By the time Eleanor realised she had been holding her breath, the rain had stopped. It had been falling since dusk, ticking against the tall windows of the old house with the patient persistence of fingers against glass. Now there was only the occasional drip from the stone gutters, and beneath that, the low murmur of the heating and the distant creak of timber settling into place. She stood alone in the entrance hall. The house seemed to be waiting for her. It was an absurd thought, and ordinarily Eleanor would have laughed at herself for having it. Yet nothing about tonight felt ordinary. She had spent three weeks preparing for this evening. Not physically, though there had been preparation of that sort. She had read the rules until she knew them by heart. She had discussed boundaries, limits and signals. She had answered questions so searching that, more than once, she had wondered whether the person asking them could somehow see through her answers. The important thing, she had been told, was that she could stop at any time. No punishment for stopping. No disappointment. No expectation that courage meant enduring something she did not want. Those principles had been repeated often enough that they had become almost ceremonial. And yet, standing in the hall, Eleanor was suddenly aware that knowing she could leave was very different from knowing whether she would. A door opened somewhere upstairs. She looked towards the staircase. “Eleanor.” The voice carried effortlessly Ver mais