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matter.”
    “Is this about passing the house on to family? Or just getting back at ‘the man’?”
    She chuckled lightly. “I think it’s mostly about her love for this place. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that seeing it sold off or renovated into flats would break her heart.”
    “Shenal, you should probably know that I’m gay.”
    He waited for her reaction. After a moment, she pressed her lips together and turned away.
    “What?” he demanded.
    “I sort of figured that out for myself,” she said, and he could hear the slight tone of laughter on her voice.
    “Oh.”
    “I don’t think Nell will mind, if you want to tell her, but it’s up to you, of course.”
    “I’m just not in a position to offer her lots of children who can inherit the house from me.”
    “I can tell you now, as Nell’s lawyer, that she is not going to legally tie you into something that will insist that you pass the house down to your own children and your children’s children and so on. All she wants is the right to keep her house in her old age so that she can come back here if she ever wants to. She’s not incapable of getting around. She’s just old, Henry, and sick.”
    He sighed and looked up. It was something of a mistake. The ceiling, way, way above him, was painted with cherubic images. Like everything else in the house, it was awe-inspiring. Henry hadn’t quite managed to get his head around everything yet. Everything that Shenal was saying felt like all his hopes and all his fears combined. The possibility of starting his life again was hovering, right in front of his nose, and all he had to do was reach out and grab it.
    “Do you want to go meet her?” Shenal asked. “Nell?”
    Henry took a deep breath, considering. “Yeah.”

Two

    N ELL had been moved to what Shenal described as an assisted-living facility, which was a few miles away from Stretton House. Rather than a traditional nursing home, it comprised several small apartments that shared a common area and dining room, so residents could socialize in the evenings or during the day if they wished.
    The attendants were mostly there to assist the residents with day-to-day activities that had become more difficult for them to do alone: cooking or cleaning, getting dressed, keeping track of medications. Some residents needed more care than others. Some were just lonely.
    As they approached, Henry rapidly readjusted his view of the sort of place Nell was living in. He’d imagined a grisly sort of nursing home, with geriatric patients lined up in wheelchairs, staring blankly at a flickering television. This was not the place of his imagination.
    The visitor’s parking lot led straight into a colorful garden, which was dotted with several benches where one could sit, weather permitting, to enjoy the fresh air. The house itself looked like a residential property, but a big one: tall, red brick, with a deep porch and only the name of the house announcing its true purpose.
    They were met at the door by a middle-aged woman wearing jeans (which surprised Henry again) and a pale-pink shirt. Shenal introduced her as the manager of the home, Sandra, who offered to show them through to the conservatory where Nell was waiting.
    Either through design or luck, Nell was the only person in the bright room with its doors that led out onto more gardens behind the house. She sat regally in a pale green dress, reminding Henry of pictures of the Queen from the royal wedding. Nell was wearing gloves, too—white ones, with little pearl buttons at the wrist. Her hair was styled into tight white curls, and the eyes in her lined face were green. Like his.
    She stood as they approached, struggling a little to get to her feet, and offered her hand for Henry to shake. “Mr. Richardson,” she said. “I’m so pleased to meet you at last.”
    He took her hand, having to lean down (Nell was tiny ), and shook it. “Henry, please, Mrs. Richardson. The pleasure is mine,