What begins a bet? Not that. Lyra really needed to solve their current riddle so she could stop thinking about the one that haunted her memory— and so she could get out of these tight quarters, where Grayson Hawthorne’s body was never far from hers.

“Don’t say a word…” Lyra trained her eyes on the wall, reading aloud. “But make a wish.” She paused. “Wishes. You can wish on a star. Toss a penny in a well.”

“Blow out a candle,” Grayson said to her left. Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw that one, stubbornly imperfect bit of his pale blond hair fall carelessly into his eyes. Again.

Why was it that nothing about Grayson Hawthorne really seemed careless?

“Blow on a dandelion.” Lyra one-upped him—and kept going. “Crack a wishbone. Rub a magic lamp.”

“Ill-advised,” Grayson opined. “Haven’t you ever heard of the difficulties of putting genies back in bottles?”

Some things were not easily undone.

Lyra bit back every single retort that wanted to come and concentrated only on the riddle. A genie. A star. A penny. A candle. Possible answers warred for dominance in her mind. She looked to Odette, a better option than risking even one more glance in Grayson’s direction.

“Odette?” Lyra said.

The old woman stood with her right arm braced against the metal wall of the chamber, her head held at an odd angle, her chin twisted toward one shoulder. Tension was visible in her neck muscles, her face.

Not tension, Lyra realized. Pain. In the span of half a breath, Lyra was there, sliding a shoulder under the old woman’s arm.

“I’m fine,” Odette told her tartly.

“You’re a lawyer,” Grayson responded. He crossed the chamber in two long strides and slid under Odette’s other arm. “A very expensive lawyer,” he continued. “Technicalities and loopholes. So forgive me for probing your assurance further, Ms. Morales: By what definition, exactly, are you fine?”

Odette attempted to straighten, as much as she could, wedged between Lyra and Grayson. “Were I in need of assistance, you would know it, though I suppose, Mr. Hawthorne, that I would not turn down the use of that sword as a cane.”

Lyra noticed that Odette hadn’t technically denied that she needed help. She’d issued a conditional sentence, not a statement of fact, and she’d followed it with a distraction, trying to claim the sword.

Technicalities and loopholes. “You don’t need a cane, do you?” Lyra said.

“I also do not need living crutches, and yet, here the two of you are, attempting to prop me up.”

Lyra eased back. She knew what it was like to need people to think you were fine. Odette clearly didn’t want to discuss her pain. Lyra did her the courtesy of a subject change. “You’re a lawyer?”

Odette managed an eagle-sharp smile. “I didn’t say that, now, did I?” “Tell me I’m wrong, then,” Grayson challenged.

“Has any good ever come of telling a Hawthorne they were wrong?” Odette retorted. She shrugged off Grayson’s arm.

“Am I?” Grayson pressed. “Wrong?”

Odette snorted. “You know perfectly well that you are not.”

“You told us that you spent decades cleaning other people’s houses.” Lyra narrowed her eyes. “To scrape by.”

Odette had been very convincing. Just like she’d been convincing when she’d told them not to assume facts not in evidence about her character and her potential involvement with the notes.

Thomas, Thomas, Tommaso, Tomás.

“I’m an old woman. I’ve had my share of lives.” Odette raised her chin. “I have lived more and loved more than your young minds could possibly imagine. And…” She took in a measured breath. “I am fine.” Odette strode toward the wall with the riddle, her steps slow but sure. “Pain can provide clarity at times. It occurs to me: You can wash a frog, but you don’t wash a frog out.” Odette stared at the words on the wall. “Set aside the first two lines of the riddle,” she murmured. “What’s left?”

Wash me out, Lyra thought. Give me a kiss. Don’t say a word but make a wish.

Thanks to Grayson, Lyra thought about blowing out candles, and the moment she did, a series of memories washed over her with the force of a tsunami: her fourth birthday—not the part of that day that haunted her in dreams, but the rest of it. She remembered her mom waking her up that morning, making her chocolate chip pancakes with cream cheese icing and rainbow sprinkles.

Happy birthday, baby!

Lyra could almost feel herself blowing out the candles her mother had put in those pancakes. Make a wish. And then Lyra remembered something else: a stranger picking her up from preschool that afternoon. I’m your father, Lyra. Your real father. Come with me.

Lie-rah.

Lie-rah.

The memory threatened to pull her under, but Lyra tooth-and-nail fought her way back to the safest part of thinking about that day: the morning and the pancakes and the candles. Make a wish. Her gaze held steady on the words on the wall, Lyra rounded her lips and lightly blew, and just like that, she had it.

The answer.

What did people wash out when it misbehaved? What did you use to blow out a candle and make a wish? To speak? To kiss?

“A mouth,” Lyra said, her voice echoing off the chamber’s walls. “As in,” Grayson replied, “the mouth of a cave.”