I don't do dresses, but I do heart attacks.

I turn around to watch the speaker.

"The white one looks better on you," the pink-haired girl sitting on the couch says, smiling at me. She has her elbows out, resting the back of her head against her hands, and placed her yellow sneakers on the low table in front of her. Her haircut is irregular, unruly, and the dye job's a poor one. She's wearing too much makeup, which only makes her look younger. She's, what, thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen at best.

And she's laughing at me.

She has the right to do so because she’s the one wearing comfy jeans and a T-shirt, whilst my immediate future looks to be ruled by more feminine attire. My old clothes are nowhere to be seen, though I would smell them if they were. My boots are missing as well, and I suddenly panic when I don't see my backpack either.

"Don't you worry. Your bag's in the closet," she says.

I rush and check. It's there. For a second I consider interrogating this invader at gunpoint, but it's not the politest thing to do. And I'm just too tired right now to deal with the aftermath--the white carpet would be hard to clean. When I return to the living room she's gone. Sounds are coming from the kitchen and I peek around the corner. She's filling her glass to the brim with a bottle of water she retrieved from the fridge. For one moment I fear Mom's reaction when she has to pay the minibar, and then I realize this isn't a hotel room.

The girl waves at me. "Remember me?" she asks.

"You're the girl from the couch."

She sniggers. "Ten out of ten! Right! Well, that's as much proof as it takes. I knew it!" She certainly looks unreasonably happy to see me.

"Sorry, what? Proves what?"

"That you can see me of course, stupid."

"Why wouldn't I?"

She laughs again. "Nobody can see me, except my family, and that's a maybe. But shhh, hush up because I'm still not supposed to be here. Especially not talking to you. You know, your hair is shorter and of the wrong color, but damn, you look a lot like her! My brother's gonna' be even more upset than usual."

"Well, Jason already was because I touched the books, so..."

"My other brother. The one we're not supposed to talk about."

"Who's--No, wait." I study the girl. She could be the Charlotte that Morgan referred to, but I had the impression that was a servant. "That would make you his sister, as well as Morgan's daughter. You're the girl from the painting."

"Not at the moment," she replies, an odd crack in her voice. "Can I hug you?"

She doesn't wait but grabs me and hugs me tight, almost crushing me before letting go. "Damn, that feels good."

I watch her and consider Morgan's words, we do not talk about them, and my skin crawls. This girl isn't a ghost as we touched, but still… "I'm not sure I understand."

"You wouldn't. Hell if I do, It's--You know how good it is to talk to somebody, and actually get an answer? No, you don't, I can see that. I got old man Jones to talk to, but that’s different. He's a good listener but that's because he can't see me--wait." She paces up and down the room, talking to herself. "Okay, Gwen. Easy now, easy. They don't know. Well, maybe mom does… Of course, that's why she told me to stay away, even now. Knows, maybe… Yeah, that's right. She’d never take the risk, that must be it."

She snaps her fingers, then turns to face me. "So, ignore my rambling. The only person talking to me has been me. As in, like forever. I'm Gwen. Formally, or formerly, Gwendolyn Tillson-Sweetvale, but I guess I'm more of a Gwendolyn Myositis Obliviata these days."

I think she expects some kind of reaction, but I haven't got a clue. If it's a witty remark it's lost on me, if it's a joke then my sense of humor has become uncalibrated. Plane crashes and suicides and endless bus trips tend to do that. "So?"

She can't hide her disappointment entirely but doesn't let it spoil her mood. "I guess I had that one coming. Well, just call me Gwen. So, how do you like my room?" She steps away then twirls three times on the spot, arms stretched wide.

"Your room?"

"Well, my former--future room, the room I was going to get--was supposed to get. It's complicated. Arthur's been gone for ages, dead, kind of. Well, he isn't, of course, he… he's simply gone, and obviously, I'm still here. Do you think Mom would care? Of course not. And when I tried to do something about it, well, worst day of my life. Or perhaps that was when I knocked both Jason's front teeth out and couldn't sit for a week, although he deserved it. You know, I would have thrown out his old stuff, I mean Arthur's. Including that fake fireplace, that just ain't right. Right."

She steps right up to me, her eyes boring into mine, and I can feel her breath. This girl isn't a ghost.

I take a step back. "I eh… who dyed your hair? You should sue the place."

She laughs. The girl does have Morgan's laugh... "I did. Cut it myself too, but that's because I had to. But that's okay. Just to be sure you understand me. You know, I'm looking forward to moving down and talking to people again. Well, not just the talking, but them actually listening. That's hard enough in the normal world, so imagine how it is for me. And sometimes I have to go out, even if that's worse, but there are days I simply can't stay inside. Living in a tower room sounds nice, with views all around, but once you've seen a real storm rolling in, no. Or felt the lighting strike, for real, and no air conditioning up there either. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, they say it builds up character but I'm enough of a character by now. Also, having to sneak into somebody else's bathroom is fun in the beginning, but that gets real tiring real quick too. Anyway, the white one. Here, let me help you."

I laugh. "Do you breathe in-between sentences?"

"No, not when I can help it. Now come..." She drags me back into the sleeping room and nearly rips my bathrobe off. When she sees the scars and tattoo on my back she whistles. "Wow, that's worse than mine, I bet Mom doesn't know. Maybe you should wear the black one, that'll really shock her!" She giggles.

I grab the bathrobe from her hands and cover myself. When she picks up the black dress I give her a definite 'no'. There's such a thing as too much skin.

She sighs and drops the black one back on the bed. "Well, you better hurry. Mom can be here any minute and she's not a very patient person. You want her to see you like that?"

I raise a hand. "You want her to see you? If I'm not supposed to talk about you, then I'm not supposed to talk to you either, am I?

"Ah, she told you, didn't she? To be honest I would like her to see me. But, you know, she won't. Well, she will, and she won't, because she won't remember. Anyway, that would take way too much time to explain now. Will you return tonight? I'll have time then, I always have. I'll wait for you if that's okay. Oh, do you want underwear?"

"Of course I do!"

"Pity. Men like kinky girls. Anyway, let me find you some, those automatons always forget. I still wonder why mom simply doesn't replace them." She walks into the closet and pulls out some drawers, then throws white panties, undies, and a bra on the bed. "You need help?"

"I… no, of course not!"

"Whatever. I'll be on the couch if you need me."

I look at my watch and see Gwen's right, I have to hurry. The underwear is a bit frilly and lacy, but the fit is perfect. So totally not creepy, not at all. I consider bailing, but that would land me in another mess and still in a dress. Unless I hit Gwen on the head and take her clothes, which probably won't fit, so... I guess it's time to admit defeat.

The white dress with the flowers is tight, and there's no way to reach the zipper on the back.

"Ready yet?" Gwen asks.

I try and try again, to no avail, and then give in. This is the second time in a week a stranger zips me up. First Camelia, now Gwen.

"Thanks. This might be a size too small though," I tell her. I'm afraid the fabric will rip if I breathe too deeply. The top half is tight, and though it covers everything down from the neck, it shows. Even worse, it suggests curves I don't have. I would feel less naked if I were nude.

Gwen shakes her head. "Nah, it suits you. It's perfect. Check yourself in the mirror whilst I hide in my closet until mother's gone. She can't see me, not really, but I'd rather not have her see me if you catch my drift."

I don't.

She catches the look on my face and smiles. "I told you I'll explain everything to you when you get back. Just be careful and don't trust my mother in all things, okay? You will get back, won't you?"

I nod. I will, if only to figure out what she wants, who she is, or what she is, this 'Gwen'. "Why shouldn't I trust her?"

"Remember I told you mine's worse? Well, would you trust someone who does this to her own daughter?" Gwen turns her back towards me and pulls up her shirt without any hesitation. She's not wearing a bra. Her back carries two rows of familiar characters on either side of her spine, the kind of chicken scratches Mom--my Mom--is so fond of.

"Morgan did that?" I ask.

Gwen drops her shirt and to face me again. I expect to see hurt or anger, but what she gives me is a silly smile. If Morgan is her mother, and Morgan really did this to her daughter, then she's mad. And it might run in the family.

"Would you trust someone who does that?" Gwen asks.

I shake my head, lost for words.

"Right. She ain't bad, but you can't trust her. You can see me, so you can trust me," she says.

"I can see her just as well."

"That's different."

"If you say so…"

"I do! Now to make our lives easier just ignore me. If you see me when there are other people around, simply act like I'm not there, okay? You never heard of me, I don't exist. They won't see me, you'll see. One minute, you got one more minute. Mom's very punctual. Right, I'm off..." Gwen pulls the door to the closet behind her, then opens it again. "Oh wait, shoes!" A pair of low-heel pumps fly through the air and land on the bed. "Heh, new ones. You're going to hurt," she sniggers before closing the door once more.

I stare at the door to the closet, unsure if I should rat her out to Morgan.

"Don't tell her!" Gwen calls out, her voice muffled. "See you tonight and have some fun!"

There's a loud knock, and I hurry to the front door, pumps in hand. I halt when I see my reflection in the large mirror near the entrance. I'm ready. The dress--no, this is a gown, dress sounds too cheap--isn't too small. It's just right and tight, perfectly tailored and figure-hugging, designed to attract attention. The tailor must have been an expert, as the dress suggests curves I simply don't have.

I don't want to dress up. I'm way past my princesses-stage. Of course I want to look good--who doesn't--but not like, well, this. People can wear whatever they like, but I want my jeans back. The pretty girl in the mirror tries a smile and I frown back at her. Please no.

The next knock on the door sounds impatient. Oh frell, I guess I'm ready. Mostly ready. For almost anything.

Except for dresses.