Balthazar had chosen the blue coat.
Lyra recognized it from council suppers, winter petitions and the afternoon he had told her that certain household decisions were too complicated for someone recovering from illness.
The silver stitching made his shoulders look broader. He had left the upper fastening open, as though formal dignity had yielded to the pleasure of seeing his niece.
“There you are,” he said.
He came down two steps to meet her.
Around the reception courtyard, tenants and household workers stood beneath the colonnade. Some wore festival clothes. Others had brought their work aprons and evidently intended to return to them. A gardener held his cap against his stomach. Lyra knew his face, but his name would not come.
Balthazar took both her hands.
His were warm. Hers were cold.
