The golden mood was still with her the next morning. Ella snuggled among the sheets in the bed that no lover had ever seen, in the room no lover had ever entered. She felt languorous and content, happy. Her heart was the same color as the walls: rich sunrise pink, warm sunrise orange.
When she went down to the breakfast parlor, Minette was there, lingering over her repast. Arthur had clearly been and gone, an abandoned teacup and scattering of crumbs all that remained of his presence at the table.
Ella hummed while she browsed the dishes on the sideboard.
“Someone is happy this morning,” Minette observed, when Ella took her place at the table.
“Yes.” Ella spread a napkin on her lap. Her heart felt rosy. For twenty-seven years, it had been colorless. Through childhood, through marriage,
