The cottage was quite far from the suburb where the occult store she supposedly owned was located, and doubly far from Chicago- the city where she'd been dropped off. It had taken a very long time to find her "home" in this world, and she was not keen on leaving it now that she'd found where she was supposed to stay. It was safe here, less noisy, this continent didn't move and this part of the country had nothing significant for men in makeup to destroy in flames. The box in the living room told her of all the evils in the world, and eventually she'd figured out how to turn it off, then covered it with a cloth and refused to look at it again.
Instead she spent her time here continuing her predecessor's work of gardening. Much of the yard was shrouded in rose bushes, lilacs, and wildflowers, and ivy growth threatened to swallow the house itself. To the rear of the yard was a maddeningly straight tree line, unreal to Amalthea's eyes. There was nothing truly natural left anymore, and it saddened her. She had been watching those trees from her kitchen window, sipping on hot green tea when the magician rapped on the oak door.
She set her cup down on the countertop snd went to answer. The door swung open and there stood Schmendrick, her former travel companion. It's not that she thought that these terrible circumstances were his fault- it was simply impossible for them to have been. And it was not as if she had nothing to say to him- there was plenty but none of it was right. So she said nothing, though her face betrayed her distress. She stepped out of the doorway so that her friend might enter.