The Inspector sighs, recognising the tracery of Hunter’s reactions to this room, laid across her own. She takes a steadying breath. The phenomenon is known to agents of the Witness as frosting, as on a cake, and scientific opinion is that it does not exist. Identification is inevitable, but change in the structure of the self is not. She is not Hunter. Hunter is not Neith. One is alive, one is dead, and the only connection between them is a recording, no more conscious than a wax cylinder. She is here for a reason, a driving purpose: find the truth, share it, exact justice. That is all she needs to regain a sense of who she really is.