He caught her in his arms and squeezed her tight, grinning at his family over the top of her head. Behind her stood his sister, seventeen-year-old Maggie, a younger copy of their mother, with curly red-brown hair and sweet brown eyes, and his father, gray haired and sporting an absurdly large mustache that he insisted upon keeping even over his family’s protests.

Sam’s mother stepped back, still holding his hands. “Not a letter,” she said, “not one letter.”

“That’s not even a little bit true,” he said. “I sent you a telegram when I arrived.”

“‘Arrived safe stop,’” his mother said, putting her hands on her hips. “‘Write more soon stop.’ And then not a word! Henry’s written me every week—”

“Not that he could tear himself away from his precious business meetings today,” Maggie muttered.

“And if it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t know a single thing. You could be dead for all I’d know—”

“Oh, leave off him, Winn dear.” His father stepped in for an embrace. “The truth is we missed you and the girls wanted an excuse to come to the city.”

Sam looked at his mother and tried to conjure a sufficiently penitent expression. “Dearest Mater,” he said, “I am terribly sorry I failed in my duties as your oldest, and, let’s face it, favorite child…”—here he paused for the necessary insults from Benedict and Maggie—“and I promise to never do so again. Won’t you forgive me, dearest, kindest Mother?”

“Such silliness. And you wanted to come, too, John,” she said to her husband, “as you seem to have forgotten so quickly.”

“So who’s responsible for the fire crew?” Benedict asked, flopping down on a couch far enough from the explosion site to still be dry. Sam joined him.

“The girls,” John said. Winn and Maggie gave identical shrugs.

“Ah,” Sam said. “The alloy.”

“We’re making excellent strides,” Winn said. “We tested it with water today, and I don’t think either of us were expecting such a pleasing result.”

“I wouldn’t have worn my new dress if I had,” Maggie said, futilely trying to brush some soot off the cream fabric.

“No,” Winn said. “It’s a shame, that.”

“How are you producing it now?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

“A still Mags designed. We just finished the new version yesterday.” Winn sighed. “Of course now we’ll have to build a new one.”

“It’s based on the designs you sent me?”

Maggie nodded. “More refined, obviously.”

“Well done, Rags,” he said, rubbing his hand over her head and mussing her curls. She batted his hand away.

“I don’t answer to that name anymore,” she replied with great dignity.

“Oh yes, dear Margaret has become quite grand in our absence,” Benedict said. “And she’s sparking after Curtis Edwards, according to a letter I had from Lily Parrish last week.”