The room smelled of lavender and clean linen, candlelight flickering against wooden walls Lyra had never seen and somehow recognized down to the grain. She stood in the corner, invisible, weightless, watching a version of the world that had ended before she'd ever opened her eyes in it.
A woman lay in the bed at the center of the room, dark hair damp against the pillow, exhaustion carved into every line of her face, but her eyes were open, fixed on the small bundle in her arms with an intensity that made Lyra's chest ache before she even understood why.
Marianne.
She looked younger than Lyra had imagined, younger than made sense for someone who had already lived a whole life before dying in this room. Twenty, maybe. Barely older than Lyra was now.
"She's beautiful," Marianne whispered,
