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threshold.
    “Ambrose, are you in here?”
    She took one step into the living room and reached out to snap on the light switch on the cabin wall. In the dim glow of a weak lamp, she surveyed Ambrose's quarters with a quick, worried glance. The air was stale, she noted absently. It smelled of old wood smoke from the fireplace. The ashes on the hearth were cold.
    Newspapers were stacked everywhere, as usual. Ambrose was a news junkie. He subscribed to every major daily paper from Seattle, Portland, and Los Angeles. In addition to the papers, there was a wide variety of photography equipment lying around the room. Cameras, lenses, and light meters occupied most of the available space. Ambrose had a passion for the hardware of his art. Unfortunately, it was a passion he could ill afford. At one time or another everyone in Witt's End had loaned him money to buy a new camera or a fancy lens.
    A couple of unwashed coffee cups stood on the scarred pine table in front of the sagging couch. The ashtray near the cups contained several cigarette butts and small piles of ashes. Ambrose did a lot of coffee and cigarettes when he was trying to avoid alcohol.
    Serenity went toward the hallway that led to the kitchen.
    “Ambrose?”
    Still no response. She noticed that the door that opened onto the basement stairs was closed. She wondered if Ambrose was working downstairs. His was one of the few basements in Witt's End. It was where he did his darkroom work and where he filed his meticulously maintained collection of photos, negatives, and business records.
    Serenity peeked into the kitchen and noted that it was empty. She went to the basement door and knocked. If Ambrose were doing darkroom work, he wouldn't want the door opened without warning.
    Again there was no response.
    “I'm going to open the basement door, Ambrose.”
    After another beat of silence, she did so.
    The basement was enveloped in darkness. The odor of alcohol was so strong she nearly choked. Serenity found the switch on the wall.
    The first thing she saw when the light came on was what looked like a pile of old clothes at the bottom of the stairs.
    And then she saw the hand that was partially covered by a jacket sleeve. And a pair of boots.
    “ Ambrose . My God, Ambrose.”
    For an instant Serenity was paralyzed with horror. A ghastly tightness gripped her chest, cutting off her breath. She managed to break free of the spell and go slowly down the staircase. Tears welled up in her eyes.
    Ambrose Asterley would have no more chances to make the big time in the cutthroat world of commercial photography.

    “Got rip-roaring drunk and fell down the stairs, poor bastard.” Quinton Priestly drove his battered van slowly through the fog along the narrow paved road that led to Serenity's cottage. “I suppose it was inevitable. Ambrose was the self-destructive type. Everyone knew it. Too bad you had to be the one who walked in and found him.”
    “If I hadn't gone to his place today, he might not have been found for days.” Serenity clasped her gloved hands on her lap and stared sadly out through the dirty windshield of Quinton's van. The mist had lifted slightly, but now the long shadows of early evening were bringing a deeper darkness to the mountains. “I hope he didn't suffer too long.”
    Quinton had been the first person she had called after dialing the emergency number to summon the sheriff and a medical aid car to Ambrose's cabin. She had known it would probably take nearly an hour for the authorities in Bullington to arrive, and she had no wish to wait alone.
    As the owner of the only bookshop and brewery in Witt's End, Quinton was the town's resident philosopher. In his early fifties, he was thin and wiry, with fathomless dark eyes and a bushy beard that was rapidly going gray.
    Quinton had studied philosophy and mathematics at a prestigious private college before leaving the establishment world behind to concentrate on developing his own philosophical system.