I almost said her name again—to slow her—but she was already crossing the alley. She sheathed one dagger without looking and lowered herself to a knee, careful, hands open, palms empty.
"Hey," she said, voice not quite steady and not pretending it was. "You're alright. I've got you."
The girl flinched. Not at the closeness. At the color. Lyra's hands were red to the wrists, and the child's gaze stuck there like frost. Lyra saw it too. She stilled, breath caught, then wiped her palms on the black of her cloak until the worst of it was gone.
"See?" she whispered, showing them again. Clean enough. Not perfect. Honest.
The child's throat worked. A raw, wet sound came out—broken at the edges. No word. Not possible. The place where a scream should live had been taken from her.
Lyra's face c
