Morgan smiles at me. "I am a little early," she apologizes, then looks me up and down. Her eyebrows lift a fraction when she notices the cuts and bruises on my arms. "You cleaned up nicely. Let me help you with your hair."

I wonder if I should feel embarrassed or insulted.

Morgan herself changed to a mint-colored pantsuit with a matching jacket, her long red hair falling down in perfect waves. She oozes that effortless elegance some women have. She guides me to the dressing table and tells me to sit down, then places a little black box on the tabletop.

Morgan wants to do my hair and I let her, though I wonder why. I've been handling myself for years, ever since Mom gave up on her rebellious teen daughter. Now this complete stranger is taking care of my hair? It all feels uncomfortably right, and that's simply wrong. Even more so with her alleged daughter hiding in the closet. Perhaps their madness is contagious.

Morgan seems to be enjoying herself, humming a little song whilst rearranging my purple manes with deft fingers, then using several hairclips and a can or two of hairspray to keep the mess in place. Satisfied she puts the brush down, then hesitates.

There's a single pink hair laying on the tabletop.

She picks it up and stares at it for a long minute, frowning, looking puzzled, a little confused. When I clear my throat she smiles, then drops the single pink strand in the garbage can before opening the little black box. Inside lie two glittering, diamond-studded hair clips, worth more than Mom makes in a decade.

I gasp. A little.

"Yes, they are real," she confirms. "Fifteenth-century, said to have been worn by the Queen of France--when they still had queens with heads attached. These are not simple 'barrettes' nor hair clips, these are the 'Royal Nestles'. A gift from Louis the Thirteenth to his fair queen. They are supposed to protect the wearer."

"Do they work?" I ask.

"That depends who you ask. Queen Anne died of breast cancer, so that would suggest that they do, as natural causes were somewhat uncommon in royal circles at the time. Then again it is said that the Duke of Buckingham took the Nestles with him, back to London. He was shot by an army officer with a grudge, but perhaps the Duke was above wearing ladies' jewelry at the time. Or perhaps he was shot because he was wearing the Nestles, I do not know. When he died, his son inherited the title and everything else, including the Nestles. The son died a few years later, digging his way into the den of a fox he was hunting."

"Did the fox attack him?"

Morgan shakes her head. "No. He froze to death whilst digging. At least that is how the story goes. There have been other tales adding to the lore. They would fill a volume or two, ending with the story of a young British pilot who survived sixteen sorties against the German Luftwaffe during World War Two. He had not so much as a scratch, even though his plane was riddled with bullet holes time and again. A German spy stole the Nestles from him, and two weeks later that same spy died in a brawl over an unpaid bill. The pilot was shot down the next day, and the Nestles disappeared."

I eye the Nestles suspiciously. It almost sounds like they bring bad luck.

"That's… encouraging. Shouldn't these belong to some museum, having historical value? Don't they belong to the Duke's ancestors?" I ask.

"Well, Queen Anne was never supposed to give them to the duke as a token of her love, so one could argue they belonged to King Louis and thus to the republic of France. Without absolute proof, it is all conjecture. A pity perhaps, because otherwise their value would be much higher. For now, they are mine, and I do with them as I please, sorry France. And perhaps these Nestles will not offer much in the way of protection, but they will look good on you. Now do not move."

I try not to fidget until she's done.

"There's makeup in your skin tone in the top drawer," she points out.

I shake my head. "No, thank you," I tell her as I get up and watch my reflection, this stranger in a dress. "But, Mrs. Tillson, I--"

"It's Tillson-Sweetvale. And call me Morgan."

"Missus Morgan, I'm not sure why you're doing all of this, I'm a stranger, just a guest. I don't want to cause any trouble. Look at this place, this can't be the guest room, and, well, it's simply too much."

I shake my head, and the stranger in the mirror, wearing a fifties' avant-garde dress and a fortune of diamonds in her hair, does the same. The diamonds glitter.

Morgan looks at the room as if she sees it for the first time. "Arthur is not using his apartment anyway."

"Arthur?"

If I had not known what to look for, I would have missed it. She narrows her eyes and hesitates before she gives her answer. "This once was the apartment of my other son. He is no longer with us."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"It was a long time ago." Morgan says, her voice neutral. "More important is that you are our guest. Your mother and I were very close once, and it is good to have you back. Just don't think it is free!" She laughs. "You will have to work for your stay."

I have images of dishes and laundry and aprons. I never considered myself a larval-stage Cinderella. "Mom asked?"

"She did, yes. In her own way. Her exact words were: 'treat her like I would, as your daughter.'"

"That bad, huh?"

We both laugh, but I'm painfully aware of Gwen hiding in the closet.

"Well, it is time to go. Are you ready?" Morgan asks.

"Go where?"

"To have lunch. Your mother asked me to bring some normalcy and civilization into your life."

"I guess…"

Her voice takes a business-like tone when she says, "She also wrote that you would help me and follow my instructions."

Mom did tell me something along those lines. I try a tentative, "Insofar as reasonable."

"Careful, are we now? You take after your mother. Well, today you are helping me by having lunch together. That sounds quite reasonable to me. Did you bring any body armor?"

"You were talking about lunch, normalcy, and civilization," I reply, then immediately regret my lipping-back. I did bring my Five-Sevens upon Mom's request, so I should have known better.

All Morgan does is laugh. "Yes, I think I had that one coming. I still suggest you bring your weapons. You brought some along, I suppose, although we do have an armory of sorts if you did not. A small one, but you should be able to find what you need."

"You want me to do--I… Yes. Yes, I did."

"Bring them along, they might come in handy. Now, we are running late, so I suggest we hurry up. Russel will be downstairs with the car, waiting for us."

"You are serious."

"Yes, I am. I need your discretion and your help. It is the price your Mom and I agreed upon."

"And the favor?"

"That is the favor. Your help. It is a lunch, after all, and those can be really dangerous. Those empty carbohydrates are killing me. You can still pull out if you want."

I sigh and shake my head. Normalcy has never been my thing. "I'll bring my bag," I tell her.

"May I suggest you leave your bag behind and wear your… 'accessories' openly?"

"Seriously? In plain sight? Won't I, you know, stand out? Weren't we having lunch?"

"Oh, you would draw more attention without." She laughs.

I look at the stranger in the mirror. I hate to admit it, but just for a micro-second I thought life would be… I don't know, normal? Like having lunch with a friendly aunt? I should have known better. I'm about to retrieve my backpack from the closet when I remember that a girl is hiding in there. "Could… could you please give me a moment?"

Morgan gives me an inquisitive look, but she leaves the bedroom without asking questions. As soon as she closes the door behind her I rush to the closet. Gwen smiles at me, holding up the backpack. When I take it she presses a finger against her lips. Hush. Yeah, I know and I nod.

Plain sight… I did bring the holsters as Mom suggested. She knew.

I have to re-adjust the belts a little before I slot in my Five-Sevens. I shake my head at the reflection, not knowing what to make of this teenage version of Lara Croft. A little less-endowed in the chest department, thank god, but Lara didn't have to wear a floral dress. I adjust the holsters one more time and then add the two spare clips I brought along. Morgan better pay for new ammo, I tell myself, and touch the--what were they called again--Nestles. It's going to be quite some lunch.

I guess I'll have an omelet with bullets and some diamonds on the side.