The morning of Lyra’s sixteenth birthday began like any other: cold stone, thin blankets, the smell of smoke clinging to everything. Unlike any other morning, when Lyra pushed open the door to the infirmary, Mara was waiting for her with something hidden behind her back.
“You’re late,” Mara said, though Lyra wasn’t. It was the same thing she said every morning.
“I’m not,” Lyra answered again. She’d lost count of how many times they’d had this interaction. It seemed ritual for Mara to find anything to scold the girl about.
“You are,” Mara replied. “Always with the backtalk.” The woman’s lip twitched, combating a small smile as she pulled a parcel into view and shoved it into Lyra’s hands. “Here. Don’t look at me like that. Take it.”
Lyra blinked, startled by the gesture. She accepted th
