The air grew cooler the farther down the steps Lyra went. It smelled damp, thick with earth and mildew. But layered beneath that were softer scents. Sage. Rosemary. Mint. Bergamot.
Candles lined the walls, their soft flickering light guiding her down the narrow passage until it opened into a small circular chamber. An ornate rug lay in the center, its edges worn from time. Candles burned in iron sconces, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. The walls were partially draped in faded fabrics, but tree roots jutted through the earthen ceiling and walls, as though nature itself was part of the structure. Soft cushions were scattered across the floor, and off to one side, a heavy rocking chair stood like a throne.
A woman sat in it.
The witch.
Her hair was a shocking white, pulled int
