About an hour later, a knock rattled the door. Earlier, Sky and I had entered the outer studio to await our expected visitor, so now he sprinted across the room to welcome her.
When I saw Olga standing before me, I nearly laughed. Not only did she have her multi-colored Cyndi Lauper-style hairdo in haphazard place atop her round head, but she had also donned a flowing black garment, a cape of sorts, that would have brought shame upon Stevie Nicks for not having worn such a devilishly witchy get-up on stage. From head to toe, the woman seemed to radiate paranormal abilities, with her flowing scarves of black lace and severe blackish and dark blue makeup, but she also toted a carpetbag that looked about a thousand pounds and bulged with Lord-only-knew what form of aid.
She eyed me and shoo
