Lyra sat at the edge of the hospital bed, hands folded in her lap as she stared out the window. The golden afternoon light softened the sterile room, but did nothing to ease the tightness in her chest.
"They always say I look like her," she said quietly, breaking the silence between her and Percival.
Percival stood by the window, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the floor. "Mrs. Moreau?"
She nodded. "Everyone noticed it, even when I was little. Something about the eyes, the shape of the face." Her fingers traced the contour of her cheekbone absently. "It drove Orla crazy."
Percival turned to study her profile. The resemblance was indeed striking—something he'd noticed the first time he saw Lyra and Eleanor in the same room.
"How so?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
