Several days had passed since the botched elopement when Sybil heard the knock at her door as she was lying awake in the dead of the night. Her mind, having been full of Tom, flew immediately to the idea that the knock was his and all of the wild possibilities that would bring, but then the door opened and she saw the small, graceful hand on the knob followed by the arm and body of her sister. Mary's eyes, lit by her candle, met Sybil's, searching to see if she would be admitted. Sybil smiled (oh, how this reminded her of years long gone) and rolled to one side of her bed to make room for Mary, who blew out her candle and gratefully joined her.

Her feet were cold but Sybil was glad for the company. "Bad dream?" she asked. These words brought a sheepish smile to her sister's face as she too was reminded of their childhood, of the nights when Sybil- and sometimes even Edith- would crawl into Mary's bed after some night terror.

"Not quite," said Mary, "just- lonely, I suppose." Sybil hadn't thought that Mary really minded being alone and was about to say so when she added, "And to say I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sybil asked, caught off guard.

Mary looked away, up at the canopy. "For the other night, coming after you- taking you back." She turned her eyes back to Sybil's, eyes that clearly did not expect ever to be forgiven. "I would never forgive me if I were in your position and-"

"Oh, Mary," Sybil cut her off, "don't apologize, you don't have to! You were right, of course you were." She sighed. "You were right, that wasn't the way to do it."

Relief flooded Mary's face, so much that Sybil felt compelled to add, "but don't get your hopes up, we're still going to-" but Mary silenced her with a slight shake of her head, still smiling; a gesture that clearly said that they'd cross that bridge when they came to it. She burrowed deeper into the bed, much less distressed than when she came in.

The girls lay in silence for a while, comfortable in the way that one can only be with someone loved so close as a sister. The moon was shining in through the window (Sybil liked to sleep with the curtains open) and the light was resting on their pale faces, both lost in thought.

"Do you love him?"

Sybil turned her head sharply, indignant for a split second- what was she insinuating?- but then she realized that Mary was asking not for the genuinity of her feelings, but rather the depth.

"I do." She took a deep breath. "I really do. For- for a long time, too, I think." To her surprise she found herself choking up, so glad she was that she could finally tell someone, that maybe Mary understood.

Mary's hand found Sybil's under the covers. She was looking at Sybil with a funny sort of sadness. She understood, of course she did; how could she chastise her sister for loving precisely the wrong person? She was still incredulous- how on earth had this happened- but she supposed that maybe, if she had ever been concerned with anybody besides herself, she could have seen this coming, perhaps from the very start.

"I wish I were as strong as you," she murmured.

"Oh, darling, I-" Sybil began, but found she could not go any further, so she simply grasped the soft hand in hers a little more firmly. The two women held each other as they felt themselves being consumed by the beautiful, aching sadness that is love: love not only for chauffeurs and soldiers, but for each other and a family that sometimes seemed damaged beyond repair. Sybil squeezes her hand to remind her that they both were strong, to remind Mary from whom she had learned to be strong in the first place.

They fell asleep like this, protecting each other from the pain and fear, finding shelter in a love that could never be altered.