Felix found Lyra staring at a wooden ball as though it had insulted her ancestry.
The ball sat inside a chalk circle on a low practice board. Beyond it, a folded cloth would catch anything that rolled free.
“Has it confessed?” he asked.
“Bring the fan.”
He brought it.
They had chosen the small practice room because no one needed it during the afternoon interval. The walls held no mirrors. The door closed without a ceremony. Lyra had asked for that part particularly.
In the corridor outside, a framed drawing showed an Ashford ancestor holding a shield above an entire courtyard. Someone had polished its glass for the coming assessment. Lyra had passed it on her way in without looking up. Felix had looked, then at the little ball, and decided the room was better without a view of that considerable ancestral achievement.
On a stool lay the instructions her healer had written. Beside them stood water, a cloth and a plain timing weight.
