Lyra’s POV

I was flooded with a tsunami of unexplained emotions when I saw a middle-aged woman not much older than Marigold standing at the door, opening a jar to welcome us.

She was confident and graceful in a flowery cutting dress. Her hair was dark chestnut brown, had lines of silver in it and her wrinkles deepened as she looked at me as intensely as I was looking at her.

All of a sudden, she pushed the door further away and with tears bubbling in the corner of her eyes, she ...