Chapter 15
Lyra poured herself a glass of water and stood by the wide windows in the upstairs hall, her eyes following the faint glow of city lights beyond the garden walls. The house was quiet except for the soft creak of wood as the wind pressed against the shutters. Bruce had not yet come to bed.
She did not mind. His absence made her role clearer. With every hour he spent hunched over papers or slumped with a drink in hand, her place beside the children grew firmer. Their questions were small, innocent—why Father was always tired, why he did not laugh as easily as before. She answered with gentle tones and smiles, never speaking ill of him, only assuring them that their father was busy and carried much weight.
It was enough to win their trust, enough to make them lean toward her whe
