"Tea?"

I look up. A tall woman in an elegant, long flowing blue dress stands next to the table. She has shoulder-length flaming red hair that seems to draw all to light towards her. Her eyes, as blue as her dress, rest on me. She carries a tray with a teapot, some cups, and a small tin box. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. She and the young man resemble each other, and I peg her as his older sister. But where he is boring, except for the ears, she's all concentrated elegance. Just being in her presence makes me feel clumsy, nothing more but an ill-mannered oaf.

I hastily get up and move the books aside, making space for the tray. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to be rude." I throw a glance at the young man. Okay, I was perhaps a little obnoxious, but nothing beyond the ordinary.

"I am sure you did not want to be," she says. She sets down the tray and seats herself opposite of me. Her voice is soft and, for lack of a better word, 'sparkling'. It reminds me of a wind chime in a light evening breeze.

"I never do?"

She nods. "It is not for me to figure you out, it was not then, and it is not now. It was a long time ago, Jason was still small, and things were very different then."

"You talk as if you know me. Knew me."

"Ah…" Her laugh is another succession of little bells. She studies my face and nods. "I know you. Even if you have changed somewhat. Here, let me prove it to you." She reaches for the box, takes off the lid, and proffers it to me.

Chocolate chip cookies, my favorite. Of course I take one. Maybe two.

"I was small at the time?" The young man steps from behind the counter and approaches us carefully, his eyes searching my face before he shakes his head. "I am sorry, but I do not remember her. Should I?"

"I think you should, even if she does not," his mother says. "Jason, this is Eleanore DeRidder, nee Myrddin. Merle Myrddin is her father."

"It's Ellen. And it's Myrrdin Merle," I correct her.

"Perhaps. He was never very clear on the particulars of that name. As you know, in some cultures the family name goes first. He might be Merle, and he might be Myrrdin. I bet he might be other people as well. He was a… faceted man after all."

"He was a teacher."

"Yes, that too."

The way she says that makes me sit up. Mom doesn't want to talk about my father, but perhaps this woman would be willing to spill the beans. If not the complete can, then at least a spoonful. "You met him? Is he still alive? You know him."

Somehow her smile seems less sincere. "I liked to think so, though these days I am not sure anymore. Still, it is good to see you again."

Jason narrows his eyes, studying me. "So you are Eleanore. The Eleanore."

"That's me. Though I prefer Ellen."

He just ignores me and turns towards the woman. "Mom, you should send her away. We do not want her here. She's..."

"She's our guest," his mother replies, tucking away a strand of hair behind her ear.

Her ears are longer and pointier than his, and I wonder if she--they--might have some Ellyl blood running through their veins. The old folk are gone now, leaving behind a few bloodlines that are talented but not much more even if they still have the ears and the foul mindset. All according to Mom. She calls them the 'old folk', Uncle Charlie called them the 'Hen Werin', and if the two would ever agree on anything it would be to stay as far away from the pointy-eared bastards as possible, from both the originals as well as their watered-down descendants. Call them elves and they'll call you an idiot.

We met a few over the years. Most kept their distance. The ones I talked to were either arrogant or dead. Mom seriously doesn't like the Elyl and their offspring.

"He's your son?" I ask, startled. He can't be. She looks way too young to be his mother.

"Oh, yes, he is my son. Though Jason takes after his father, including the poor eyesight."

"Not funny Mom," Jason mutters.

"I know, I know." She sighs. "You know, Eleanore--I mean, Ellen--when your mother asked me if you could stay here for a while she did not tell me when or why. Are the two of you in trouble? It must be kind of serious, as your mother is not one to call in favors on a whim."

I shrug. "I don't think so. I think Mom simply wanted me out of there after the plane crash. Something about keeping a low profile."

Jason's mother, if that's who she really is, laughs again. "You two are good at that, you and your mother, are you not?" she says.

I offer her my most insulted look before having a laugh myself. "We get by. Mom also wanted you to investigate something on her behalf, she said you were the specialist, and I could be of assistance."

"Mom, don't! You promised!" Jason pleads.

"We will discuss this later, Jason. We may not have an option as it may not be a choice we can afford. I think you have something for me," she says, turning back to me.

"Oh!" I flush.

I get the letter out and hand it to her. She opens it and takes out the two little bags filled with red powder, one from the Witch's hideout, the other from the Man-in-White. Next, she retrieves and reads the note Mom added. Jason's mother offers another round of tea, then reads the note again. I wonder what it says. I tried to read it but I couldn't get the envelope open, thanks to Mom's magical shenanigans. Mom scribbled her regular chicken scratches along the edges, and the envelope withstood ripping, tearing, cutting. I nearly stabbed myself in the leg when I tried a knife. The blade skidded off the paper as if I was stabbing a steel plate. Yeah, I tried.

Jason's hostile stare perseveres, and with little else to do I look around, and try to estimate the number of books… How many? Twenty thousand? Thirty? More? Not a single duplicate, now that's pretty weird, but there's something else going on. How do they find anything back in this place? There are no labels or partitions, and the books don't seem to be sorted in any recognizable way. Not by author or genre or title, not even by size or color. There are no sections labeled 'Drama', 'Fantasy' or 'Romance'. And weirdest of it all, there isn't a stack of books on discount. Anywhere.

When the woman's done reading she returns everything to the envelope, then gets up and offers her hand. I get up too and reluctantly take it--no hand-kissing, please!--and we shake hands.

"Well, young Eleanore DeRidder, nice to meet you again," she says. "I am Morgan Tillson-Sweetvale, this is Jason, my son. For now, I suggest we find you a room and a shower. I take it you are traveling light?" She eyes my backpack, the only luggage I have with me.

I nod. My guns are heavy but I brought little in the way of clothes. I must smell as if I spent three days in the back of a bus. Which I did.

"Yes. And it's Ellen. I prefer Ellen," I tell her.

"In that case, we may have to find Ellen something to wear as well." She turns to her son and points at my stack of books. "Jason? Could you please put these back? Don't forget to use gloves."

"Yes, Mom." He grunts something that I miss, to which his mother raises an eyebrow. It's enough to make Jason scurry for the counter.

Morgan Tillson-Sweetvale shakes her head before she turns back to me. "He is still young. Well, I am certain we will find something that will fit you perfectly, even if it is a little bit different from your..."--she hesitates, eyeing my boots, bleached jeans, and a long-sleeved Jefferson Airplane T-shirt--"your current attire. I see you are all prepared for Panhandle Park, but how about the Bohemian Grove? I've been the only female member for years, you know, and I'd love to introduce you."

"What's the Bohemian Grove?"

"Never mind. Did you consider a dress?"

No. Never. And I never will.