Lyra had hair the color of the sun and eyes the color of the sky during the height of summer when the blue was at its deepest. Her smile was a field of butterflies and glow worms, and her laugh was the wings that let Gwyn fly away from the Garden for a time.
And yet, for all that, the most remarkable thing about Lyra was her tendency to turn invisible when she wasn’t paying attention.
But right now, as she orchestrated the tea table—the crumpets had begun doing some sort of waltz with the sandwiches—Lyra was vibrant with attention.
It was going to be all right. Even if only for the length of Lyra’s visit. Gwyn took special care to memorize the scene before her so she could fold it away in her memory for later.