Neith’s breath catches as she opens the next entry and the Squid seems to be answering her question in as many words. It is a photograph, a screenshot clipped from a bigger article the curator has not bothered to retain. The Squid’s long arms have reached into someone’s discarded files, and found this, incomplete and pixelated by enlargement the way older pictures begin to show the grain of negative film. That, surely, is Diana Hunter, and the hand on her shoulder, manicured and beringed, is almost certainly Smith’s. Neith would know those fingers anywhere, after their crass intrusion into her daydreams.