Sybil understood many things that other people did not. She knew that Gwen should not languish as a housemaid when she'd heard the young woman speak, unbothered by her accent and the occasional awkwardness of her phrasing, Gwen deserved a smart hat and position in an office, where she could write and discover the wider world. She knew that Barrow was missing something he feared he'd never get, could never ask for, and that it was enough to recognize it without a mention, to let acceptance of his broken bits show in her regard. She knew Mary did not let herself weep, even after the Turk, and Edith wept too much, rivers of tears, the Danube, the Volga, the flooding Nile flowing from her and Sybil understood that neither of her parents could see what to do with either daughter. She knew what Matthew had wanted and Mary and how Granny regretted what she said sometimes, when it hurt her favorite. She knew that Tom would always have a look of wonder when he saw her and would never forget she'd once been Lady Sybil, she knew he would stroke her face before he kissed her, that he would be a good father and that Dublin could be home, even without the green fields, Isis barking in the distance, Mary a sentinel on the crest of a hill in her black habit. She understood happiness and that she'd had it but she didn't understand why she must go and she didn't understand the shimmering, blinding light that took her baby's face from her view, that took Tom's hand from her waist, that took-