Page 13 of On Broken Bonds

“And that is how I feel for Lyra,” I whisper, pulling away from him and swiping off a stray tear from my face. Breathing deeply, I find his eyes, center myself, and say, “I’m going. No matter what. So if you could ready my horse, I’d appreciate it.”

He holds my gaze, swallows, then nods and turns, walking away.

“Well, if Ivor gets one, then I do, too.”

I startle, then laugh, as Hilda wraps her arms around me, pulling me in tight to her. I breathe in the scent of soap, cleaner, and soft chamomile, allowing myself a moment of comfort in her arms.

Ivor is right. This is a suicide mission.

But I have no other course of action. If there’s even a chance I can save my sister, then I have to take it.

When Hilda releases me from the hug, she has the same look of understanding in her eyes that Ivor had. Then she clears her throat and turns, bustling through the doorway.

Hurrying, I get right back to packing. Several minutes later, I emerge from my room with only two bags, one to wear around my person, and the other to strap to my horse.

Instead of the rather impractical dress I wore earlier, I’ve changed into a traveling dress with a thicker material, less tulle and lace.

Each second I remain in this house feels stolen from Lyra.

By the time I descend the stairs with my satchel slung over my shoulder, my pulse is already hammering hard enough to make my temples ache. I scan the dining room for Hilda, intending only to say my goodbyes, but find her standing at the table with a leather satchel spread open before her.

She is packing quickly and methodically, drawing from the pantry shelves she must have raided the instant she realized she would not be able to stop me.

“Hilda,” I begin, already shaking my head. “I do not have time for this.”

“You do not have time to go hungry on the road either,” she says sharply, not even glancing up.

She tucks strips of cured meat into the satchel alongside a hard round of cheese, two apples, and half a loaf of yesterday’s bread wrapped tightly in cloth. A small pouch of dried berries follows, then a flask of water.

I shift impatiently, every instinct urging me toward the stables, toward the road, toward the capital and my sister.

Still, I remain where I am.

This is how Hilda loves. In practical things. In mended hems, stocked cupboards, and careful preparations made when words are not enough.

At last, she reaches for one final parcel already wrapped in linen.

“Spiced loaf,” she says softly as she places it on top. Her eyes rise to meet mine, bright with unshed tears. “The one I made yesterday. For when you need reminding there is still sweetness left in this world.”

The lump that rises in my throat is sudden and fierce.

Before I can answer, Ivor appears in the doorway.

“The horse is saddled and provisioned,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. “As ready as he’ll ever be.”

Together, the three of us walk to the front of the house.

I place the key to my father’s desk into Hilda’s hand and show them where to find my notes, the ledgers, and the records they may need to oversee the estate in my absence. None of us speak aloud the truth hanging so heavily between us.

That I may not return.

That if I fail, they may be left to carry on without either Nocturne daughter.

Hilda reaches for me first, cupping my face between trembling hands.

“You have your mother’s bravery,” she whispers. “And your father’s good heart. They will carry you farther than you know.”

Emotion burns behind my eyes as I pull her into a fierce embrace, pressing my face briefly into her silver-threaded hair.