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so much more mature, his face firmer. In his dark blue

suit and tie, he appeared taller and wider in the

shoulders. The resemblances in Paul's, Gisselle's, and

my face could be seen in his nose and cerulean eyes,

but his hair, a mixture of blond and brown--what the

Cajuns called chatin--was thinner and very long. He

brushed back the strands that had fallen over his

forehead when he broke into a trot to reach me before

I got into the limousine.

Without saying a word, he seized me and

embraced me.

"Who is this?" Daphne demanded. The final

mourners who were leaving the cemetery turned to

watch and listen, too.

"It's Paul," I said quickly. "Paul Tate." Daphne knew about our half brother, but she

refused to acknowledge him or ever make any

reference to him. She had no interest in hearing about

him the one time he had come to see us in New

Orleans. Now she twisted her mouth into an ugly

grimace.

"I am sorry for your sorrow, madame," he said.

"I came as quickly as I could," he added, turning back

to me when she didn't respond. "I didn't find out until

I called the school to speak with you and one of the

girls in your dorm told me. I got into my car right

away and drove straight to the house. The butler gave

me directions to the cemetery."

"I'm glad you've come, Paul," I said.

"Can we all get into the car and go home,"

Daphne complained, "or do you intend to stand in a