I didn't have time to ponder Molly's strange answer. We had come to the end of the long hall, and as we stood before another enormous door, she gripped my wrist with white-knuckled fingers. "Once I open this door, not a word out of you," she whispered.
I felt a little shock of panic. "Why?"
"You're clearly an outsider." She gestured to my clothes: a light floral dress that contrasted with Molly's heavy black one so that we looked like a finch and a crow standing together. "And outsiders are not often well-received."
"All right," I said, and she released my arm. One last second of hesitation-- slight, but I noticed the way her hand paused over the smooth iron doorknob-- and she pulled open the door.
I almost gasped. The room before us was bright and alive. It was a ballroom with a floor so polished it was almost a mirror. All around, there were circular tables draped with spotless white tablecloths. Candelabras sprawled atop each table, and enormous chandeliers glittered overhead as though they were made not of fine crystal, but of broken stars. And there were people! Sitting on fancy carved chairs, feasting on silver plates of food that were brought out by young servants dressed all in black as Molly was. I wondered with a mixture of awe and trepidation who the master or mistress of the house could be. I scanned the room, trying to pick them out from the crowd of finely dressed guests.
"This way," Molly said, and dragged me by the arm along the wall to a pair of swinging doors. We pushed through them and were suddenly swept into the chaos of a fancy kitchen. The air was thick with the heat of great ovens and the smells of rich foods.
A boy suddenly appeared at my side. He was tall, probably older than Molly or I, and disapproval rolled off of him in waves. 
"Who is this?" He fixed me with a piercing glare.
"Never mind, Sergio," Molly warned.
"As head of this kitchen, I have a duty to know anyone who enters it."
"And as head of this kitchen, you ought to be working right now, not standing around arguing."
"Just a name," he said, his dark eyes unblinking.
"Ellen," I choked out. Molly looked horrified, but Sergio nodded once and stepped aside.
"What did I tell you before we came in here?" Molly hissed in my ear as she pulled me along through the kitchen.
"I--"
"Is that your real name?"
"Yes. Well, I think so."
Molly led me into the far corner of the kitchen. Her voice was low and grave. "I need you to focus. Is that your real name?"
"I don't know."
"Focus!"
"Molly, what's wrong with me?" I hated the sound of my own whimpering, but I couldn't stop myself. My throat felt tight, like I was about to cry. "Why can't I remember?"
Molly looked away with a sigh. "Never mind. Ellen it is, and you'd better get used to it. Now"-- she squared her shoulders-- "we'll go get you settled in."
"Settled in?"
"My dear girl," she said, a bitter, half-sarcastic smile skewing her features, "I really must insist we go now."

I followed her, of course. More hallways that seemed even darker now that I'd seen the ballroom and kitchen. We passed so many iron-gilt doors that I lost count. Finally we came around a bend, and there stood one door slightly ajar. Molly pulled it open the rest of the way and we entered the darkened room.
"Home sweet home," Molly said, and flung aside a thick curtain. Grey light came into the room through the streaky glass. It wasn't enough to banish the shadows, but we could see.
"You live here?" I took stock of the little bed made of wrought iron and topped with a deflated mattress. A small washstand stood against the wall, and beside the bed was a low table that held a single candlestick, the candle in it mostly burned down. 
Molly sat on the bed, smoothing the blankets with one hand. "I know it's not much, but you get used to it. And I have the necessities," she added.
"Molly."
"Hm?" She looked up expectantly.
"What are you talking about? You keep saying-- You're talking like I'm going to stay here."
"Where do you live?"
"What?"
"Come on, now. You heard the question."
My mind raced. I stared at the floor, the wall, my forehead furrowing deep, but no answer came to mind. "I don't know," I breathed.
Molly nodded. "Your mother or your father? Remember them at all?"
Nothing. Nothing. I gritted my teeth.
"Any brothers or sisters? Or a dog? When's your birthday? How old are you?" Molly leapt off the bed and started pacing the room. "What's your middle name, or your last name, or your favorite color?"
"Stop! Stop it!" I shrieked. 
Molly stopped pacing and stood in front of me, her hands on my shoulders. "You can't remember any of it, can you?" Her voice was quiet now, subdued.
Panic tightened my throat, but I managed to whisper, "What's happening to me?"
For a moment Molly stared beyond me at the window, as though she could see through the fog that swirled thickly outside. But she shook herself out of her trance. "Just calm down, settle in for tonight, and worry about all this in the morning."
“Just tell me now,” I pleaded.
Her laugher was harsh, but I heard the sadness in it, too. “Ignorance is bliss, right?” She pulled back the old quilt on the bed. “Here. Sweet dreams,” she said. As I laid down and pulled the covers around me, I thought I heard her mutter, “Even though you’re in one.”