A Friend Indeed

Lupin looked down at her hand on the marble of the mantlepiece. It looked white and quiet on the dark stone, and very alone. There was noone to hold that hand - there was no family to go to. All her life depended on her own work - on the work of that very hand so quiet, cold, and tired.
She looked up at Uncle Mortimor. He was watching her, his eyes fairly flat. "I apologize, uncle. Your friend, I know, is to be trusted." She stated it and though she saw he was relieved, another expression - the old disapproval - took its place for a moment. But she continued; the time to question what she knew and did not had passed miles ago. Somewhere outside of the inn as she rolled away from a long fall.
"An offensive."
Uncle Mortimor started at the sudden statement in the quiet. He cleared his throat finely. "Yes, indeed - an offensive. Maximilien recommends that we, er..." He trailed off for a moment glancing down at his hands, and then at her in disapproval once again - but the disapproval was of the plan, not Lupin as she stood alone by the empty fireplace.
Lupin looked at his worry, his anxiety as he studied his fingers, at the frown of discomfort, and the way he shifted. "I am not a lady anymore, Uncle Mortimor - that has been established many times over. There is no returning."
Uncle Mortimor looked up at her, as if angry, but then his eyes lost their sharpness and his shoulders slumped somewhat. "We have decided that you should become Lord Maximilien's mistress."