Lyra
The library was quiet and mostly empty when I got to it. I pulled a book from the nearest shelf without looking at the title and I sat at the center table— opening it, I read through the first page.
I read it again then I read it a third time.
The words arranged themselves in front of my eyes without any sense as shapes that I understood individually but couldn’t assemble into anything coherent. It felt like the part of my mind that processed language was entirely occupied with a pair of silver-grey eyes. They were all I could think about.
I give up and close the book, I put it back in the wrong place on the shelf and walk out of the library.
The corridors of Blackridge at night had a particular quality to them, the stonewalls holding the cold out, the torches mounted on the
