They climb the stairs at her pace, and Neith moves from room to room—Baskin always politely but firmly going through doorways first to take incoming fire. Small guest room, lavatory, then Hunter’s bedroom; Neith recognises it immediately, not because she has seen it but because it is the right one, with the best view and a commanding sense of being the head of the house. If the kitchen is the heart of any home, this is where identity is vested, this large, high-ceilinged space with elegant proportions. But no clues. Clothes, yes. Art, certainly, traditional oils very deep and lustrous. Hunter’s self, full of culture and contemplation. But no papers, no mad scrawls on walls. No plot to destroy the world. A lone stuffed toy, chewed by some distant terrier, sitting on a shelf. A memory, but not one Neith can easily trace or interpret.