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was so strange earlier, but when I first saw you, it was like a ghost coming out of the dark.”
    Maggie made a moue of resignation. “I’m afraid I’m rather used to that reaction by now.”
    Claudine smiled her thanks at Maggie’s acceptance of her apology. “I hope we’ll have time to talk later, but right now I’ve got to change so I can go shopping. This is my afternoon off.” She opened her door briskly and closed it before Maggie had a chance to stammer out a reply.
    Helena approached them, having just come upstairs, and Retty motioned to her. “Helena, take Maggie to her room. I think she probably needs some time alone right now.”
    Maggie nodded gratefully. Retty patted her on the shoulder and walked away, toward the stairs. Helena, reading the distress in her face, gave her a quick hug, and Maggie struggled with her emotions, feeling completely overwhelmed.
    As she followed Helena down the hall, Maggie forced herself to breathe deeply and evenly. She tried to distract herself by thinking about The Magnolias and what she had seen of it thus far. The only thing in her experience to which she could liken this mansion was a large and very grand hotel, once a stately home, in which she and her father had stayed in England. The plush carpet on the floor, which deadened all but a faint whisper of their footsteps, and the very massiveness of the building around, over, and underneath her unnerved Maggie. Her own house back in Houston, once roomy and comfortable, now seemed oppressively small in comparison.
    Helena made no effort to explain what lay behind the various doors they passed. By the infrequency of their appearance Maggie estimated that each of the rooms was much larger than any of the rooms in her own house.
    Finally Helena paused before a door near the end of the long corridor. Diffidently she said, “I hope you won’t mind, Maggie, but Henry insisted that you have your grandmother’s room.”
    Maggie’s hand, which had been reaching for the doorknob, faltered. Her grandmother! The few times Gerard had ever discussed his estranged family with her, he had not mentioned his mother, other than to explain that she had died when Maggie was nearly a year old. Learning more about her was her innermost thought, especially after everything which had occurred this day.
    When Maggie hesitated, Helena took action by opening the door and ushering the younger woman inside.
    Sunshine cascaded into the room from two sets of French doors which led out onto a wide balcony. The light dazzled her eyes momentarily as it bounced off white walls and golden fixtures. The room appeared to Maggie at least twice the size of her own bedroom, which itself had been remodeled from two rooms. A beautifully carved antique bed dominated one side of the room. Another wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There was space also for a small sofa, two chairs—each with its own reading lamp—and a desk whose woodwork matched that of the bed.
    Maggie swallowed a lump which had come unbidden into her throat. The room had a cozy, welcoming feeling for her, and for the first time she had a burgeoning sense of homecoming.
    As she turned toward Helena to express something of her emotions, Maggie noticed for the first time a portrait on the wall to her left. The wall was bare except for the portrait and a door.
    Near life-size, the portrait drew Maggie toward it irresistibly. For a moment she thought she was staring at herself, but as she came closer she could see that the woman in the portrait was older, perhaps thirty-five or forty. Dressed in a ball gown of emerald satin, the woman had the same deep, rich auburn hair and green eyes that Maggie had. The face, intelligent, humorous, and loving, gazed searchingly back at her, the hint of a smile upon the full red lips. One hand casually smoothed back the abundant hair; the other clasped a book. In the background of the portrait Maggie could see a small replica of the mansion. This,