Amber didn't even see the woman who reclined against the dull fence made of piled-up stones at first. She glimpsed the outlines of an idle hand, a foot, and an elbow, like a trick of light in the corner of her eye. But a hand moved up briefly to brush back locks of dark hair, which were excessively long, and following these lines she made out the woman's entire form. Amber wasn't sure whether the pale skin blended into the mist, or whether it were her clothes, which themselves were a neutral gray tone.

Shortly after Amber stumbled out of her car, the woman, in a single fluid motion reminiscent of a slow art-house film, reached out to touch Amber's hand. Amber wanted to jerk back, but finally locked eyes with the woman. As the woman stared fixedly, Amber's eyes twitched nervously and she turned her head as if trying to look over the tree canopy until a gentle, low-toned voice resounded in her ear. It told her to kindly make herself a guest and enter the cottage down the road, which glowed from inside as if it were in a kitschy painting.

When they reached the black door, the woman gestured as if asking Amber to open it, but with all her effort Amber wasn't able to pull it open, so the woman unhooked a metal attachment which seemed obvious on second glance. They both then stood in the narrow entrance hall, taking off their hats and gloves, where hundreds of different types of wood were arrayed in an organic psychedelia.

Amber could have spent hours tracing each piece of wood with her eyes, noticing where it began and ended, and identifying the types of wood in its framework of ash and black poplar, the hazel accents along the columns standing in the corners of the room above arabesques carved deep in an exotic cherry-blossom base. But what drew the eyes the most was a radial, rainbow tube extending along the walls, ceiling, and floor throughout the hall. It seemed a piece of wood containing every miniscule gradation in hue of the rainbow was sought out, and found. At first it seemed they may have been painted, but with a closer look every piece of wood was seen to have a completely different grain, and that this grain denoted a separate variety of wood which was naturally imbued with each respective color.

"You can touch whatever you want, you know."

"No. No, my fingers are too dirty."

Amber's body was a stone column as her host's body appeared to gently waver and she retreated behind the folds of a curtain draped along the side of the hallway. She returned, after a while, holding a crown constructed of yellowish metal and golden pear-shaped ornaments. In its center sat a deep red, almost fleshly stone. Amber saw that the gemstone was brilliantly cut and she shuffled her feet, unsure of what to do. The woman held the crown up to the light of a window, circled around, and then placed it down on Amber's head.

She gazed at Amber as if seeking out some spiritual quality, her eyes grew vexed and her expression grew more and more furrowed. Her expression became so strained that she began to cover it with her hands and fell into convulsions of heavy breathing. The dark lines along her cheeks and forehead swallowed her face into a sour, bottomless pit surrounded by dripping smoky mascara. She collapsed to the floor and brought her hands to her neck as if trying to choke herself.

She finally wound up in a fetal position in the corner of the entranceway, shoulders jerking over and over in exaggerated, slow-motion shrugs. Amber watched a bulging pulse above the woman's clavicle, visible above the plain cut of her black gown, begin to slow down as her breathing quieted and fell into her chest. Then the woman's body lurched forward, and wobbled left and right until it began to teeter towards a coat rack beside the curtain, rummaging in the pocket of a thick black coat until she produced a postcard, its edges worn and earmarked, with chartreuse text digitally draped over a stained concrete texture visible on the outside. She held it close to her chest and closed her eyes as her body underwent another wave of convulsions. Finally she was able to wipe her flushed face with her sleeve, smearing the strained ridges along her cheekbones.

"Are... are you okay?"

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." she gasped between inhales, wiping away the fluid leaching down the front of her chin. "How inhospitable of me. I should have made you a cup of tea. I should have kept my secrets to myself..."

Amber saw the woman's outstretched hand in front of her spent face, and in front of that a photo of a woman in a gray, pleated wool gown wearing the same crown as the one sitting on her own head, its dark red gemstone gleaming in the sun. She stood beside a weathered column made of intricate stone masonry, and jagged lines of rock jutted out around her. Behind a stand of trees towered the cylindrical stone corner of a castle with a bell-shaped dome. She saw that the text on the outside of the postcard said, "Greetings from the A.I.R."

The woman ushered Amber into the dining room where she was greeted by a new psychedelia, this time a sprawling rhizome of random yet meticulously placed objects, figurines, pieces of jewelry and crystal shards placed on the mahogany cabinets and couches. It was a profusion of miscellany, like the travel souvenirs of a schizophrenic, or a huge bazaar along a silk road piercing the hidden aesthetic slices of many third-world nations. On one chair lay plumed leather rods that looked like flails, exotic starfishes glued to pieces of cardboard, and spongy rocks that reminded her of asteroids cut into arrowheads and daggers. On another lay what looked like a phallic aluminum obelisk, a jadeite crystal carved with jagged lightning bolts, and a cluster of opalescent snow globes.

One of the odder specimens was an ad torn out of a magazine, with dried daisies surrounding the paper and four crystal balls painted like eyes with lashes above them weighing it down, the text sliced with scissors to apparently say, "Steep your clitoris in the juices of OSTARA." In front of this was an enclave of obscure saintly icons, mostly of women with hair emanating long streaks, which was surrounded by a festive necklace of multicolored crystal skulls. Despite the eclectic nature of the collection every object was covered with a sepia varnish to produce the illusion that they belonged together, as if they were born and had grown up together in that room.

Amber was glad to know that there were other women like the woman she had just met. Although she hadn't met them, prodded by her own hopes and fears and the postcard she saw, she was awed at the intricacies of these women, how sacred they were. How their bodies seemed to blend with whatever they stood by, whether it was a tree, a castle wall, or a bramble of vines. How their smiles were so sweet, they seeped into a part of her she didn't want to share with anyone else, a part of her that was jealous of these women who were so sacred while she was so profane.