The attic ran the whole length and width of the house, an expanse of bare planks lit by the three windows, one in each of the gables. Overhead, rafters supported the overlapping stone tiles of the roof. It was here, no doubt, that the bird had got in, slipping through a chink between two tiles. Unable to find its way out again, it was staring at Aileen with an expression which seemed full of pride and hurt, of baffled resentment. All she had to do was open one of the windows. She had covered about half the distance, moving slowly so as not to alarm the bird any further, when she heard something snap and felt a jolt underfoot. The bird promptly took to the air, perching on a tie-beam as the centre of the floor sagged several inches. When she tried to turn back, Aileen fell on her side, deceived by the slope of the boards. Under this impact the floor opened up completely, but Aileen was aware of this only for an instant. Then night fell, warm and black and luminous. The lawn stretched smoothly away, flowing out and around the two great beeches. The grass was heavy with dew, which gleamed flawlessly in the moonlight as she glided across it, her feet not touching the ground, the air softly lifting and enfolding her. The vision can have lasted only the few seconds that it took her falling body to reach the stone slabs below, but it was of such power and beauty that it seemed a more than adequate recompense for everything that had ever happened to her, and for whatever was about to happen.