I listen to his voice for a while as he outlines his harrowing experiences. Try hard not to imagine how dangerous it must have been. In mid sip, he suddenly asks me how I am doing. I swallow quickly and a hiccup bursts into the receiver, which makes him laugh. I love the sound of his laugh, so I giggle, too. I decide to leave out a few details of my own narrative, keep the conversation light.

"I assume you're imbibing again this evening, milady."

"Yes. I'm becoming quite the lush, kind sir. I shall return to LA LA Land with several new habits."

He laughs again. "You'll fit right in. But seriously, how's it going? I can't imagine how strange all of this must be."

"I'm okay, really." I feel the reverberations of truth. "I can't believe how easily Miriam and Dembi and I have bonded. They're so...good, Ethan. Easy to love. I can't wait for you to meet them."

"You say the word, my sweet, and I will be on the next plane. I'm getting sick of the smog and the crime. L.A. and I are not on good terms right now."

"Wow, I don't think I've ever heard you so down about the job. Don't tell your parents."

He laughs again, even heartier than before. "They would be thrilled if they knew how I was feeling. But I think L.A. is just missing a spark or something. Or maybe a beautiful body snuggled up to mine. Something like that, anyway."

"Aha! You're not depressed, you're just horny."

Now we both laugh and it feels great.

"I mean it, though. If you want me up there, I have weeks of vacation coming to me. And if that doesn't work, we can take a trip when you come home."

"A trip sounds wonderful. As for coming up here, I think not just yet."

I struggle to put it into words for him.

"We've hired a nurse for Meme and she's terrific. Dembi and Miriam and I hung out together all day. Ethan, I think I'll be here longer. I want to see how Meme progresses with the new help."

How can I tell him that the real reason I don't want him here is because I haven't yet discovered whether or not I am a monster? That I cannot trust myself, as a friend, sister or lover?

"And we've been invited to a huge powwow near Vryheid next Saturday," is what I do say.

"What's a powwow?"

I explain the celebration in general terms, the way Miriam told it to me. At first Ethan sounds intrigued but a yawn soon betrays him.

"I'll let you go, babe. You sound so tired."

"I hate to admit it but I can barely stay awake. At least things are back to normal around here, if there is such a thing as normal in L.A. My hours won't be so long. We can talk more often."

We say good night. I am left with an unsatisfactory, empty feeling. Despite the scotch I am no longer relaxed.

Out in the hallway I hear my sister and brother laugh as they prance toward the family room next door. I join them in front of the television. We watch a movie that I've never even heard of. Something Canadian I think. I mostly watch Miriam and Dembi. They think it's hilarious, can repeat some of the lines and love tossing popcorn at one another.

I try very hard to loosen up but I am tense and uncomfortable. Ice Queen Anne rears her ugly head and wants to comment haughtily on the poor quality of the hick film. I override her voice with a hearty guffaw. I feel apart from my siblings right now. The newbie. Removed from some of the quirks they have learned about one another. I have not been given this gift of knowing through time. Both Meme and Karoline robbed me of that. Ice Queen Anne laughs at me.

Miriam stretches and yawns as she reaches over to grab my stockinged toes. Next she pats Dembi's arm. I am enthralled with the way she does this so naturally. She touches us constantly. Her love is reassuring and physical.

"I'm sorry, guys, I'm so tired. I'm going to bed to read and fall asleep forever."

Dembi frowns at her. "If you fall asleep forever, you die," he says, his voice serious and worried.

"Sorry, Dembi, I was just exaggerating. I think hunting all day has made me very, very tired. But don't worry, I will wake up tomorrow."

"Okay." He nods, walks over and turns off the television.

"Did you want to keep watching, Anne?" Miriam asks.

I stand up. "Nope, I'm right behind you. Even though I've hunted for a couple of days, I am still not in shape. Not like you, Dembi. You are so strong."

He curls himself into me. His tall frame c-shapes the way a very large dog would try to sit on its owner's lap. I instinctively reach around and pull him close. His head lolls on my shoulder. We stand side by side, child-man and childish woman, neither of us quite fit for this world.

Miriam joins us. Wraps us in her firm, responsible, generous embrace. For a moment there is no sound but Dembi's contented sigh, until Rolly begins a loud purr at our feet. My brother automatically breaks the huddle, reaches down and sets the cat on his shoulder. We all toddle off toward our rooms.

Dear Diary, I had some friends who were Catholic and I think they have the right attitude. Sin, sin, sin all week, then off you go to confession and get forgiven. I like that.

Chapter 20.

From Friday to Wednesday, our days become something of a routine, though not in any usual sense. We arise, have breakfast and go hunting for gold. On hot days we swim in an inlet of the river that's deep and cold and protected from the rapids. Every afternoon we're back at the farmhouse.

Melody comes to work every single day, including the weekend. Her husband, she informs us, is off on a course. Her own children have gone on vacation with the grandkids in tow. She insists that she's bored and lonely, that Libby needs her.

We certainly don't object.

Dembi and Miriam visit Meme to bring her up to date on the treasure adventures. By the fourth day, I stand in the doorway watching, but I am still reluctant to enter. Although our mother is clearly dying, her color has improved. She is able to speak a few intelligible words. She doesn't react badly to my presence, though I'm not sure she really sees me.

I send a post card to Parris and call her once. She's supportive and kind. I realize that I haven't really been gone that long. Yet it feels as though I have been away forever. I am not the person who left L.A. such a short time ago. Despite the occasional resurgence of the Ice Queen, I am different. It's reassuring to know that the separation hasn't altered my friendship with Parris or my love for Ethan.

I used to be terrified that everything would change once I left. That I would lose what I'd gained. Now I am cautiously satisfied that those who really care about me will not abandon me in my absence. I must be on the right track. I hope.

On three separate occasions we venture out into Brantford to shop, consciously avoiding Burford. We decide that it's too small to provide the groceries and toiletries we need. But I know we're really postponing the three-ness of us and the inevitable scrutiny. The powwow becomes our target for the unveiling, though surely by now Dee has spread the word about my presence.

In the evening we play board games, watch television or work on Dembi's puzzle. Rolly curls around at our feet or hops onto the table to mess up a few checker pieces or roll a marble off the edge. I begin to feel quite fond of the little scamp.

Miriam and I talk every night about everything. She becomes closer to me than Karoline or Parris ever did or could. Gently she encourages me to be honest about my struggles with who I am. Ice Queen Anne slowly splinters, only rearing her ugly head now and then. Miriam teaches me that there are good and bad sides to everyone, though I'm aware that her definition of bad doesn't cover at least two of my sins.

"Miriam, I was so self-absorbed and entitled. You wouldn't believe it. I was the kind of person who took her own olives to the bar, so I'd have the right blend for my martini."

My sister gives me the laughter I was aiming for. I can tell her about my superficiality, my snobbishness, my shameful treatment of the men and women who lived on the periphery of my life. I can tell her about Giulio and try to figure out the why of Karoline's treacherous letters. I am able to speak of my breakdown after Karoline's death. I can talk about Ethan and how his love has helped transform me.

I cannot tell her about the night Karoline died. Or about the memories that began to surface when I set foot in this house.

Miriam speaks of her failed relationships. She too has been stalked, stared at, mistreated, but somehow she never saw her beauty as a handicap. One man broke her heart three years ago and she's been unable to reach out to anyone since. Of course much of her time lately has been taken up with family history and Dembi and Meme.

She talks about Karoline, too. I try hard to listen. We both continue to feel a depth of betrayal that may never disappear. I tell Miriam something about Karoline's disintegration. I confess my inaction and the consequent guilt. I attempt to follow Karoline's trail backwards, but I haven't got all the information. I vow to solve the puzzle of her actions eventually, but right now I am focused on the present. On the developing relationships, not the past disappointments.

We become almost as obsessed with our family history as Dembi is. We call Elizabeth. She and Miriam talk for a long time. I avoid Vera and Ian for now. I tell myself that I'm already dealing with too much.

We decide that we have to make an appointment with the Burford museum curator. Thus far we have avoided the village and the inevitable scrutiny. We shopped in Brantford or Miriam went alone. Even in the larger town we've been objects of interest, but who could blame them? Three identical beauties stroll through the mall in the middle of the day. I am used to the attention. However, it's far better when it's shared.

Our curiosity eventually overcomes the fear of gossip. Miriam makes an appointment with Mary Lou West. We don't even attempt to convince Dembi that we should show her the Vryheid book. We plan to soak in information, not provide it.

I also talk to Ethan every night. Although I am tempted to ask him to come up here, I resist. I am a little more self-assured but there are still so many questions. How can I say, "I love you", when I can't say that to myself? When I'm not sure if the deep-seated rage has disappeared or is simply hiding? When I can't forgive myself?

On Wednesday, a blistering sultry day that feels as though we are walking through a hot shower, Miriam, Dembi and I visit the Burford Museum.

Dembi is in a strange mood. He's fidgety and doesn't eat much. Although he says he's feeling all right and wants to come to the museum, he looks tired and cross. He brightens a little as we near the museum. His beloved history beckons.

Dear Diary, Do you find nice people boring? I know I do. I like edgy, mean characters with some intelligence. I love that comedian, Rodney Dangerfield. "My psychiatrist told me I was crazy and I said I want a second opinion. He said okay, you're ugly, too." Honestly, that's hilarious. Especially if you say it to someone who's really crazy.

Chapter 21.

"Hi, Dembi, hi, Miriam," the curator says as she gazes with unabashed curiosity at the three of us.

"This is Anne, our missing third," Miriam tells her.

Mary Lou West is a young, slim woman dressed in a professional blue skirt and jacket that look incongruous with the earring in her nose. Her straight black hair, deep brown eyes and dark skin hint at a heritage similar to ours. She is friendly, enthusiastic. Her handshake is cool and firm. Though a look of bewilderment crosses her face, she doesn't miss a beat in her greeting.

The museum is located in an old red-bricked, two-story house with a wide porch painted grey and a welcoming green door. I don't generally like old houses, but this one doesn't have that customary moldy scent. Its rooms have been opened up and are lined with display cases and bookshelves. In the middle, tables are piled with papers, books, and files. They look orderly, however. Mary Lou leads us to the chairs around one of them.

"I've pulled some files for you," she says. "Our collection is the result of several years of hard work and grants. Plus, there are volunteers like yourselves who have brought us a lot of information. Especially you, Dembi."

He grins, flaps his hands happily and returns her hello in an overly loud voice. He looks funny in a red shirt suspiciously spotted with something yellow. I wanted to help Dembi with his outfits but Miriam reminded me that this is a harmless way of honoring his independence. So I try not to be embarrassed.

"We're very proud of our museum and I'm thrilled that you've come. The history of Vryheid doesn't have much documentation, so Dembi's interest and insights have been invaluable."

You have no idea just how detailed the documentation is, I wish to say.

Mary Lou can't wait to give us her historical lecture. She uses some of the papers and books to prove her points.

"As you know, Joseph Brant lived in this area in the 1780's and he brought slaves with him from the United States. We think they came voluntarily and were more like employees than slaves."

The Book of Vryheid is certainly split on that theory.

"Lots of runaway slaves came up through the underground railway during those years. Some of them joined the native bands, married into the families and settled in this area. Others travelled to more distant parts of Ontario."

"They used the Grand River," Dembi says.

"Yes." Mary Lou smiles at him. She's not at all condescending. Her fondness for Dembi is obvious. "Most travelers used the river to move around. And that's where most of the native settlements were built. All up the river, so they could fish and hunt and travel."

"Joseph Brant had a lot of land."

"He certainly did, Dembi. But he used it so our native inhabitants could live and work there. He gave a lot of it away and sold some of it, too. Though he had to fight for permission to make those sales."

"Didn't he own it?" I ask.

"Sure, but not in the way the white man did. Indians had to get permission from the government to lease or sell the land. In fact, it's still much the same today on the reservations."

Miriam and I look at each other, stunned.

"That's what Chief Brant fought with the government about. Finally, in 1798 he received permission to sell off a number of tracts. We think this is around the time that he negotiated the Vryheid acreage. There is a theory that the gift was attached to the land he sold to John Morey, who was reportedly a runaway slave himself but who had married into the Brant clan."

That theory is correct I want to say, thinking back to the passage at the beginning of the Book of Vryheid.

"Why would Brant sell off all his land?" I ask instead.

"He wanted an income for the people," Mary Lou responds. "Land had become a great commodity and source of wealth, similar to the present. He thought it was unfair that natives did not have complete control over their own land. The Chief must be rolling in his grave these days."

I ignore her political declarations because I have no idea how to respond. I'm not well informed and I'm not sure I want to be. Even Miriam, a self-confessed left-winger, is silent.

"To whom was the Vryheid land given?" I ask.

"We think it was given to a group...sort of an ancient condo corporation."

Mary Lou pauses. In the silence, Dembi begins to fidget. I can see the struggle in the young woman's face. Should she say this out loud or not? With a feeling of dread, I am pretty sure I know what's coming.

"You're wondering why two sisters have the name Anne."

She flushes with embarrassment, caught having a non-objective thought.

"Well, yes. Plus I'm wondering why she hasn't told you about the research she's already done."

Miriam takes over, her desire for privacy flaring up.

"Many of us were adopted out. So ending up with the same name was a huge possibility." My sister doesn't quite lie. "I had no idea that the other Anne spent time here, too."

"She spent lots of hours here about two years ago. Sometimes with Dembi. I haven't seen her in quite a while, however."

"Our other Anne unfortunately passed away recently."

"Oh I'm so sorry." Mary Lou's voice displays genuine shock and sympathy. "She was a very nice person."

"Other Anne," Dembi says, mournfully placing his head on Miriam's shoulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Dembi. She helped us a lot with the history, didn't she?"

Oddly, since this is his obsession, our brother looks bored and restless. He closes his eyes as though he's napping and doesn't respond. Miriam and I exchange worried looks. Has our interest in the history usurped his feeling of importance? Or dredged up too many memories of Karoline? Perhaps he's merely got a stomachache.