Page 32 of The Rust in Her Hair

I shove the money into my bra, then turn toward my closet, my hand already reaching for the strap of an empty duffle bag, when footsteps hit the hallway outside my door.

"Lyra?" My father's voice, closer than it should be, sharp with something that isn't quite anger yet. Not yet. "Open this door."

My whole body goes cold and still, the strap slipping out of my fingers.

There's no time to pack. There's no time for anything.

"Lyra!"

Without thinking, I cross to the window, my hands shaking so hard it takes three tries to get the latch to give, and then the old glass swings outward into the warm night air.

The trellis is right where it's always been, thick with the same climbing roses I used to scale as a kid, back when my parents encouraged me to run, play, and explore.

I haven't touched it in years.

Beyond the hedges and the long dark stretch of lawn, the city glows against the horizon, gold and white lights I've looked at a thousand times from this exact window and never once thought about running toward.

The library.

Owen's library is ten miles from here. Maybe less if I cut through the east side instead of taking the main road.

My father's fist hits the door, once, then twice, the wood shuddering in its frame. "Lyra! Open this door right now!"

I don't answer.

I swing one leg over the sill, then the other, my palms slick against the old wood as I grip the top rung of the trellis. It groans under my weight, and for one sickening second I'm sure the whole thing is going to peel away from the brick and take me down with it.

Don't look down. Don't look down.

I look down anyway.

The ground is so much farther away than it used to be, or maybe I was just too young to understand distance the last time I did this.

My foot searches blindly for the next gap, my fingers cramping around a rose stem, thorns biting into my palm hard enough to draw blood I don't have time to feel.

I could fall. I could break my neck in my own backyard and no one would probably care.

But I can’t stay.

I refuse to be that asshole’s mate.

So I keep going, one shaking handhold at a time, praying to every god my mother ever pretended to believe in that the library doors are still open, that Owen is still somewhere inside, and that he actually meant what he said.

Sunday

Adrian

The early morning sun comes through the blinds in thin gold stripes. It sprawls across Mack's shoulder and into his blond hair laying across his forehead. He's out cold, snoring soft and even against my collarbone, one leg hooked through mine, and his arm heavy across my ribs. Dead weight.

Every muscle in my body feels loose and warm, wrung out in the best way.

I close my eyes and breathe in Mack’s warm hazelnut scent, letting it fill every pore.

I love lazy Sunday mornings.

The floorboards in the hallway creak softly as Owen makes his way through the house. He has the lightest step out of all of us.

Moving slowly, I ease Mack’s arm off me and slide out from under the sheet. He grumbles something into the pillow, then goes still again. I pick my sweatpants off the floor, then slip out the door.