To Lily it felt somber, like waiting. Waiting for spring to return again, waiting for Claire's season, waiting for Lilliana to return. The looming end of her time with James still haunted her every day. Lily had slept far later than she should. The servants must think her a hopeless lie-abed, but James kept her up quite late most nights. Not that she minded, of course. Heat rose in her cheeks, remembering some of their more recent activities. Since the dark night on the forest floor, James seemed to have left off any pretense of controlled and civilized desires, and Lily gladly helped him explore the shadows of his erotic imagination. But now, in the light, when James was gone and she faced herself in the mirror, she had misgivings and no small amount of guilt. She was not married to James, and so what they were doing was immoral. No one judged her, of course, because no one knew. But she knew. Kind Mrs. Gertrude was dressing her hair as if she were a perfectly moral lady and wife.
