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dad made a point of calling them every evening, he wanted to receive a special letter — something personal, in writing — to help him make sense of their present situation.   His parents were barely speaking to each other and he needed some assurance that everything would be all right.
    The porter gave him a   sympathetic smile . "I don't think so, but you never know.   It's always worth another look."
    While Bob bent down to check the slot that had been temporarily assigned to "Dr. Juliet Winters and Family," Blake busied himself by studying the tags on the suitcases near the door:   Australia, India, Russia, Japan ... People from all over the world were converging on the college for the conference, while his dad — the only person he really cared to see — was thousands of miles away.   It wasn't fair.   They would never be a family without him.
    "Well, wouldn't you know it," said Bob, springing up again like a puppet.   "There's something for you after all.   How did it find its way in there.? "
    He winked at Blake, whose heart leaped at the discovery.   The boy grabbed the letter.
    Almost immediately, he knew it was not from home.   There were no airmail stripes on the envelope and the handwriting was too fussy and feminine to be from his father.   A graphic designer, Christopher Winters had distinctive lettering that reminded Blake of circus animals in a procession: his Js swung their trunks like elephants and his Qs sat like fat owls on branches.   Everything he touched turned into a work of art.
    Blake frowned.   This letter was addressed to "Dr. Juliet Somers & Child" and appeared to be an invitation to some formal engagement.
    "Not what you wanted, eh?" said Bob, reading the look of disappointment on his face.
    Blake didn't respond.   He was having trouble swallowing.   It didn't really surprise his that the envelope mentioned only one child — Duck was the obvious choice — but it upset him to think that his mother was using her maiden name here in Oxford.   He wondered if there had been a mistake, but deep down he knew that she probably preferred it this way.
    He glanced at the porter.   "No, not really.   But maybe tomorrow," he said, almost managing a smile.
     
     

3
     
    "I t's a reminder about the dinner tonight," said Juliet Winters, reading the letter.   "You two are invited and so, it seems, is Sir Giles Bentley.   He's the guest of honor."
    Duck skipped ahead, pleased to know she would get a chance to show off to the college professors, but Blake lagged behind.   He didn't want to go to a stuffy old dinner and meet yet more grown-ups who were either impressed with his mother's books or else astonished by Duck's intelligence.   As usual, he would spend most of the time unnoticed.   What's more, he didn't want to be introduced to anyone as Dr. Somers' kid.   It surprised him that his mother hadn't mentioned it.
    "It says only one child on the envelope," he tried.   "Do I have to go?"
    "Of course you do.   It's simply an oversight or a misprint; you know how these things happen."
    No, he didn't know how these things happened — but they seemed to happen to him an awful lot.
    Juliet Winters noticed the skeptical expression on his face and waited for him to catch up.   "The college understands perfectly well that I have two children," she said testily, putting an arm around him to speed him up.   "Everyone will be expecting you to come, just as I'll be expecting you to be on your best behavior."
    "Who is Giles Bentley?" asked Duck, skipping back to join them.
    "Sir Giles," her mother corrected her, "was keeper of Books in the Bodleian Library for many years.   He's retired now, but by all accounts is the same crotchety old curmudgeon he always was.   I don't want you going anywhere near him."
    "Why?"
    "Because I said so."
    Blake could tell that his mother didn't want to discuss the matter further, but Duck had already formed the next question on her lips."
    "Why don't you