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you were out," Cara said.
"Lucy let him in and I watched them talking. He didn't see me."
    "Do you mean the man who didn't leave his
name or calling card?" I asked.
    "He looked like us," she said, her serious
eyes fixed on me. "Only a little bit darker."
    No wonder Lucy had been eyeing me
surreptitiously when she said a man had come calling. She must have
suspected he was my kin but had not wanted to broach the subject of
our similarity, or had not known how to do so politely.
    "Did he say anything else?" I pressed Cara.
"Did he mention where he is staying?"
    She shook her head. "He asked if Mrs.
Chambers and Miss Celia Chambers still lived here. Lucy told him
Mrs. Chambers was dead and you two were out. Then he left."
    "What was his reaction to the news of our
mother's death?" I asked. "Did he seem upset?"
    She shrugged one shoulder.
    "I wonder why he came back from New South
Wales." It was all so surreal, so fantastical, that I couldn't
quite take it in. My father, Louis, was back and he'd come looking
for us. We thought he'd made a new life for himself in that far-off
land and didn't want past relationships to interfere with it.
That's what Louis' father, my grandfather, had told us. Since Mama
and Celia never heard from him again, we'd assumed old Mr. Moreau
spoke the truth.
    "Tea," said Celia. The single, decisive word
punctured my thoughts. "Where's Lucy? We must have our tea."
    I caught Jacob watching me, his finger slowly
stroking his lips. "Are you all right?" he asked.
    "I think so. My grandfather will probably
know where he is." I rose, but Celia pulled me back down onto the
sofa with a hard jerk.
    "You are not going anywhere," she snapped.
"And you are certainly not going to see that madman."
    "But my father—"
    "No! If Louis wishes to visit us, then let
him come." She smoothed down her skirts, so it was difficult to see
if her hands still shook. "We will not go chasing him around the
city. Understand?"
    "Yes, Celia."
    She squeezed my arm then rose and left the
drawing room muttering about tea.
    Jacob sighed. "You're going to visit your
grandfather, aren't you?"
    I nodded. "Of course."
    "Good," said Cara. "I'll come too. I don't
like being left out." She arched her eyebrows at me then at Jacob,
a childishly defiant gleam in her eyes.
    I sighed. "How much did you hear?"
    "Everything."
    The defiance vanished and she knelt on the
floor in front of me. She clasped my hands. "You can trust me,
Emily. I want to help."
    "And you will," I said to placate her.
    "Indeed," Jacob muttered. "We may need all
the help we can get."

CHAPTER 3
     
     
    I couldn't get away from the house without
Celia noticing until the following day. When she went shopping
early the next morning, Cara and I slipped out. My aunt insisted on
coming with me. I didn't see the harm in allowing her, and it was
nice to have company. We caught the omnibus to the Leather Lane
market where François Moreau kept a stall selling fruit and
vegetables. It was easy to spot the faded red awning over his cart
next to the lamp seller, despite the crowds.
    I wasn't looking forward to seeing my
grandfather again. He had a tendency to laugh like a madman, which
I suppose he was. Getting straight answers out of him had proved
difficult so far.
    "Have you seen him?" I asked Moreau after we
explained the reason for our visit.
    "My boy?" he said with a
lilting French accent. "Bah! He's a fool, that one." He rearranged
the onions in their display box on his cart but not for any
discernible reason that I could see except to keep his hands busy.
The new pattern looked exactly like the old one.
" Imbécile ."
    "Papa, you do know that he's back, don't
you?" asked Cara.
    "He went to New South Wales. Long, long way
away."
    "Yes, but he returned," I said, trying very
hard to keep the note of impatience out of my voice. "Has he been
to see you?"
    François didn't look up as he swapped onions
with onions, over and over again, his brown hands fast and nimble.
"He went to New South