Sonya had changed. Her china doll prettiness was still as delicate as always, but sadness lurked in her blue eyes and in the discontented droop of her mouth. She was garbed with exquisite care. Her elegant gown of dark cream-colored faille and overdress of cream-and-white-striped India silk was trimmed with bows of cardinal red and cream-colored lace. Her creamy chip hat bore a cluster of red roses on the turned-up brim, with lush feathers drooping elegantly forward to brush against blond ringlets on her forehead.

“You look lovely tonight,” Ginny remarked as they made their way back to the dining room. The silence between them was oddly tense. Why had she invited Sonya to come with her? Perhaps she’d just been flustered by the reminder of Andre Delery, another ghost from her past, and wanted only to escape. Yet this was nearly as bad, for her stepmother looked as if she were about to burst into tears or hysteria at any moment. The tension marking her pretty features was eased only slightly when Ginny added, “That gown suits you.”

“I wish I could wear that color,” Sonya said suddenly, and gestured at Ginny’s gown, “but it makes me look washed out.”

“You would look quite pert with more color, I think.” Ginny paused to allow a waiter to pass, biting back the words that trembled on the tip of her tongue. The last time she had seen her stepmother, Sonya had been wailing in her bed with remorse. Guilt, long repressed, had boiled over when her husband was shot and lay in serious condition, and Sonya had blamed herself for it, certain her dalliance with Steve Morgan so long before had invited such a tragedy. It had been a shocking discovery, and had sent Ginny bolting from the house and New Orleans. She had fled with Andre Delery, intent upon going to her children but ending up in Gibara instead, where an earthquake had left her temporarily blind and defenseless—if not for Richard Avery.

The muted clink of silverware and crystal provided a soft hum as they lingered in the bricked passageway between dining rooms. Fluted iron columns braced the low ceiling. So much had happened, so many old wounds that nothing could ever truly heal. She saw in Sonya’s eyes that she suffered still.

Smoothing a hand over the myrtle-green silk skirt of her gown, Ginny managed a smile that was almost genuine. “I remember you wearing a lovely shade of rose that was so deep it was almost red. It was very flattering on you.”

“Yes. Yes, well…it seems rather brash now, and draws too much attention.”

So that is it…she’s trying to hide.

“It is a centennial year,” she said lightly, “and there have been dozens of festive celebrations for you to attend. I’m certain you draw attention no matter what you wear.”