I twist my fingers together in the hushed living room while the clock moves closer to ten and the papers for the property sit open between Henry and me. He declares the bedtime rule with that unhurried authority that always leaves me both relieved and restless, because no one has ever bothered to set limits I actually had to follow.

His hand rests at the small of my back once the words are out, the contact so brief and natural that we both ignore how it anchors me to the spot. I keep telling myself the structure is only to protect what is left of the family home from my grasping relative, yet the thought of what will happen if I test the line makes my pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with the house.

I do not know yet if I will go to bed on time or if I will discover exactly how he intends to enforce it.