She’d barely slept; misery had kept her awake and tossing. Pain lodged in her throat, felt heavy in her chest. Elijah was gone. She woke to a world without joy; she wondered dispassionately if and when she would get it back. Ivy Moffat would be arriving tomorrow, and there were things to do to make ready. Columbine splashed water on her face and did her hair without looking in the mirror. She pulled on a plain gown of light gray pongee. The weather was getting warmer. Soon it would be summer. She would no doubt be uncomfortable, as she would begin to put on weight. Perhaps she should try to escape to the shore for more than two weeks this summer. Columbine thought of these things, but she hardly connected them to herself. She could barely imagine the child inside her now. Her whole being was crouched over her anguish. She was afraid to examine it; it was like something that was glowing too brightly to look at directly. She had to sneak peripheral peeks at her pain; if she faced it dead on, she didn’t know if she could stand it.
