His eyes are a beautiful dark brown, full of quiet intelligence. He slips the remote control into the pocket of his apron. Then he signs back, You speak Orangutan.

I introduce myself as A-N-A. (I am fortunate to have an easy name to sign.) I’m trying to figure out which of several dozen questions I want to ask when Luca Barsanti hurries back into the room without his cooking mitts or bread pan.

“Oh, dear,” he mutters. “I see you have met Jupiter. Please never turn off The Great British Bake Off. It is a religion for him, and Mary Berry is his goddess.”

Jupiter climbs onto the couch. He stares at the screen intently as an older British woman with perfect blond helmet-hair holds forth on the perils of pie crusts.

“I remember this episode,” Gem says. “Season three. They make fruit tarts.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“What?” Gem demands. “It’s good TV.”

Jupiter must understand some English. He studies Gem with obvious approval, then pats the cushion next to him. Gem, not wanting to offend the chef with the large fangs, joins him on the couch.

Luca chuckles. “Made a friend already. Good! Jupiter has watched each episode at least twenty times. I suppose it would be annoying if he didn’t re-create the recipes for us.”

Nelinha points at the orangutan, then the screen, then the orangutan. “So this is your lasagna guy….” Suddenly, she doesn’t sound anxious for dinner.

“He’s much more than the lasagna guy,” Luca assures her. “He can make almost anything! He keeps trying to make me his sous chef, but I’m afraid the oven is one machine I cannot master.”

“And…he’s an orangutan.” Nelinha mentions this delicately, as if Luca might not have noticed.

“Of course!” Luca agrees. “There has always been a Jupiter at Harding-Pencroft.”

Luca’s words are almost exactly what Ester said about Top. With a sudden shock, I remember that there was an orangutan in The Mysterious Island, too. Another Jupiter. This Jupiter must be his…What? Clone? Twentieth great-grand-monkey? Apparently, the Jupiters have evolved to the point where they can now communicate in fluent ASL and cook soufflés.

Luca turns to me, his brow furrowing with concern. “Now, my dear, perhaps you should tell us why you are here. We weren’t expecting your brother for another four years. We weren’t expecting you…well, at all. Something must have gone very wrong.”

I’m sure he doesn’t mean the words to hurt. They do anyway.

I grew up in Dev’s shadow. Mostly I was okay with that. My parents were loving and accepting, but they had some very old-fashioned ideas about their firstborn son carrying on the family legacy. I was happy to let Dev be their Chosen One. It freed me to do whatever I wanted with my life—or so I thought.