The stairs stood where I remembered them but looked different in the haze of dusk. Still accustomed to the short, miserable days of winter, I thought it seemed strange that the sky was just darkening and it was already six-thirty. That night the stairs looked positively regal. They were prettier than the Spanish Steps or the ones outside the library at Columbia, or even the awe-inspiring spread at the Capitol building in D. C. It wasn't until I'd made it to about the tenth one of those white beauties that I began to loathe them. What cruel, cruel sadist would make a woman in a skintight, floor-length gown and spiked heels climb such a hill of hell? Since I couldn't very well hate the architect or even the museum official who'd commissioned him, I was forced to hate Miranda, who could usually be blamed for directly or indirectly causing all the misery and bad will in my life.