The gates opened without a sound.
They were black iron, taller than a house, and they swung inward at some invisible signal as the car approached.
Beyond them, a long curved drive wound uphill between dark rows of trees, and at the top of the hill, glowing against the stormy sky, stood a mansion.
Lily stared. It was larger than anything she had ever seen outside of a film. White stone, tall windows, a sweeping flight of marble steps.
Warm light poured from every floor. Her father's house had seemed grand to her all her life. This one made it look like a garden shed.
"Is this where you live?" she whispered.
"Yes."
"It's very big."
He seemed almost amused. "So I've been told."
The car stopped at the foot of the steps. Samuel was out in an instant, holding an umbrella. And then Lily realized she was not going to be allowed to open her own door.
It was opened for her by a tall, silver-haired man in a black jacket. He bowed his head slightly.
"Good evening, miss."
She did not know what to do. She had never been addressed as miss by a man in a black jacket.
"Mr. Harris," said the voice beside her, "this young lady will be staying with us. Have the room prepared, and ask Mrs. Zara to bring dry clothes and hot food. Immediately, please."
"Of course, sir."
Lily got out of the car on shaking legs. The steps were wide and dry beneath the covered porch, and on each side, in a long, silent line, stood the household staff. A dozen people. Maids in gray dresses, a cook in a white apron, two young men in livery, a gardener with his cap in his hands.
And as she climbed the steps, wrapped in a stranger's coat, with her wet hair in her face and mud on her shoes, every one of them bowed.
"Welcome, ma'am."
"Welcome, ma'am."
"Welcome, ma'am."
Lily stopped dead.
She turned to look at the man behind her, certain that this was some elaborate joke. But he only stood there with one hand in his pocket, watching her with unreadable gray eyes.
"They don't know who I am," she said faintly.
"They know that you are my guest."
"But I'm..."
"You are cold, tired, and in need of a bath." He gestured toward the open door. "Mrs. Zara will look after you."
A stout, rosy-cheeked woman in a gray dress hurried forward and took Lily's arm with a gentleness that undid her more than anything yet.
"Come, dear," she said. "Let's get you warm."
Lily let herself be led inside. Her feet sank into thick carpets. A great staircase curved upward beneath a chandelier.
Somewhere, a clock chimed softly, and the whole place smelled of beeswax and fresh bread.
She was taken upstairs to a room with a bed so large that she almost laughed. There was a fire lit in the grate.
A hot bath had already been drawn. Folded on the bed lay a pair of soft pajamas, a robe, and a pair of wool slippers.
When she came out, scrubbed pink and wrapped in the robe, there was a tray on the table by the window.
A plate of fruits. A warm bread. A cup of tea with honey.
She sat down. She picked up the spoon. And the smell of the soup, so exactly like the soup Martha had once brought her on a back staircase, broke something wide open inside her.
She put her face in her hands and wept.
Mrs. Zara, hovering by the door, said nothing. She only came and stood quietly beside her and rested one warm hand on her hair.
"Eat, dear," she said, at last. "Nobody here is going to take it from you."