Lyra sat near the window, her fingers curled around the edge of the blanket draped across her lap. She tilted her head as if she were still listening, her blind eyes turned toward the faint warmth of the flames.

She had not spoken since the maid left her side.

Eira stood by the door, her shoulders stiff, her boots tapping lightly on the stone as she paced. She had the restless look of a wolf ready for a fight. At last she stopped, turning toward Lyra.

“Why didn’t you press her harder?” ...