The breakfast parlor at Maberley was one of Mal’s favorite rooms. It had a pleasant aspect, with large windows offering a view down the hill on which the house sat. A small lake spread out at the bottom of the hill, and right then it was lit in streaks of pink and silver from the newly-risen sun. Will had always been an early riser, and even now, when his illness kept him abed nearly constantly, the servants kept to his preferences and filled the sideboard with fresh bread and eggs and bacon as soon as the sun was up. Like Mal, they stubbornly refused to admit the inevitable. Mal loved and hated it in equal measure — the futility of it agonizing, but their loyalty impossible to discourage. How many mornings had he sat here with Will, laughing over their coffee, planning the day’s business
