"You need some decent clothes," Lyra hummed, walking toward a giant wooden closet standing against the wall on the left side of the bedroom. The closet door sighed open like it had secrets it was relieved to spill. I had already started to protest—
“I don’t even have shoes with me,”—but she cut me off with a look that said she’d already anticipated every small panic.
Inside was a wardrobe I didn’t expect to see in a place that smelled half-ancient and half-forest: racks of clothes hung neatly, boots and shoes and sandals lined on lower shelves, folded cloaks and swaths of fabric that would have bankrupted me in the real world. Nothing like the grubby hand-me-downs we wore at home. This was proper clothing. Skirts, pants, dresses, shirts embroidered with patterns I couldn’t name. It was o
