Lyra didn’t pull back. He was a Hawthorne. That Hawthorne. Your Hawthorne, Odette had said. Lyra thought about the danger of touch. She thought about all the reasons she had not to do this. But as Grayson lowered his lips, Lyra rose up on her toes, tilted her head backward, moving like a dancer, needing this—and him. Her long-held memory of that kiss gave way to this kiss. And this kiss was everything.
