The portal opened inside Salem's palace, but not in the main square. Seris had the good sense to direct them to a protected room, away from curious eyes, away from witches too adolescent not to turn Freya's arrival into gossip, and, most importantly, away from the living grimoires that could sense emotional vulnerability the way dogs sensed fresh meat.
Even so, Salem noticed.
The entire dimension seemed to have an irritating talent for noticing when something interesting entered it. The candles on the walls tilted their flames toward the portal. Old portraits stopped whispering among themselves. A stuffed raven on a shelf turned its head on its own, analyzed Freya for three seconds, and then pretended it had always been able to do that. The room itself seemed to breathe, evaluating the new visitor with the natural suspicion of a kingdom of witches facing a former Norse goddess turned succubus.
