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doors. Carter drank in everything—the eight fluted pillars, deep gold as butter, set in pairs; the rough stones and the four smooth steps; the red rose in the blue-stained glass in the fenestra by the doors—yet it was not enough. He could not take it all in. He saw the iron lion-head knockers; the polished, white stone; the glint of a cobweb beside the threshold. They passed into the entrance hall, paneled in mahogany, where Brittle took their hats, then through archways leading to the right, down the transverse corridor lined with flying buttresses with kittens carved upon them, through double doors into the drawing room.
    The room looked exactly as it had when Carter had played with his wooden soldiers beneath the French mirrored console, though he had forgotten the magnificence of the ivory plaster on the ceiling, wholly Baroque, fluted, with opulent, dangling pendants, like upside-down towers, swarming Atlantides, seraphs and flowery festoons, with a border of somber ancients peering out from the wall. The golden damask curtains, embellished with deep fringes, matched the chairs and low couches; the carpet was royal blue. In true Victorian style, the room massed its furnishings like a general hoarding for battle, with squadrons of chairs, battalions of occasional tables, regiments of bric-a-brac, and companies of pillows and damask draperies, all bivouacked together in mutual defense.
    The only two occupants of the room were Lady Murmur, seated upon a high-backed chair, and a young, blond-haired man standing protectively before her, who could only be Duskin, since he possessed Murmur’s hawk nose and the blue eyes of Carter’s father. Murmur had aged; her hair was gray now, clipped in short curls. She wore a shimmering, golden gown, with heavy rings upon her fingers and a gaudy diamond necklace. As he entered she rose and embraced him, while his arms remained limp by his side. Dimly, he recognized that once he had tried to love her, because she had been his father’s wife, but her cruelty to a little boy had made that impossible.
    “It is so good to see you,” she said, smiling in her cold way. “You have been gone a long time. A shame that your foolish prank with the keys kept you from seeing your father the last time he was here. I will never forget that day; I think of it now as a farewell breakfast. I think he knew that he would not return, though we did not know, Duskin and I. Still, he told us good-bye for the last time. Duskin, come shake hands with your brother.”
    Duskin stepped forward warily, as if approaching a viper, not bothering to shake hands, his eyes smoldering. “You were the one who drove Father away. Why did you come back? What do you want?”
    “Now, Duskin,” Murmur said, “he returned because he was called. Brittle had orders.”
    “How old are you now, Duskin?” Carter asked. “Fifteen, I suppose?”
    “Sixteen last month,” Duskin said. “Old enough.”
    “Not old enough to be civil,” Carter replied. “But you won’t spoil my homecoming. Many nights I prayed to be brought back to Evenmere.” He turned from his half brother as if dismissing him from his thoughts. “Brittle, might I have my old room?”
    “It has already been prepared,” the butler replied.
    “I’m surprised you don’t want the Master’s chamber,” Duskin said.
    Carter felt heat upon his face, but he said, “You’ve learned nothing if you think there is competition between us. If there is to be a Master here again, the house itself will choose. That was Lord Anderson’s last words to me. For myself, I believe our father still lives. I intend to do my best to find him.” He nodded toward Murmur and followed Brittle from the room.
    They walked back up the transverse corridor, past the morning room to the right, and the dining room to the left, to the main stair, all of dark oak, with eagles’ talons for decorations, and an ironwood eagle with a six-foot wingspan hung upon the highest landing,