Upon his return, Martin finds a message from Vialle waiting for him.
Cursing himself, half-afraid, he hurries at once up the hall to his
father's rooms.

"Just a moment!" she calls out when he knocks and announces himself, and
then the door is opened.

Martin steps through the open door around the small figure of Vialle.
Hugging her briefly, he asks "Everything alright?" He sounds concerned.

Vialle returns the hug warmly, leaning her cheek against his shoulder
for a moment. "Oh, yes. But I've found something I think you'll want to
see. Though I suppose Random must have told you about it."

"You had me going there for a while," he smiles, relieved, and kisses
her on her forehead then. Drawing her into the room proper, closing the
door behind them, he goes on, "So what is it that Dad's supposed to have
told me about?"

Vialle steps a little ahead, to a small, disorganized pile of paper left
out on a table. "Did he ever mention the name Tessa Siegel?" She
pronounces it carefully, with the barest hint of uncertainty.

Martin's expression shifts, after a moment's consideration, to one of
suspicion. "Not another of his girlfriends, is it?" He frowns.

Vialle smiles, at that; pleased and almost fond. She sorts through the
papers by feel, separating out two more or less the same size: one is a
black-and-white photograph of a light-haired young woman. "No, it isn't.
I'm afraid her mother's passed away."

"He started adopting orphans?" Martin says, mild sarcasm in his tone, as
he follows Vialle into the room, curiosity winning out over cynicism.

The papers are, by and large, newspaper clippings in English; all at
least somewhat yellowed, a few years old at the very least. Vialle's
hands collect them together again as she answers. "Not quite, no. He
wanted to bring her home, just as he did you. There didn't prove to be
time, though." She bends her head for a moment, short hair swinging
forward. "I knew he had these about, but I didn't find them till now -
till just before I sent you that note. I thought you'd want to see
them."

Martin's glance takes in the paper fragments as she talks. He says
nothing for a time.

"..You knew?" he says then, quietly.

There are several photographs scattered among the clippings: the same
woman, developing through her twenties, smiling, dancing. One of the
light-haired woman and a young man holding an award - the headline
trumpets about the US Open West Coast Swing Championships. Most of the
headlines speak of dance, for that matter, a few of music; one of a
death, a Janis Siegel, aged 61.

Vialle says softly, "Yes."

Martin remains where he stands, scrutinising the clippings from afar.
"You never spoke of it," his words carry a faint accusation, and perhaps
hurt.

Vialle lays her hand down, one finger eclipsing a bit of text. (An
alumna of Ju--- three time winner of the --- Swing Competition and a
professiona--- Quarter. The sole inheritor of h--- penchant for both
musical creation and ---) "I couldn't have told you where to find her,"
and her voice is still soft, but there's pain in it, and regret. "Or
how. Or what she looked like. Would you have thanked me for telling you
she existed - somewhere?"

Martin holds back from answering immediately, his gaze lifting to
Vialle's face. "Perhaps," he says. "Perhaps not. It hardly matters at
this point." He takes a hesitant step towards the table, his eyes
drifting back to the images there of a fair-haied woman. "You want me to
find her."

Vialle answers, tilting her head up toward him again, "I wanted you to
know you had a sister."

Martin falls mute again, as he reaches down to sift through the
clippings.

A spattering of articles follow the musical and dancing career of a
young Tessa Siegel, from her first performances in New Orleans, to her
success at the championships and the picture of her and her partner
holding the award. A few followup articles speak of her return to New
Orleans and the final one lists a contact number and a time schedule for
those seeking personal instruction in specific dances. All levels
accepted. Appointment required. The articles, all, are well-thumbed, ink
smudged in places.

For a few minutes, there is only the occasional paper whisper of
newspaper scraps being shifted, replaced, moved again as Martin reads
and reads and reads.

Without a word, Martin pockets the clipping that bears her contact
number, and one that shows her features clearly.

"He watched her," he says unexpectedly, slowly. "All that time, he kept
tabs on her."

Vialle sits after a little, her hands folded in her lap; solemn, quiet,
till he speaks. "Yes," she says then, softly. "When he could."

A snort, and then a laugh, humorless. "Uh-huh," Martin says, shaking hs
head. "Figures."

"As long as it's in a skirt," he adds in a mutter.

Vialle says quietly, "He saw her - twice, I think. The second time just
before they left. He wanted to bring her here, for the two of you to
meet."

"'Here, son, surprise,'" Martin twists his sneer into a mockery of
Random's voice. "'You've got a sister. Better than a puppy.'"

Vialle says quietly, "I think the intent was something rather closer to
'I'm sorry. I should have done this a long time ago.'"

"Sure," Martin says, taking a moment to kill the sneer. Then, "I suppose
I'd better just go, eh. See what the big deal is about her."

Vialle rises, a little slowly; she has to take a moment to feel for the
table's edge before coming out from behind it. "Martin?"

"Here," Martin answers.

Vialle says "He does love you."

Martin shrugs, a gesture lost on Vialle. Remembering himself, he says,
"So he says" as he turns, heading towards the door.

Vialle turns to follow his voice. "Not says, Martin," she says quietly.
"Does. So do I. I should have told you before. I'm sorry."

He doesn't reply to that. At the door, he says, "I imagine I'll be away
for some time. Antonio will take care of any problems you might have in
the meantime."

Martin heads out, not looking back.

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2/7/98