I fixed him with a stare that was a perfect imitation of one of Mother’s, and he started to shake. Pulling himself together before he rode off in two or three directions at once, he said in a great stage whisper, “Miss Everett, there is an aborigine in the foyer!”

I jumped up, dumping off a handful of notes that fluttered to the floor. Agnes stopped tittering. I grabbed hold of Dawson and shook him until his spectacles slid off his nose. “What did you say?”

“An Indian, Miss Everett, a real Indian. At the front door!”

I waited for nothing more, because I had a heartful of hope. I picked up my skirts and dashed toward the door. No one in recent memory had galloped in such fashion down the corridor. Heads popped out of doorways. It was Friday, but Father had taken the day off. He came out of the billiards room in his shirtsleeves. Mother’s dressmaker stepped out of the sewing room after I tore by. I can see her yet, with a mouthful of pins falling down the front of her smock.

Hawk stood by the open door, shaking off his umbrella. His hair was cut short in the usual manner of gentlemen in and around the United States and he wore a well-cut suit, complete with vest. I didn’t see a watch fob, but I remembered that he was pretty good at telling time without a watch. When I stared at him, mouth open, his eyes crinkled small in a familiar grin that took me right back to better days on that trail from Yellowstone to Bear Paw.

When he held out his arms, I took a deep breath and walked right into them. He held me close – I doubt you could have slid a piece of onionskin paper between us – and pressed my head against his chest, wordless. I have never felt happier.

By now, the foyer was crowded with Everetts and committee members, everyone as silent as we were, until Agnes Wilson gasped and fainted. Poor thing, everyone ignored her. Phil was the first to recover. He dropped his copy of Ovid’s Metamorphosis that he was translating and came forward, his hand outstretched.

Hawk released me and shook hands with my little brother. “You must be Phil,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

It sounded so prosaic and polite, and so completely insane. No one except Hawk seemed to grasp the humor of it then, although Phil likes to remind me about that introduction even now.

“Yes, I’m Phil. You must be Hawk.”

He nodded, then tightened his arm around my waist. “Yes and no. Call me Duncan now.”

“Wh…what?” I was still hanging onto him. Father started forward, his cue stick held like a bat. I stepped in front of Hawk Duncan. “Don’t you even think about it, Father,” I said, with real steel in my voice.