He says it plainly. Not unkindly. As though he had been watching from the window, waiting for the cart to drop you at the end of the lane. He is taller than you expected, and younger — late thirties at most, the lines on his face from thought rather than age. His shirt is simple, collar fastened, sleeves rolled to the forearm. Ink stains his fingers.

He steps aside, holding the door wider. The hallway behind him is narrow, whitewashed, smelling of beeswax and old stone. A single oil lamp burns on a side table. There is no grand entrance, no servant waiting to take your coat.