Her smile was slightly shy, which reminded me instantly of our mutual meltdown the previous night. If she brought it up, I might die of embarrassment. Fortunately, she seemed eager to leave it in the past.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

I paused. Was this a trap? Did she know about the nosebleed?

“Was the mattress comfortable?” she asked, a little more gently.

“Oh,” I said. “Yes. Yes, it was very nice. Thank you. Nice. Yes. Thanks.” Babble some more, Margot, it makes you sound incredibly sane.

“We’re heading down to breakfast,” she said, indicating Agatha, fully dressed and seated in the chair by the window. “No need to rush. But I wanted to let you know that I’ve brought you some clothes, in case you need anything to tide you over before we have a chance to go shopping.”

She motioned to the far bed, which was strewn with small stacks of clothing.

“Take your time, look it over. Anything you like, keep. They’re extras of Agatha’s.”

“Wow,” I said. “Are you sure she doesn’t need them?”

“She has plenty of clothes,” Laura said. “And it’s important to us that you feel comfortable here. I don’t want you to be worried about how you look. Just let me know if you want me to get rid of your old things for you.”

I nodded and stared wide-eyed at the bed, suddenly feeling the worry she suggested. Just how bad did she think my “old things” were?

Too late, I noticed that she and Agatha had left before I could thank her. I imagined a scorecard somewhere, and a check mark appearing in the BAD ORPHAN column.

I walked over to the clothes, leaning down to inspect them. To say they weren’t my style would be the understatement of the year. There was an assortment of cashmere sweaters and silky blouses in pale, chalky tones, and several pairs of pants in muted neutrals—gray, beige, ivory, darker gray. Under the pants were skirts in dusty tones of plum and peach. There were shoes lined neatly on the floor, loafers and sandals in various shades of brown, ranging from caramel to chocolate. On one corner of the bed, segregated from the other things, was a pile of brand-new bras and underwear, and pairs of socks still tethered together at the toes.

These were the clothes of a person who emerges from the shower smelling like roses. They were, without a doubt, Agatha’s clothes. If I wore them, I would look like a shorter version of her with a bad haircut. Also less pretty. And poor. And friendless. (Actually, friendlessness was the one thing we seemed to have in common.)