She woke early on Friday to the specific sound of rain against the east wing windows and the smell of coffee already made, and lay for a moment in the particular warmth of a morning that had, almost imperceptibly, become different from every morning before it. She had not moved her things to another room. Nothing so dramatic as that, not yet, though she suspected the conversation was coming and that it would be, when it arrived, straightforward and practical and entirely characteristic of the man she was in love with. What had changed was simpler than geography: the quality of the silence in the hall outside her door, the weight of the house around her, the particular way she moved through its rooms now, as though she belonged in them rather than as a guest who had stayed longer than the original arrangement had anticipated. She dressed and went downstairs and found Damien already at the kitchen table. He looked up when she came in. Coffee is made, he said.
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