The Ashford case smelled of cedar.
Lyra knew the scent before the curator lifted the cover. She remembered polished wood, a child’s careful hands, and being told the books inside concerned people worth remembering.
Now the case sat beside a boat that couldn’t carry everything.
The curator looked at her.
“I assumed you’d want these secured.”
She did.
The bindings were familiar. One ceremonial volume had a rubbed corner she’d touched when she was young. A relative’s cramped handwriting ran through its margins.
Her inheritance case had made her name prominent again. She could insist this was cultural preservation. She could say the collection deserved a place, which was true, and let everyone avoid the harder question of whose place.
