LYRA’S POV
The hidden corner behind the copper pillar felt like the only pocket of breathable air in the entire cathedral of the refectory. I sat on the low iron stool, the cold metal biting through the thin fabric of my uniform skirt, and carefully unwrapped the wax paper around my sandwich.
The turkey was thin, the bread was the generic white loaves my mother bought in bulk at the avenue market, and it looked completely pathetic compared to the artisanal plates being carried past the perimeter line. Three tables away, a legacy senior was complaining that the truffle oil on his seared duck breast was too aggressive.
I took a bite, chewing mechanically, my eyes fixed forward on the scratched surface of the counter. I didn't want to look at them. I didn't want to watch the effortless, gi
