Lyra's POV
My eyes darted fast around the place. Wooden shelves propped up against dark walls. They carried bottles and covered transparent jars with thick liquid of various colors, purifying the air with a combination of smells that could raise the dead. I crunched my nose tight. I started as she appeared in the room—my previous self—the witch.
Her black robe, hugged tight to her petite frame, swayed as the low breezes whistling in through the opened glass panes of the window tugged it.
Up close to her now, her lips were blacker and moister, almost as if she'd soaked them in a black dye. "Stop staring at me, Lyra." She snapped.
She grunted as she picked up her gloves from a table beside her, carrying the same transparent jars containing the same variations of thick colored liquid as those on the shelves and the same awful smell.
She fitted the skintight rubber gloves into her hands, then she thrust her hand at me. "You might have forgotten my name, but I am Lira," she said.
