L E I L A N I
"Good," he said, his expression softening slightly. "Lyra will show you to the study. There are books there. You can read. Or you can rest. The choice is yours. Lunch will be ready in thirty."
The choice is yours. The words echoed in my mind, a cruel mockery of the freedom I had lost. I had a choice between books or a nap. I had a choice between what kind of juice I wanted with my meal. I didn't have a choice about my life, my body, my future.
I turned and followed Lyra out of the room, my head held high, my back ramrod straight. I would not let him see me break. I would not let him see me cry.
The study was a cozy, book lined room with a large, leather armchair and a crackling fireplace. It was a perfect place to spend a rainy afternoon, a sanctuary for the mind. But for
