Philomena led the way and the boys followed like filings drawn to a magnet, down a short narrow hall, up an even narrower flight of stairs to Phil's bedroom under the gables of the second floor. A one bedroom apartment rented to a bookkeeper named G. Carmichael occupied the rest of the second floor and up top, a third floor studio held a procession of impoverished college students, currently one Nobel Pak, Korean student visa geek-extraordinaire. A third rental apartment, empty, or rather, full of overflow storage from the main house, sat atop the more modern two-car garage on the back of the property.

Phil's room exemplified that quirkiness common to old Victorian houses, especially conversions. It had two gabled windows, a more or less square wooden floor, oak again, covered by a green, black and cream Turkish carpet and pastel walls and ceiling, each one a different color.

A narrow door in one wall opened into what had once been the nursery, now partitioned into Phil's walk-through closet and two tiny bathrooms, one for the second floor apartment reached by a separate door. Getting to her bathroom involved walking through Phil's closet which was why it wasn't a walk-in closet. The bathroom had another oddity, a gabled window overlooking the back yard, the lower panes nearly opaque ruby glass to prevent peeping. The closet even had a window but with black glass to prevent damage to clothes.

With a window or door occupying the center of each wall in her room, Phil's four poster bed had to sit in the middle of the room, piled with plush animals and presided over by a three-foot tall porcelain-headed doll with Phil's own coloring. The bed sat high, the space underneath held boxes and wooden storage trays on rollers. A large, pigeon-hole-style desk occupied the only interior corner, between the two doors, and a platinum gray computer tower sat on the floor next to the desk. A big, black cat with eyes the color of old gold sat on top on the computer, its ruby tongue sticking out a bit and looking like lipstick.

"That's Pascal," said Phil. "He bites." She turned the desk chair around and plopped into it, reaching out a casual hand to scritch the top of the kitty's head, deftly avoiding his attempt to seize her hand between his paws and insert it into his mouth. "We have another cat, a white one named Ada but she hides pretty good." Without pausing she added, "Take off your clothes."

The boys stared at her again, not moving; wide-open blue-gray and hazel eyes like glass buttons on two new life-size boy dolls fastened their gazes on her face. Willie's mouth hung slightly open, his teeth barely visible. Dick showed the tip of his tongue between his lips, oddly echoing the cat.

Phil wondered if they might pass out since they didn't seem to be breathing. They do a lot of staring, she thought. Maybe I'll teach them the difference between pretty and beautiful.

"All right," she said, standing up. "I'll go first." She raised her hands to untie her scarf and heard the boys each take a deep breath.