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caricature, evil and malice carved into the still-sensual curves. Turning the figure from an ingénue to a seductress with only a few subtle changes took obvious woodworking skill, and indeed the details of each were so fine they seemed to originate from some classical temple rather than a modern staircase in Seattle.
    “Remarkable, aren’t they,” Ophidia said, following Freya’s gaze to the unusual figures at the base of the banisters. “Just a few deft strokes and the same figure can embody a whole new personality.”
    Freya nodded but remained silent, unnerved by the strange little figures.
    “Ms. Beldame is fascinated by contrasts and comparisons,” Ophidia continued. “She is a great observer of the world and has devoted her life to the collection of objects that exhibit the diversity of human experience. Hers is a passion driven by a life lived as a spectator. Objects of pageantry and drama always find their way into her home.”
    Visual confirmation of Ophidia’s characterization of the mysterious Beldame lay just beyond the narrow hallway they were currently traversing. The antechamber beyond was a room the likes of which Freya had never seen.
    The square space was lined entirely with glass-fronted cabinets containing a mind-boggling array of curiosities artfully arranged in a display meant to dazzle the beholder not only with the aesthetic wonder of the collection but with the sheer number of oddities and artifacts the cases contained.
    Freya’s own inner collector was filled with rapturous delight at the spectacle. She could have tarried in front of the display for the better part of an afternoon. As it was, she was only able to take in a few of the most striking elements of the collection, including a perfectly preserved albino peacock, its fan of diaphanous feathers fabulously unfurled, and a fantastic crystalline structure reminiscent of the delicate veins of the nervous system that Freya recognized as petrified lightning, a rare structure made from the glass that results from lightning strikes on silica-rich desert sands.
    There were dazzling hunks of multicolored gemstones, skulls with the exaggerated features of humanity’s primordial ancestors, an ornate box of gold and silver that might contain some holy relic, glass canisters of sparkling powders and dried leaves of uncertain origin, along with whole Greek pots, deadly medieval weapons, twisted pearlescent horns, enormous tortoise shells, and a whole trove of other artifacts that merged together into a cabinet of curiosities that would have been at home in some esoteric alchemist’s workshop from centuries gone by.
    Ophidia walked swiftly through the space without giving the wonders around her a second glance, the heels of her stilettos making tiny craters in the sumptuous Persian carpet. She stopped in front of an arched door that Freya had failed to notice among the visual cornucopia of the glass cabinets and knocked three times in quick succession.
    A delicate voice that barely penetrated the thick wooden portal granted them permission to enter. Ophidia opened the door to Imogen Beldame’s office, ushered Freya inside, and then stepped out. She closed the door behind her, leaving the girl alone with Seattle’s most elusive and controversial figure.
    Freya noted that the mysterious recluse’s office was large and comfortable, with intriguing objects arranged artfully here and there. A parson’s-style desk built of simple gray wood stood in one corner. An armless, red leather chair was pushed up against it. Bookshelves lined the walls, tidy rows of texts side by side like little soldiers ready to march off into intellectual battle. But the centerpiece of the room was a large fireplace framed by a massive mantel. It was currently in use, filling the space with warmth and making the ornate divan in front of it look especially welcoming.
    Beldame was seated on one side of the low couch, looking at the blaze contemplatively. She turned her head