Lyra’s eyes tracked my hands. When I lowered my palm, she swallowed, her voice went softer. “As I said, must…must be my craft.” It wasn’t craft. This draw, this dangerous pull, was something more. I hated her for what she represented. Pain, blood, anger. I hated her for the risks she brought merely by having melder craft. But another part of me wanted to hate her at a nearer distance. And each damn day the desire to stay away cracked and shed more of its strength.
