"Love and violence are just different words for the same devotion."
***
The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and old blood. Lyra had learned to recognize that combination in darker days, before her Master had pulled her from the gallows. The academy's medical wing tried to hide it beneath clean linens and medicinal herbs, but some scents never truly faded.
Her Master lay propped against starched pillows. His torso wrapped in white bandages that pulled tight with every breath. The medic had done her work well. Two broken ribs set properly. Pain dulled to a manageable throb by whatever potion they'd forced down his throat.
Lyra sat on the edge of a wooden chair. Her black hair fell forward to frame her face as she leaned over a small ceramic bowl. Steam rose from the herbal mixture she stirred. Mint and something sharper. More medicinal.
Her hands wanted to shake. She wouldn't let them.
