Some time later, Anne had calmed.
She was in her hidey-hole. Her mother would find her anywhere she went in her parent's home, so she'd made a place for herself in a home in a long-abandoned corner of Champoeg. Over the years, she'd outfitted it with blankets and pillows and other comforts. Lights with soft shades cast a warm glow on the wall hangings that guarded against damp and cold. Most of the house had collapsed but the main room cozily protected her.
It didn't have a portal to provide heat or light, but she'd found she didn't mind its presence. Sometimes, guiltily, she didn't even tithe until she returned home in the dark of the night.
Anne pulled blankets around and arranged pillows until she made a comfortable cocoon for herself. Her book lay on the bedside. It was an edition of Voltaire's Candide from the library. She read until the lights dimmed and she fell asleep, book next to her.