There was no doorbell; just one of those old-fashioned brass knockers that made me think of Jacob Marley’s ghostly face.

Eben must be short for Ebenezer, I realized belatedly.

When the door opened, I half expected to see a house servant in a long coat or a maid in a bonnet.

Instead the young woman who greeted me was as far from a Norman Rockwell painting as I could imagine. She was nearly as tall as me with blond hair styled in a brushed-up undercut. Her blue eyes were rimmed with kohl. Her ears were studded with what looked like shrapnel. She wore a Buffalo plaid shirt, black jeans rolled at the ankles, and Doc Marten boots. We were probably the same age, give or take, but her affect was deliberately retro: a throwback to the grunge era.

“Run, while you still can,” she said in a throaty undertone.

“Excuse me?”

“Bibi! Is that the game warden?” bellowed a big voice I recognized as belonging to Mariëtte Chamberlain.

The young woman leaned close enough that I could smell the woodsmoke in her hair. She’d lately been tending a fire. She made a pistol shape with her hand, thumb cocked, index finger extended. “I’m serious, friend, if you value your life and your soul, get out while you still can. Quick! I’ll cover you while you make your escape.”

“Bibi!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She pulled the door wide so I could enter. “It’s your game warden, Mother!”

Warm air spilled out, smelling of balsam and baking spices—cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg. An actual nutcracker, straight out of the ballet, stood on a small table beside the door. A gilded bowl of walnuts at his feet.

The ceiling creaked overhead, the boards complaining.

My view of Mariëtte Chamberlain began with her feet as she descended the narrow staircase. Ragg wool stockings and gum-soled shoes. Her legs kept on coming, impossibly long and clad in chocolate-brown corduroy.

She was so tall she was forced to duck her head as she descended. Rivard had derisively called her a “glamazon,” but there was little about her that struck me as glamorous. She had naturally blond hair cut in a short, severe style. She wore no makeup, nor any jewelry except for a gold wedding band. Her cable-knit sweater sported holes in the sleeves and along the hem. Based on her wrinkles and sunspots, I guessed her to be in her late sixties, but she might have been half a decade younger.

For all the damage to her skin, she remained undeniably striking. Her eyes, blue as beryls, were spaced wide apart. Her perfect nose showed no sign of the plastic surgeon’s scalpel. Cameras must have loved the exquisite symmetry of her face.