The rain against the study window was a steady, rhythmic percussion, a sound that had become the backdrop of my life in Hampstead. It was a different rain than the rain of London proper; here, among the trees and the old brick walls, it sounded softer, filtered through leaves before it hit the glass. I sat at the desk, the mahogany surface worn smooth by decades of use, and looked at the document in front of me. It was a single sheet of paper, heavy stock, the foundation's letterhead embossed in gold. The resolution to transfer executive leadership.
Marcus was standing by the fireplace. He wasn't looking at the fire, which was unlit in the mild autumn weather. He was looking at the photograph on the mantel. It was a picture of Eleanor, taken last week. She was wearing her graduation gown,
