By the time the house settled into nighttime quiet, Lyra’s body was exhausted.
Her mind, of course, hadn’t gotten the memo.
She lay in the cabin’s dark for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to Hollow Ridge breathe: a door closing somewhere, a car rolling in late, a distant bark of laughter quickly hushed. The wards purred at the edge of her awareness, smooth and steady.
Her thoughts were not.
She gave it ten minutes. Maybe twelve.
Then she gave up.
Barefoot, she padded across the floor, grabbed her hoodie off the chair, and stepped out into the cool night. The moon was past full but still bright enough to silver the tops of the pines. Dew already beaded on the grass, cold on her toes.
The main house’s kitchen light was on, a square of yellow against the dark.
Of course.
L
