There was an extra room inside her now, a wing built off the usual rooms, with a chaise and a window looking out to a tree, where she kept their time together, and when it was cold she warmed herself at the fire wavering in the grate, and when it was stifling she stood at the open window looking at the rolling vista, feeling the fresh wind. It was their place, and in it she was set dreaming.

Was there harm in holding on to it? Really, she thought, what damage could it do now?

She sat at her dressing table in her slip and pulled at the hairpins. Her hair fell onto her shoulders, slipping over skin. She fluffed at her hair, releasing the smell of shampoo. She turned her face from side to side looking in the mirror and sat up, twisting her torso to see the curve.

You ought to send the children off more often, said Gilbert. He had returned, wilted from his week in town, and remarked on her improved mood. They were dressing for dinner and he patted her hand as he shuffled past. She seized up, comparing the patting of her hand to the clasping of it by another. Then she remembered, in a strange rambling back, how Gilbert Finch had clasped her hand too, as they drove in Scotland with the leaves blurring by, and the neat filing away of feelings crumbled into chaos. She briskly brushed her hair.

With the children home, life continued as usual — there were tennis lessons, picnics on Molly’s River and afternoon sails on the Ives’ boat. And in the weeks that followed Lilian continued to daydream.

Gilbert Finch remained in his usual place, steady and unchanging, blending in with his surroundings. He was present and accounted for, but his form faded in and out of view. Sometimes she felt she were married to a ghost.