In S2E8 (38:50), Lily reveals to John Clare that she knows about her Creator, Victor, and the lies that Victor and John Clare have told her for a long time. She gives a speech on the treatment of women at the hands of men:
LILY: You want to walk in the village, and hold my hand. When people are cruel, you want me to love you even more. Do I hurt you? You pathetic creature. How can you imagine that I could care for you? Does that face belong alongside this? Doesn’t the world smile on us. Don’t we make a beautiful couple, thee and me? Shall we wander the pastures and recite your fucking poetry to the fucking cows? You are blind. Like all other men.
JOHN CLARE: And you are unlike all other women.
LILY: You tell me how. We flatter our men with our pain. We bow before them. We make ourselves dolls for their amusement. We lose our dignity in corsets and high shoes and gossip and the slavery of marriage. And our reward for this service? The back of the hand. The face turned to the pillow. The bloody aching cunt as you force us onto your beds to take your fat, heaving bodies. You drag us into the allies, my lad (Lily’s Irish accent emerges) and cram yourselves into our mouths for 2 bob. When your not beating us senseless. When we’re not bloody from the eyes and the mouth and the ass and the cunt.
(Lily’s english accent comes back) Never again will I kneel to any man. Now they shall kneel to me. As you do, monster. My monster. My beautiful corpse. How clever he’s been our Creator. But our little God has brought forth not angels, but demons. Thee and me. And what shall we do with this power, undead thing? You’re a thoughtful man, a philosopher even, so tell me, why do we exist? Why have we been chosen? Tell me.
JOHN CLARE: I don’t know.
LILY: Is it to suffer?
JOHN CLARE: Yes.
LILY: Must it be?
LILY: How can it be other? We long for that we cannot have.
LILY: Women? I’ll bring you a dozen, we’ll fuck them together. Me? Then you shall have me. I want you. I want a man unlike all other men. My brother. My equal. I’ll take you by this beautiful, white, dead hand and lead you to my bed right now. I’ll bleed for you. I’ll love you. For your sadness and your poetry and your passion and your rage and your infinite, luxurious ugliness. I’ll lick your sins away. And when Victor comes home, we’ll put our hands around his throat together. And watch him die. And then this will be our home. And then, what then, undead thing? We were created to rule, my love. And the blood of mankind will water our garden. Us and our kin and our children and our generations. We are the conquers. We are the pure blood. We are steel and sinew both. We are the next thousand years. We are the dead. No being who ever was, or ever will be, shall love you like I do.