I lowered myself gently in the corner of the sofa on my right and sat rigidly, clinging to my little bag and gaping about the room, looking at the statues, the figurines in the curio case, and the other pictures on the walls. I was afraid to look at the portrait of the man above the fireplace again. He seemed so accusatory.

A hickory wood grandfather's clock that looked as old as time itself ticked in the corner, its numbers all Roman. Otherwise, the great house was silent. Occasionally, I thought I heard a thumping above me and wondered if that was Gisselle storming back and forth in her room.

My heart, which had been racing and drumming ever since I let Beau Andreas lead me into the house, calmed. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Had I done a dreadful thing coming here? Was I about to destroy some-one else's life? Why was Grandmère Catherine so sure this was the right thing for me to do? My twin sister obviously resented my very existence? What was to keep my father from doing the same? My heart teetered on the edge of a precipice, ready to plunge and die if he came into this house and rejected me.

Shortly after, I heard the sound of Edgar Farrar's footsteps as he raced down the corridor to open the front door. I heard other voices and people hurrying in.

"In the living room, monsieur," Beau Andreas called, and a moment later my eyes took in my real father's face. How many times had I sat before my mirror and imagined him by transposing my own facial features onto the blank visage I conjured before me? Yes, he had the same soft green eyes and we had the same shaped nose and chin. His face was leaner, firmer, his forehead rolled back gently under the shock of thick chestnut hair brushed back at the sides with just a small pompadour at the front.

He was tall, at least six feet two, and had a slim but firm looking torso with shoulders that sloped gracefully into his arms, the physique of a tennis player, easily discernable in his Mardi Gras costume: a tight fitting silver outfit designed to resemble a suit of armor, such as those worn by medieval knights. He had the helmet in his arms. He fastened his gaze on me and his face went from a look of surprise and astonishment to a smile of happy amazement.

Before a word was spoken, Daphne Dumas came up beside him. She wore a bright blue tunic with long, tight sleeves, the skirt of which had a long train and an embroidered gold fringe. It fit closely down to her hips, but was wider after. It was buttoned in front from top to bottom. Over it, she wore a cloak, low at the neck and fastened with a diamond clasp at the right breast. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale.

She was nearly six feet tall herself and stood as correct as a fashion model. With her beautiful looks, her slim, curvaceous figure, she could have easily been one. Her pale reddish blond hair lay softly over her shoulders, not a strand disobedient. She had big, light blue eyes and a mouth I couldn't have drawn more perfectly. It was she who spoke first after she took a good look at me.

"Is this some sort of joke, Beau, something you and Gisselle concocted for Mardi Gras?"

"No, madame," Beau said.

"It's no joke," my father said, stepping into the room and not swinging his eyes from me for an instant. "This is not Gisselle. Hello," he said.

"Hello." We continued to stare at each other, neither able to shift his gaze, he appearing as eager to visually devour me as I was to devour him.

"You found her on our doorstep?" Daphne asked Beau.

"Yes, madame," he replied. "She was turning away, losing her courage to knock on the front door and present herself," he revealed. Finally, I swung my eyes to Daphne and saw a look in her face that seemed to suggest she wished I had.

"I'm glad you came along, Beau," Pierre said. "You did the right thing. Thank you."

Beau beamed. My father's appreciation and approval were obviously very important to him.

"You came from Houma?" my father asked. I nodded and Daphne Dumas gasped and brought her hands to her chest. She and my father exchanged a look and then Daphne gestured toward Beau with her head.

"Why don't you see how Gisselle is getting along, Beau?" Pierre asked firmly.

"Yes, sir," Beau said, and quickly marched away. My father moved in 'closer and then sat on the sofa across from me. Daphne closed the two large doors softly and turned in expectation.

"You told them your last name is Landry?" my father began. I nodded.

"Mon Dieu," Daphne said. She swallowed hard and reached for the edge of a high back velvet chair to steady herself.

"Easy," my father said, rising quickly to go to her. He embraced her and guided her into the chair. She sat back, her eyes closed. "Are you all right?" he asked her. She nodded without speaking. Then he turned back to me.

"Your grandfather. . . his name is Jack?"

"Yes."

"He's a swamp trapper, a guide?"

I nodded.

"How could they have done this, Pierre?" Daphne cried softly. "It's ghastly. All these years!"

"I know, I know," my father said. "Let me get at the core of this, Daphne." He turned back to me, his eyes still soft, but now troubled, too. "Ruby. That is your name?" I nodded. "Tell us what you know about all this and why you have presented yourself at this time. Please," he added.

"Grandmère Catherine told me about my mother . . . how she became pregnant and then how Grandpère Jack arranged for my sister's . . . "—I wanted to say "sale," but I thought it sounded too harsh—". . . my sister's coming to live with you. Grandmère Catherine was not happy about the arrangements. She and Grandpère Jack stopped living together soon afterward."

My father shifted his eyes to Daphne, who closed and opened hers. Then he fixed his gaze on me again.

"Go on," he said.

"Grandmère Catherine kept the fact that my mother was pregnant with twins a secret, even from Grandpère Jack. She decided I was to live with her and my mother, but . . ." Even now, even though I had never set eyes on my mother or heard her voice, just mentioning her death brought tears to my eyes and choked back the words.

"But what?" my father begged.

"But my mother died soon after Gisselle and I were born," I revealed. My father's cheeks turned crimson. I saw his breath catch and his own eyes tear over, but he quickly regained his composure, glanced at Daphne again, and then turned back to me.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he uttered, his voice nearly cracking.

"Not long ago, my Grandmère Catherine died. She made me promise that if something bad happened to her, 1 would go to New Orleans and present myself to you rather than live with Grandpère Jack," I said. My father nodded.

"1 knew him slightly, but I can understand why your grandmother didn't want you to live with him," he said.

"Don't you have any other relatives . . . aunts, uncles?" Daphne asked quickly.

"No, madame," I said. "Or at least, none that I know of in Houma. My grandfather talked of his relatives who live in other bayous, but Grandmère Catherine never liked us to associate with them."

"How dreadful," Daphne said, shaking her head. 1 wasn't sure if she meant my family life or the present situation.

"This is amazing. I have two daughters," Pierre said, allowing himself a smile. It was a handsome smile. I felt myself start to relax. Under his warm gaze the tension drained out of me. I couldn't help thinking he was so much the father I'd always wanted, a soft-spoken, kindly man.

But Daphne flashed him a cool, chastising look.

"Double the embarrassment, too," she reminded him.

"What? Oh, yes, of course. I'm glad you've finally revealed yourself," he told me, "but it does present us with a trifle of a problem."

"A trifle of a problem? A trifle!" Daphne cried. Her chin quivered.

"Well, somewhat more serious, I'm afraid." My father sat back, pensive.

"I don't mean to be a burden to anyone," I said, and stood up quickly. "I'll return to Houma. There are friends of my Grandmère's."

"That's a fine idea," Daphne said quickly. "We'll arrange for transportation, give you some money. Why, we'll even send her some money from time to time, won't we, Pierre? You can tell your grandmother's friends that—"

"No," Pierre said, his eyes fixed so firmly on me, I felt like his thoughts were traveling through them and into my heart. "I can't send my own daughter away."

"But it's not as if she is your daughter in actuality, Pierre. You haven't known her a day since her birth and neither have I. She's been brought up in an entirely different world," Daphne pleaded. But my father didn't appear to hear her. With his gaze still fixed on me, he spoke.

"I knew your grandmother better than I knew your grandfather. She was a very special woman with special powers," he said.

"Really, Pierre," Daphne interrupted.

"No, Daphne, she was. She was what Cajuns call. . . a Traiteur, right?" he asked me. I nodded. "If she thought it was best for you to come here, she must have had some special reasons, some insights, spiritual guidance," Pierre said.

"You can't be serious, Pierre," Daphne said. "You don't put any validity in those pagan beliefs. Next thing, you'll be telling me you believe in Nina's voodoo."

"I never reject it out of hand, Daphne. There are mysteries that logic, reason, and science can't explain," he told her. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

"How do you propose to handle this . . . this situation, Pierre? How do we explain her to our friends, to society?" she asked. I was still standing, afraid to take a step away, yet afraid to sit down again, too. I clung so hard to my little bit of possessions, my knuckles turned white while my father thought.