It wasn’t too late to back out. He had no idea where he was being led, but feverish doubt followed his every step. He heard the faint whisper of the portraits and then the creak of the door. They were in a room: it smelled pleasantly of wood and something fresh as if a blossoming garden had sprung up beneath the windowsill. It could have been the case: a soft flow of wind caressed his cheek.