Mrs. Morgan Tillson-Sweetvale--who told me to call her 'Morgan'--leads me up the hill to Pacific Heights. It isn't far, but it's a steady climb. And though the movies suggest every street in San Francisco has its own cable car, the reality is rather different.

So, I just follow my host, breathing heavily, my calves on fire. I'm sweating like a pig under the blazing summer sun. Morgan doesn't seem to notice, her feet barely touching the ground. Her elegant dress, more suitable for a ball than trotting city streets, floats around her ankles, never touching the dirt below. Morgan cruises the sidewalks like a fairy tale queen, yet nobody seems to pay her any attention. Then again, Holywood is only a five-hour drive away.

She exchanges a few smiles and greets a familiar face but never stops moving. People give her space, even the pedestrian traffic lights are all green whenever she needs to cross a busy road. I suppress a little envy.

It's interesting how Morgan's ears, oddly shaped as they were inside the bookshop, seem almost normal outside in public. Still a little pointy, but nothing excessive. I'm too polite and too tired to ask. And out of breath from the climb.

We halt in front of a large Victorian house. Tall windows set in five floors of white painted woodwork look out over the hill and the bay. All corners of the house are rounded off, each corner morphing into a tower, and each tower topped by a tapered roof that reaches for the sky. The nearest tower is a floor higher than the others, and the windows up there must give a fantastic view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the bay, and Alcatraz. I shudder. Mom once took me to the former prison, and I don't have fond memories of all the ghosts I encountered there. Some were quite unreasonable.

I remember… I frown. I don't recall visiting Morgan and her family but, somehow, I feel as if I should.

Between labored breaths I manage, "The house… it's… beautiful."

She nods, not winded at all, accepting the compliment for what it is. "The house is not as old as it looks. The original building was destroyed in the great fire at the beginning of the last century, rebuilt, and then the next owner tore it down and rebuilt it again sixty years later. That is why we have our own indoor garage. We had to renovate and modernize, but it was worth it." She puts a hand upon the iron-wrought fence. "The architect outdid himself, incorporating elements from its predecessors, and still maintaining that old Victorian look. I think the only thing left from earlier days is the gate."

A gate with no nameplate nor number, I notice.

"It still looks the same though, as the exterior was kept in line with the original building as much as possible, except for the garage, of course. When it became available we decided to buy it, even though we could ill afford it at the time. It was a decision we never regretted."

"It's… rather big. You must have a large family."

"It is too large for us. We do not need all that space any longer, especially since Arthur is gone and..." Morgan studies me. "You do not remember anything, do you?"

I shrug. "I must have been small at the time."

"You… were, yes. It is a long time ago. It is nice to have a family guest again, it brings back memories. Times were simpler then. Or maybe not." She chuckles. "But let us go in and find that shower. I bet you prefer to clean up before having lunch."

"I… thank you." Yes, I know I smell and please stop telling me. I don't know what favors Morgan or her husband owe my mother, but all this hospitality raises my suspicions. Things are rarely as they seem and never free. I think Mom's lessons are rubbing off on me.

The gate swings open when Morgan approaches the house. A flagstone path leads us to the main entrance, three steps lead up to the front door, which again opens up as if by magic. Reflexively I look for cameras and alarm systems but don't spot any. They must have been hidden fairly well.

When the front door opens the smell of paint and sweat greets us.

"We rented out the lower three floors," Morgan explains as we climb up the massive stairs. "On the first floor, we have a ballet school, on the second floor an atelier. The third floor is used as the main office for Tillson-Sweetvale's Academy of Fine Arts. Incidentally, my husband and I are two of its patrons."

"No elevator?" I joke.

"There is one in the back."

I'm not sure if she's insulted or is returning the joke at my expense. A little smirk around the corner of her mouth suggests it's the latter, but somehow I'm pretty sure that there is an elevator tucked away somewhere.

The wide stairs end on the office floor. Two smaller stairs continue, circling upwards. We take the right one. The next landing is dominated by an immense painting of five people. At first glance, the painting appears to be just the kind of formal portrait only the rich, the noble, and the tasteless dare to afford, but the more I look at it, the more it gives me the creeps. All five people smile, but not one of those smiles looks right.

It's easy to recognize Morgan and Jason, the latter looking a bit younger, the former just as timeless as she does right now. Morgan's sitting in a chair, in the center of the painting. On her left side stands Jason, his smile forced as if he wants to be anywhere but there. Morgan's smile is warm but reserved, a woman with secrets.

Two men pose on the other side of the throne-like chair. The one in the black suit, his hand resting on the top of the gilded frame of the chair, must be in his late forties. He stares at me in cold calculation, a dark-haired, wide-jawed second-hand car salesman looking for his next customer. The smile is there, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and there's a dark cloud surrounding him as if he's not going to reach his target this week. And he knows he isn't going to make it next week either.

The other man, wearing a stuffy brown jacket, is of similar age and posture but has different facial features. His smile is wistful, with eyes that stare at a point in the distance, longing for something lost. He holds an old pocket watch on a chain in his left hand and looks a bit like an absent-minded professor. There's no reason I can think of, but I absolutely loathe him.

The final person in the painting is a young girl, holding Morgan's hand. The girl has long hair, flaming like her mother's. She is perhaps ten years old. The artist captured every nuance of her face, the blush on her cheeks, the smirk around the corner of her mouth.

The ears are a little inconsistent. Morgan's are of the pointed variety, so are Jason's, though slightly less so. The other people have regular human ears. Interesting.

"Your family?" I ask.

Morgan studies the painting silently, then sighs before she turns towards me. "You know who these people are?"

"I recognize you and Jason."

"Yes. And you will meet Kevin, my husband, tonight. I suggest you do not mention the others. We… do not talk about them. I do not know what your mother has told you. About me, or about us."

"Mom only gave me the address, your name, and a letter. You've seen the letter."

She nods slowly. "I cannot predict what will happen, but I want to ask you to be discreet. If you take after your mother, that will require some effort." Morgan laughs but there's a sad undertone, and she shakes her head before continuing. "I should have that painting taken down, but Kevin will not let me. He says it is a good reminder for all of us. I am not so sure. You see, there has been a lot of pain in my family. Some of that pain may return when people see you."

"Why?"

She swallows. "You look a lot like someone we once knew. Time heals all wounds, but some wounds are deeper than others, and I fear not enough time has passed to heal this one. You know, I think it is a good sign your name is different, even your hair… Did you know your mother dyed it black when you were small?"

I nod. I did it myself for years. I know I shouldn't ask, but I still do. "What was her name?"

"Eleanore. But you are not that Eleanore, you are Ellen, an altogether different person." To my surprise, she steps forward and gives me a strong hug. "It is good to have you back."

I shiver in her warm embrace. I'm more sure than ever I've never been here before.

Morgan Tillson-Sweetvale takes me into her home, into a hallway lined with doors that all look the same. The walls between the doors host a variety of paintings, from classic landscapes to modern art. We pass Dutch masters depicting tall ships under clouds of magenta, screaming abstracts with melting pocket watches, then halt just after what looks like spoiled cabbage glued to the canvas, varnished before it could go really bad.

Morgan opens the door to the apartment for me, then follows me in. I stop and stare.

"These are your rooms whilst you are staying with us. I hope they are adequate. I will send Charlotte up with some clothes I had prepared when your mother called, just in case. I'm certain there will be something that will fit you. I thought… We will be going out for lunch in about an hour, is that okay?"

"Lunch would be nice."

"In an hour then," Morgan says before leaving me alone, closing the door behind her.

I'm lost for words. The guest room--make that guest apartment--is on the fourth floor, and… more than adequately sized. The living room alone seems big enough to house the Democrats' yearly convention. I'm stuck in a small hall that leads into the living room, unwilling to put my dirty boots on that endless white carpet. I compromise by sitting down on the ground and taking them off. Only then do I dare to enter and look for the bathroom.

The apartment contains a small kitchen, a bedroom, a walk-in closet which is bigger than our new home in Hellhole. And finally the bathroom. I dump my backpack on the ground, and thirty seconds later I'm having the best shower of my life. Once done I dry myself using the softest towel ever, then wrap myself in a luxurious bathrobe. I could get used to this.

Whoever Charlotte is, she is efficient and quiet. When I walk back into the bedroom I find the curtains closed. Two sets of clothes are laid out on the bed, a clear hint. Unfortunately, they're both dresses. The left one is black and way too revealing for my taste. The right one is long and white, with a print of red roses on its hem that fades into the white, the further up you go. My arms would be bare, but my torso would be covered. It's fifties-elegant, but… no. The door into the closet is open, and the closet itself now contains a selection of clothes on hangers and matching shoes on shelves. How did she manage that? I check the other clothes but there are no trousers. At all.

Leaving the dresses for now I explore the rest of my new domain and watch the world outside. The view isn't great unless you like concrete. The windows on this side face the city center, where blocks of grey, high-rising buildings line up in the distance. The apartment itself is beautiful though, with white and green as the predominant colors. Sunlight pierces the heavy lace curtains which provide some privacy against peeping Toms with binoculars. Inside there's a fireplace which feels a little odd in the summer heat, a bookcase, more art on the walls. All the furniture looks old and mismatching, but it's old in the kind of 'antique and expensive' way that only rich people can afford.

I still need clothes though so return to the bedroom. There's a big dressing table, wide enough to accommodate a Korean boy band. Two little boxes filled with tissues sit upon its top, a pink one to the left, a dark blue one to the right. On a whim, I open the top left drawer. It's full of creams and shampoos and lots of stuff-in-jars I've never seen before, all of it new and unopened. The top right drawer contains a similar collection, aimed at men. Hah. I wonder who needs that much 'canned beauty' anyway.

I examine the dresses again. Still… No.

"The white one looks better on you," the voice behind me states.