Upon closer scrutiny there is a line of dust and scratches on the step, a mark where the door has frequently been propped open as if to admit a crowd. Village halls have such marks, not homes. And what sort of hall is outside the village? The disreputable sort? Was Hunter running a brothel here? No. That’s not the sort of thing the Witness could miss. What else gets pushed to the margins? These days, perhaps a therapist. A police station, she realises. Or a witch’s house might sit this way, on the fringes and yet accessible to those with need. A wise woman’s house.