23
Mother must have waited for Father to leave my bedchamber, because he’s gone for only a few minutes when the door creaks open and she slips inside.
Silk loungewear shimmers under the light as she takes brisk steps over to the curtains—and she draws the heavier, thicker ones along the sheer drapes, until the daylight is banished.
Then she rushes to my bed.
And she slips under the quilt with me.
I smile as her arm drapes over me.
In Mother’s embrace, I find a calm sleep. A dream without nightmares, without horrors, with only peace.
I have done horrible things.
I made that call in the phone booth and gave up my address to the servant who answered at Elcott Abbey.
I exposed Serena to my own capture—and risked both her and Sal.
And I’ve given up Sofía.
But at home, with Mother’s arms around me, and Oliver’s warmth, and Father’s forgiveness, I just don’t feel so bad about any of it.
I feel as light as a feather.
And I’m glad to be home—embraced by my thick feathery quilt and pillows.