LYRA POINT OF VIEW.

The maids’ fingers moved through my hair, careful and slow, weaving it into place as though they were afraid of pulling too hard.

I watched my reflection in the mirror, studying the calm face I wore so easily.

Thorne must have received the gifts by now.

The thought sent a quiet thrill through me. I imagined him standing there, that unreadable expression on his face, weighing my letter, wondering why I would dare to reach into his territory again.

Confusion, suspicion ...