Weakness plagued Lyra less and less each day. But enough to feel it, still, the weight of a limitation. It reminded her often and again of less visible restraints. The uncertain world she found herself in, where forgiveness of another and salvation for the self could become one and the same.

She had been distant, knowing it was likely by now others would notice the lengthy sourness of her mood. She knew too that the further along time went, the less obvious her ailments, the less excuse they would be willing to proffer for her attitude.

So she tried to do what she had so often done in the past, grit her teeth and press on. She didn't understand why it was harder, now, than when she had been a whelp fresh stolen from home by unkind faces.

Speaking of whelps — Lonán's call lifted Lyra's attention from the preparing of fishes. She licked the sharp bite of scales off her lips and hurried out to find her son.

He was not alone. A girl dressed like starlight on water, collapsed into a makeshift bed. Fast breath, like someone wounded. And Lonán, hovering like a hen. Captain held herself upright and cocked her brow at him, with a grim tug of lip that still somehow levied amusement his way. Who's tis ten, Mo Chuisle?