"I wouldn't do that, deary," the old lady says. “Hands on the table. Now that's a good girl."

Something cold and metallic touches the rear of my head, and I do as told. Morgan froze as well. Behind her, the female half of the turtle doves pulled a gun from nowhere and placed it against Morgan's head.

It's a trap. It's a frelling trap.

The male dove shifts a seat, brandishing another weapon. With my hands flat on the table, I slowly turn my head to look behind me, straight into the barrel of a snubnosed trail gun. The hand holding it doesn't waver, and the old woman the hand belongs to smiles. Her husband--if he is her husband--is still working on his meal.

Morgan places her hands on top of mine, and I turn back to meet her eyes.

"Don't do anything stupid," she says, pressing her nails into the back of my hands.

She expected something like this. She must have a plan.

Kalle is the first to climb the stairs with four new guards in tow. These four carry assault rifles. His boss comes next.

"Is this really necessary?" Morgan asks.

I'm not registering a single word of Kalle's reply. All my attention is on his boss. The brown jacket, the short beard and moustache, the pocket watch. It's him, the man from the painting in Morgan's home. I didn't like this other son of hers in oil, but I like him even less in the flesh. He… nauseates me.

"Mother," he says, nodding at Morgan before looking at me. His hair must have been red once, but it has lost its shine, and grey has taken over. He has the same piercing blue eyes as Morgan.

"And Eleanore. Oh, Eleanore, what did they do to you?"

"My name is Ellen," I tell him.

His eyes rest on me, but his words are for Morgan. "So, you did bring her."

Morgan's nails dig a little deeper when I stir.

"I always keep my word. You should know that by now," she says.

He chuckles. "I know, mother, I know. And so do I." Arthur takes the seat next to Morgan, his eyes never leaving my face. "It is so good to see you again. How long has it been? Ten years?"

"And you are?" I ask.

"The one supposed to fall for the bait. You used her again, mother. Will you ever change?"

"Will you?" Morgan replies.

Arthur reaches for my face and I flinch. Morgan's nails dig deeper into my hands.

Arthus blinks and lowers his hand again. "I might, she might. Perhaps this time everything is going to be different. Kalle? Could you please bring in our new friend?"

Arthur's lieutenant signs to the guards near the front door, and a moment later three new figures appear. Two are young women with long, red hair. They wear short, simple white dresses, a bit like mine. They drag along the flaccid body of Morgan's driver Russel. His blond hair is matted with blood, leaving long smears upon the girl's clothes. The two drag Russel onto the snooker table and leave him there. When they take a step back and look up at us Morgan hisses. I experience an odd shift in perspective, and the voices of Morgan and Arthur and all his men seem to come from very far away.

Who are they?

"Is he dead?" Morgan asks.

Arthur shakes his head. "No, he is not. Not yet. Doctor Huddle?"

Behind me, the old man coughs. "Yes, Mr. Tillson?"

"Would you be so kind?"

The old man puts down his fork and shoves his chair backward. I watch him go down the stairs, taking a battered leather doctor's bag with him. He examines the body on the table.

I don't care about the limp form of Russel. Instead, I'm looking at myself.

I didn't notice when they entered. Maybe the more obvious differences threw me off. Their eyes are red--like Mustang Girl's--and their hair is red--like Morgan's, but... the faces they wear are mine. They're me.

The girls just stand there, watching me--no, watching Arthur-- with their red, empty eyes.

They're not me.

Once I get over the resemblance, I recognize them for what they are. People who look like me but are not. They're a little older, and there are dissimilarities you don't notice at first. Minor things like a freckle, a birthmark, but also the shape of an eyelid, the hairline, hands which are a little too small and feet a bit too large. The differences are obvious, once you know what to look for.

I've been holding my breath, and my chest hurts when I start breathing again. Who are they? Family? Sisters? I never had any family, beyond Mom, Dad, and perhaps uncle Charlie. Mom could have been lying to me. She never really explained what happened between her and my father, and maybe there's a whole line of family waiting for me. Brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, who all will smile and welcome me. And maybe, just maybe I'm secretly a princess in hiding, I chide myself. Forget it. These aren't my sisters, not even family, despite the resemblance.

There's something odd about these two… And then it dawns on me. These girls were made to look like me, as much as possible.

And then someone hurt them.

Makeup doesn't hide all the scars and bruises, and it certainly can't hide the hobble of the girl on the left. She's favoring her right leg, but her face is just as blank as that of her 'sister'.

I suddenly feel very sick.

"He's alright, Mr. Tillson," the old man says when he's done examining his patient. "A bit banged up, but nothing permanent. Shall I?"

Arthur Tillson gives a dismissive wave. "Go ahead." He then checks his pocket watch before returning his attention to Morgan and me. "Oh mother, if it was not for you… It is amazing what Dust can do. I don't think even the witch knows. After all, she's… less scientifically inclined."

His mention of a 'witch' brings me out of my stupor. "What witch?" I ask, a little too fast.

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. "Ah, you know her, yes? She told me you disturbed one of her safe houses after you beat the address out of her men. She also claims you kidnapped her daughter," he says.

"Say... what?" The only person I beat up recently was Mustang Girl's fat driver. And I didn't get the address from him, we got that from the Man-in-White. But it was the Witch herself who sent us to meet him, so in a way, she sent us to her own hideout. Assuming the Men-in-White played ball, which in hindsight he probably didn't.

"We did not kidnap anyone. And she gave us the address herself," I tell Arthur.

He tilts his head and studies me before continuing. "Seriously? Did you meet her?"

I shrug. She was trying to run me over in a pickup truck, and I was trying to gun her down in return, so I think that counts as a 'yes'. "She was wearing a mask when we did."

"Yes, she always does. Perhaps she has not been as straightforward as I assumed. Hmm... Not that it matters much. My only interest was in obtaining you, and Mother was so cooperative. Oh mother, I never understood who is more precious to you. Dear Eleanore, little Gwendolyn, or me. Maybe it is Gwendolyn, after all. Poor Gwen, forgotten by all but me and you. Even if you can't see her anymore."

"You came to our house?" Morgan asks, her voice cold as ice.

"No, no. Not at all. I bought little Gwen a milkshake and a burger, then made her forget the whole thing. She was downtown, out and about. Quite a risky endeavor in her condition."

"Who's Gwendolyn?" I ask. I need time. Information. Opportunity.

"My half-sister. Do not worry. If you did meet her, you would have forgotten by now."

"She's the girl from the painting?"

"Ah, the painting, yes. Mother remembers and canvas remembers, but the rest of the world forgets. Such is the nature of the curse Gwen is under. Rather sad, if I may say so."

"A curse you put on her," Morgan says, her voice going sub-zero.

"Little Gwen believes otherwise. She thinks you did it as a punishment, and she still believes the curse will end after a year… or two, or three. Time flies. I wonder how long that belief will last." He shrugs. "Trust is a wonderful thing, and young people are so malleable. A little push, a minor suggestion, a slight touch of magic, and a lie becomes the truth, and the truth becomes forgotten. You know all about that, do you not?"

"Why?" I ask.

"Excuse me." Arthur raises his hand and checks his pocket watch again. Then he gets up to look down into the pit. As he does he passes in between Morgan and the turtledoves, blocking their field of fire. Morgan doesn't use the opportunity. She just digs her nails a little deeper. What is she thinking? What's her plan? I'd settle for something--anything--preferably soon.

On a whim I ask Arthur, "Was it your plane?"

Arthur nods absentmindedly, his attention on the doctor and Russel. Our driver is sitting on the edge of the snooker table, the white of his eyes a bright red. The doctor uses a mobile phone to take a picture before joining the two girls.

"He's ready," the doctor says.

"He is? Good. Can somebody give him a gun?" Arthur turns to Morgan. "What's his name?"

"Russel," she whispers. "What did you do to him?"

"We took him, of course. Tell me, did you bring anybody else?"

Morgan shakes her head. I would have lied.

Arthur shakes his head. "Just a sniper and a girl? Well, it matters not. Can someone give this Russel a gun? A loaded one please."

Down in the pit, one of the guards steps forward and places a small revolver in the young man's outstretched hand. Another snubnose, probably the guard's backup weapon. Russel looks at the gun as if he doesn't understand what it is.

"Now, Russel, if you would be so kind, could you please shoot the girls?" Arthur asks him.

Morgan's driver looks up at us. "Missus Morgan?"

"Shoot the girls," Arthur repeats, an impatient edge to his voice. "Then shoot yourself. If you would be so kind?"