd thought about those moments off and on for the entire day. And that could lead to problems she didn't want to revisit. She shook herself and turned her thoughts back to the present moment.

"I'm trying to understand exactly where you are. Can you read any words at all?"

"I know the shapes of some words, mostly words like rum and whiskey and beer," Belle admitted. And some words that have to do with men and my girls that I can't say to you. "I can scribble out some letters that pass for signin' stuff. Like this," she said, and painstakingly made out something of a signature on the rough paper. Scarlett made out an 'Isa' and a 'W' before the handwriting deteriorated into wiggly lines. Isabelle, she mused.

"But -" Scarlett wrinkled her brow. "You must be good with money, yet that goes hand in hand with reading. Liquor orders, inventory, tax codes, notes that have to be made, supplies have to be kept in stock, checks written. How have you managed it?"

"I've had help, as you must know," Belle admitted, a tad smugly.

"Yes," Scarlett drawled, her eyes flashing briefly, yet she refused to be baited on this. "But that doesn't quite explain it.

"I need to know some of your history as far as education and how you've learned to cope and flourish, in order to figure out how to proceed."

Belle sighed. She should have known this conversation was coming, but she had been too overwhelmed at the opportunity - and the person providing it - to give the subject much thought.

She regarded Scarlett from across the desk. She'd never thought much of her - still didn't. But she'd often wondered what drew men to her besides her looks - and what made Rhett fall in love with her. People talked about her real bad - hell, she'd talked real bad about her - especially since Rhett had so openly joined in. But people talked bad about Belle, too. Now that she was up close she could see - Scarlett had that thing - that pull - that drew men in.

Belle had a bit of it herself, more of course when she was younger. She'd never in her life, however, met a woman who possessed pure magnetism to the extent that Scarlett O'Hara did.

Lord but that woman coulda made a fortune on her back. Belle inwardly mused. You didn't see a face like that every day and the eyes - huge, impossibly glass-green eyes - they were enough all by themselves. And the fire, the life that she projected. Even worn-out from an obviously too-long day, she shone with it.

Time and sorrow had also been kind to her though, made her seem softer, more sympathetic than that harder-than-nails woman Belle recalled from a few years back. She'd grown into that wild, bewitching face. And her body …. Belle glanced enviously at Scarlett's curves. Subconsciously she touched her own waist. How a woman with three children still had a waist like that - not fair. She didn't look a day over twenty-five. Although she had to be older than that.

She should hate her, for how she'd done Rhett, how many times he'd come to her all tore up over something this woman had or hadn't done. She'd tormented that man for years, before she finally broke him. To hear him tell it, she was hardly human, a 'cold-hearted and vicious shrew, hell-bent on my destruction' were his exact words at one point.

But Belle had just come to realize - and fairly recently - that Rhett wasn't entirely right about everything, as she'd believed for so long. Especially when it came to his wife, with his vision so clouded by venom by the mere thought of her he was hardly fit to be around. The man claimed he didn't care anymore, not after his daughter passed, and at first, Belle had hope that he didn't.

But Belle knew men, and that hope died, as well.

Still, hard to respect a woman who wasted a good man's love, who caused a generous husband to go elsewhere for attention. And one who didn't love her children as her husband claimed - well, she surely had no respect for that, either.

However, she'd seen Rhett's dark side on occasion, knew how he'd shut himself off and down when it came to feelings. And she'd learned a long, long time ago how there were two sides to every story, especially when it came to men and women.

This woman in front of her might be smart when it came to a lot of things, but she had nothing on Belle when it came to being smart about people. The tightness around her mouth, something in the tense set of her shoulders, gave Belle reason to grin to herself. Been a while, ain't it Mrs. Butler?

"My day bartender can read and I always say I need glasses and can't wear them in public," she said. "So with the orders and when the vendors and such come in I have him handle it. It wouldn't go along with my job to be four-eyed, and besides, I'm busy runnin' the girls and such, so no one asks too many questions."

Scarlett eyed her skeptically, although the phrase 'runnin' the girls' did give her pause.

"I have good employees who I trust and I can take care of myself," Belle continued. "Besides, I pay attention and I remember things."

"You memorize things? Like the inventory, the levels in the liquor bottles?"

"I memorize everythin'. What my customers drink, the card games they play, the conversations they have, what they do and want in other - entertainment. I read their moods. I watch everyone and everythin' that's goin' on. That's how I've made it," Belle said, pride evident in her voice.

"You must have one extraordinary memory."

"It's what I've had to have to survive. I was smart but didn't do so well in school as far as readin' and then my pa pulled me out to go to work."

"How old were you? When you were pulled out?"

"Seven." Younger than Ella.

"What kind of work?"

"First as a maid, then a seamstress. I wasn't very good at sewin' though. I liked doin' things over sittin' around."

Scarlett felt discomfort at how well she related to that statement.

"Then I got married when I turned thirteen and went out west with my husband."

"Oh, you were married so young," Scarlett replied politely. So the 'Mrs." before her name is real.

"Yes." Belle straightened her back. "My husband was a miner but drank and gambled all our money. Meaner 'n a snake. He was handsome, though, and taught me most everythin' I know as far as the bedroom …" her voice trailed off. Scarlett leaned forward unconsciously, simultaneously fascinated and repelled. She had no idea why Belle was telling her all this, but she intended to drink every drop of it up.

"My babies kept dyin' so he said I was no good for breedin'. Doc said I probably couldn't have no more after the third. But I did have one more, it was years later. And that one lived."

The ward …

"I had some - natural talent - for the work. There was a lot of money to be made doin' that kind of thing 'round the minin' camps even on the side, so he had me do that durin' the day some while he was workin'. Said I might as well make some money, too."

Scarlett frowned, not following the conversation, and then the meaning set in.

"You worked as a -" Scarlett swallowed. "Your husband had you take customers while you were married?"

"Sure. Lots of the married girls was doin' it, what with the gold money and all," Belle replied in a totally matter-of-fact manner. "And well, I mean, that's how I met my husband when my pa would loan me out some -" she stopped talking suddenly at the horrified look on Scarlett's face. She'd forgotten how easily these women of gentility were shocked.

"Oh, not all the time," she added hurriedly. "Just when there was a big bill he had to pay, like a funeral bill, or a horse died or somethin' like that."

Unexpected taxes, perhaps? Scarlett tried to school her features but the look of revulsion on her face must have shown through.

Belle swelled up like the proverbial bullfrog. "I told you my husband drank and gambled and spent all our money. I didn't like cleanin' and sewin' and there weren't no factories out there. I could make ten dollars a week, working all day, or ten dollars a lay." Scarlett winced at the coarseness of her language.

"Which one would you have picked?"

Scarlett didn't answer, her eyes wide. Well, lookathere, Belle thought with not a small amount of satisfaction. Mrs. Butler is shook up.

Actually, the mercenary side of Scarlett's mind was thinking ten dollars a lay sounded like fairly good money if the man didn't last any longer or ask for any more than Charles or Frank. Belle had no way of knowing this, however.

When she didn't reply Belle continued.

"He got himself kilt in a bar fight when I was around nineteen and I was alone. Rich men didn't wanna marry the likes of me and I was tired of bein' poor."

"So I could marry a working man, and answer to him, or make good money by my ownself."

Those options weren't very different, considering that the new man might 'put her to work' just as the last one did. But only one offered her independence.

Belle drew herself up tall in her seat, as tall as she had whenever the wives of her customers all but spit on her in the streets.

"Don't look at me like that. I've made a good life for myself. My bank balance is just as good as yours, I 'spect. I don't need your pity.

"We all do what we have to do in life, now, don't we, Mrs. Butler?"

Scarlett nodded, her gaze locked with Belle's.

"Most of my customers are married men, married men who are unhappy with their wives, or their wives are unhappy with them. Women who are tired of bein' pregnant and who think they're done with babies and baby makin' - their husbands come to my house all the time.

"In the back door. Late at night, sometimes early in the morning before the sun rises so as not to be seen. But they come. You'd be surprised at the people in your circles what do business with me. They want to put down their troubles, but they cain't do it the second they walk in. They talk while they drink an' play cards and listen to music an' do other things."

"I listen and I learn. Bein' discreet is my business.

"Of course some don't bother to hide," she added, giving Scarlett a sly sideways glance.

Scarlett felt her temper rise. Belle was baiting her, goading, taunting. She started to make a nasty, heated reply, her ire, pride, and Irish up.

Belle saw the look on her face and panicked. She shoulda bit her tongue, she knew better than to trifle with this woman - she needed her too badly. There were no schools for illiterate whores; the tight-lipped matrons whose husbands sneaked up her back stairs and who sometimes deigned to teach poor whites their letters and ciphers wouldn't give her the time of day.

She couldn't go to the Freedmen's Bureau because she wasn't a former slave or a poor white. And she didn't want to lower herself in front of her employees or business associates by asking them for help. Scarlett O'Hara had offered private lessons with the promise of discretion, and no one else ever had, not even Rhett.

Although Belle didn't know the meaning of the phrase, the irony of the situation was not lost on her.

"You sure are sharing a lot," Scarlett finally said, then sucked the inside of her cheek into her mouth and clenched her teeth around it. "What happened after your husband died? That's when you met Rhett?" There was no point in calling him Mr. Butler, or her husband, for that matter, in front of a woman who had rolled around naked between the sheets with him for so many years.

"A few years later - I was in a bad spot, a real pickle. He'd just left New Orleans. We were both down and out. It - drew us together. And we became close friends."

Scarlett forgot her anger as the questions piled up in her mind. Did you know him when he was poor? Was he so different? Before, without the wealth to protect him? Did he always use that mask as his armor, his knowledge as a weapon? Did you get to know him when he was still a boy, in any way?

"He nearly died, you know," Belle said, almost hesitantly. "A couple years ago, after your daughter. He nearly died."

Scarlett nodded. "I know," hesitating herself before continuing. "I suppose I should thank you, for putting him back together." And that's as close as you're going to get. She'd tried to keep the resentment out of her voice but fell a tad short.

"No need to thank me," Belle said after a beat, the surprise in her own tone evident. "I 'spect you wasn't in a very good place yourself."

Their eyes met, and something resembling the most minute, the tiniest of truces passed between them. Gone in a flash, one might have missed it, especially as Scarlett immediately narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin.

Uncharted territory, here. Scarlett decided she'd quite heard enough for the moment. She'd thought enough about that man and all his complications to last a lifetime, anyway she looked at it.

"And so here we are. You have a profitable career, you've made it for years and years without reading. Why put yourself through it at this point?"

"Because I'm retirin'," Belle said, and her face lit up with a beatific glow, one that bespoke of all her younger charms, and Scarlett could see, all too clearly, what she had once been.

"I'm tired of dependin' on other people for the readin', been doin' it my whole life. Cain't keep up in this business when I'm wrinkled and gray, not even as a madam, and I don't want to. I got to learn so I can take my money and go somewhere," her eyes looked a little far away, "somewhere where folks don' know or judge or talk. It gets to you, after a while.

"The girls get to feelin' poorly, get mistreated. I run a clean house, no kids, no sick stuff, and I have a doctor on call, but still. When they get in a fix they want me to take care of it, and I'm tired of that, too."

No sick stuff? What exactly … stop it, Scarlett chastised herself.

"I appreciate Rhett givin' me the backin' and advice but he don't never have to deal with the dirty work. That's all on me. And there's a lotta dirty work. Customers can be - hard to deal with. A mess. There's diseases and illnesses and such. It can be a nasty business, and I'm worn out on it.

"And I'm tired of being treated like I'm stupid," she blurted out at the end. A cloud passed over Scarlett's face.

"Rhett's not around so much, it's harder. Next year or so I need to make as much money as possible," Belle continued. "And then I'm out."

Scarlett shot her a swift look. "You have enough money to live without making anymore? Handoff the management to someone else?"

"I could. I'd like to stay busy, though. I'm not old and done yet."

"What would you like to do?"

Belle gave her that smile again. "Open a flower shop. I like flowers. When I was little and things got bad I'd go into the flower fields and stay 'til I got called in."

"Why don't you just do it?"

"Well, I need to read. There's not enough profit in a flower shop to hire all the people I'd hafta hire if I can't do that, and I won't know anybody in a new place to trust. I wanna do it myself. And by my ownself." She held her head up and Scarlett knew exactly what she meant.

"I'll be startin' over fresh and I'll need to make a good impression. Somewhere else, Texas, Arkansas. Far enough away that no one knows me, but near enough to visit my - kin."

Belle didn't miss the slow, dark smile that spread across Scarlett's face before she could stop it.

"He'll find another woman like me if he wants one, me bein' gone won't stop that," she said in a somehow half-condescending, half-sympathetic manner, that immediately put Scarlett's back up.

"Not wanting pity, Mrs. Watling," Scarlett said, and her tone couldn't have been frostier, "is a two-way street."

Belle shrugged delicately but did not reply. Still stung, Scarlett continued.

"I'm surprised you'd leave, as attached to - certain people - as you are."

Belle pursed her lips. "One-sided love gets mighty old after a decade or two," she returned evenly. " 'Course I don't have to tell you that. Or Mr. Butler."

Truce over, Scarlett thought as her eyes glittered dangerously. Dilcey, I apologize in advance for inviting all those bad spirits back when I strangle this wide-mouthed strumpet.

"I do believe we agreed at the start of this arrangement," she said oh-so-carefully, "that we would not discuss our respective relationship with a certain, er, gentleman."

Belle snorted. "That's already water under the bridge and besides, you're the one who asked," she pointed out. "But I'll try to do better," she backpedaled at Scarlett's expression.

This conversation wasn't moving matters ahead, Scarlett reminded herself, and decided with effort, to put her considerable irritation away for another day. She cleared her throat. "Speaking of which, there's something going on with the way you reverse letters - I need a friend of mine to look at it. Ashley Wilkes. He's very good at this type of thing. I haven't encountered it before.

"He won't gossip, he's not like that. He's - gentle and good to others. And he and Melly taught for years and know much more than I do. There's something - " Scarlett wrinkled her brow. "Well, there's something holding you back, and I just know he will be able to spot it immediately. He'll know what to do." she nodded vigorously as if to herself. "And he won't talk, or judge. You have my word, I swear."

"There's nothing between us. Not that I have to explain it to you," she emphasized the 'you' to the point Belle raised both eyebrows.

"There never really was other than a close friendship, no matter what people say, a childhood infatuation - a crush. We were children together. It was really, just something to do with the past, something I had in my head," Scarlett cast her eyes to the side, "that caused a great deal of misunderstanding and pain to several different parties, in a myriad of different ways."

Almost imperceptibly, she squared her shoulders. "So, if you are amenable, we can do that, bring him in. Now that we've spoken and explained enough - now that we know where each other stands."

"Amenable?" Belle looked confused.

"If you agree to it," Scarlett amended. Belle nodded, appearing contemplative.

"I've told you a lot here this evenin' and I expect you to keep it to yourself. Although I don't think you have much truck with those old fussy society biddies anymore, still, I don't want this here thing gettin' around.

'Not that I care too much, like I said, I'm on my way out. But I still have a year or two left. I don't want people in this town knowin' what I'm doin' here," Belle said. "And with you."

Belle's return emphasis on the 'you' did not go unnoticed.

Scarlett narrowed her eyes slightly. "I have much more to lose than you do, Mrs. Watling," she said. "I am married," at the moment, "and have family and children growing up in this town."

Their eyes met once again.

"What a waste," Scarlett thought. "She came from trash, but if she'd had just a little education and refinement she wouldn't have had to muck around in the gutter just to make a living."

"What a waste," Belle thought. "She was born and bred to be a lady, and if she just hadn't been so pig-headed and contrary and hell-bent she coulda had a much easier life."

After a moment Belle inclined her head.

In spite of herself, Scarlett understood at least some of what Rhett saw in this woman. Again, she had to be clever to accomplish all that she had. Her establishment was a hub in the city, and Rhett had always said he got most of his news, and nearly all of his gossip, while playing cards and socializing there. Business discussed. Deals made. Legitimate, or otherwise, during the war and during Reconstruction. Yankees and Southerners alike. Rich and poor, politicians and swindlers.

Her words from earlier echoed in Scarlett's head. "I memorize everythin'. What my customers drink, the card games they play, the conversations they have, what they do and want in other - entertainment. I read their moods. I watch everyone and everythin' that's goin' on."

And then the words of General Hampton that first time he called on Wade:

" … the one thing I learned from that dreadful war, however, " he paused for a moment, taking her hand and looking into her eyes, "is how to turn a battle around.

"When it is done successfully, you actually harness the momentum of your opponent and use it against him. As if it were your own."

These lessons just got interesting.

A slight frisson of alarm ran up Belle's spine when Scarlett's face lit up, and then fixed her with her trademark icy, determined stare.

"I think I know a way you might be able to reimburse me for my troubles," she said. "And it won't involve money."

OOOOooooOOOOoooo

Fun Facts:

From RightLeftorWrong - Despite the limited reforms of the Age of Reason and the Age of Enlightenment, the 18th and 19th Century were particularly hard on left-handers, and discrimination against them became engrained and institutionalized. Even in the relatively free societies of North America and Western Europe, deliberate and sometimes brutal attempts to suppress left-handedness and impose conformity in the education system were endemic during this time, including such practices as tying a child's left hand behind his chair or corporal punishment for anyone caught writing with the left hand.

The infamous (but influential) 19th Century physician Cesare Lambroso, who identified various facial and racial characteristics with criminal traits, turned his attention to handedness at the end of the century and the start of the next and, perhaps not surprisingly, he identified left-handedness as a mark of pathological behaviour, savagery and criminality. It was not until Paul Broca's discoveries about the lateralization of the brain in the 1860s that scientific interest in handedness began, and some tentative and simplistic studies were carried out towards the end of the 19th Century. There was another peak of interest in the 1930s, but serious study did not really take off until the 1970s.

Etymology of the term truck as a verb

truck (v.1)

"to exchange, barter," early 13c., from Old North French troquer "to barter, exchange," from Medieval Latin trocare "barter," of unknown origin. Rare before 16c. Sense of "have dealings with" is first recorded 1610s. The noun is first recorded 1550s, "act or practice of barter." Sense of "vegetables raised for market" is from 1784, preserved in truck farm (1866).

I don't have a citation set aside to back this up, but from what I've read, in the 19th century many married lower-class and even middle-class women sold sex on the side for extra cash in New York, London, and yes, the Old West. Remember Wyatt Earp? Both his wives, Mattie and Josephine, worked as prostitutes before and sometimes after he met them. I've done a great deal of reading on this matter. They didn't have much entertainment back then, no tv or internet, and I'm getting the distinct impression that people were much more sex-obsessed, in many cases, than we are. And women had very few ways to make money.

As near as I can tell, ten dollars during Reconstruction/Civil War times would be roughly equal to two hundred bucks now. You double the money and add a zero. So three hundred dollars the equivalent of six grand for a bazaar dance. $150,000 then was three million in today's dollars, which is what the Yankees burned in cotton at Tara, and what the Ironclad Oath would have netted Gerald O'Hara had he signed.

Two hundred dollars in today's money I think would be fairly decent for a part-time amateur married hooker working out of her spare bedroom, but that figure could be outdated and I really have no clue and don't want to risk viruses or getting thrown into the abyss of the Dark Web by googling 'what's the current pricing for prostitution services in March 2021' so I went with that.

And yes, using that formula means Scarlett, Tate, and Leif drank today's equivalent of nine thousand dollars worth of Mr. B's wine. Hell to pay coming for that, I'm sure ….

A/N I stopped here because I have five thousand more words to post, but including it would have made this chapter too hefty IMO. I like to give people time to digest, process because a lot of info is packed in here. I know some of you are cussing me for that :)

Your comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. I am still truckin' along and will see you very soon! Stay with me, that bad moon is still on the rise … peace, misscyn