Clara stared at the note in Lyra's hand.
Neither of them spoke.
The footsteps outside had disappeared.
"Maybe we shouldn't go," Clara whispered.
Lyra looked at her.
"Do you believe the note?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I."
Lyra turned the paper over.
Nothing.
No name.
No explanation.
Just six words.
Don't let Clara's mother see you.
"Whoever wrote this knew we were planning to leave tomorrow."
Clara's face tightened.
"Which means someone was listening."
Lyra glanced toward the door.
"Or watching."
A silence settled between them.
Then Clara whispered, "Maybe we should tell Mrs. Harrow."
Lyra shook her head.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because she already knows too much."
Clara looked at her.
"You don't trust her."
"I don't trust anyone in this house."
"Not even me?"
Lyra immediately regretted her words.
She reached for Clara's hand.
"You're different."
Clara smiled faintly.
"How?"
"You're the only person here who actually admits when she doesn't know something."
Clara laughed quietly.
"That's a terrible compliment."
"It's the best I've got."
For a moment, the tension eased.
Then Clara looked at the note again.
"We should still go."
Lyra nodded.
"Tomorrow."
They left before breakfast.
Clara had packed a small bag and told Mrs. Harrow they were going into the village.
It wasn't exactly a lie.
They just didn't mention the part about visiting Clara's mother.
The morning air was cold, but the sky was clear.
They walked in silence for several minutes.
Finally, Clara spoke.
"My mother lives about an hour from here."
"Why did she leave the village?"
"I don't know."
"You never asked?"
"I was younger when she left."
"How old were you?"
"Fourteen."
Lyra looked at her.
"You've been here alone since then?"
"Not alone."
Clara shrugged.
"I had work."
There was something about the way she said it that made Lyra uncomfortable.
"You shouldn't have had to work at fourteen."
Clara gave her a small smile.
"That's life."
Lyra didn't respond.
She didn't know what to say.
They continued walking.
After a while, Clara pointed toward a narrow road between the trees.
"That's the way."
They turned.
The road became narrower.
The houses disappeared.
Soon, the only sounds were their footsteps and the wind moving through the branches.
Lyra glanced at Clara.
"How much farther?"
"Not far."
They walked another ten minutes.
Then Clara stopped.
Lyra nearly walked into her.
"What?"
Clara was staring ahead.
A small cottage stood at the end of the road.
Its windows were dark.
The garden was overgrown.
And the front door was slightly open.
"Is that your mother's house?"
Clara nodded.
"She should be home."
They approached slowly.
Clara pushed the door open.
"Mum?"
No answer.
"Hello?"
Still nothing.
Lyra stepped inside behind her.
The cottage smelled of old books and dried herbs.
It was small but tidy.
A chair sat beside the fireplace.
A kettle rested on the stove.
And on the table was a cup of tea.
Still warm.
Clara touched it.
"She was here."
Lyra looked around.
"Maybe she just stepped outside."
Clara shook her head.
"My mother never leaves the door open."
They searched the cottage.
No one.
Then Lyra noticed something on the wall.
A photograph.
She stepped closer.
It showed a group of people standing in front of the Hollow.
Lyra recognized Mrs. Harrow.
Tom's father was there too.
And beside them stood a younger woman.
Clara's mother.
But there was someone else.
A boy stood at the edge of the photograph.
Dark hair.
Serious eyes.
Lyra's breath caught.
"Elias."
Clara came beside her.
"What?"
Lyra pointed.
Clara stared at the photograph.
"That's him."
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Lyra noticed something else.
Someone had scratched a mark across Elias's face.
Not just scratched.
They had tried to destroy his face completely.
Clara touched the glass.
"Why would Mum keep this?"
Lyra looked beneath the photograph.
There was a small handwritten note.
She read it aloud.
The Hollow doesn't forget its own.
Clara stepped back.
"Lyra..."
"What?"
"Look."
She pointed toward the floor.
There were muddy footprints.
Fresh ones.
They led from the front door...
to the back of the cottage.
Lyra followed them.
The back door was open.
And hanging from the handle was a small silver key.
Lyra stared at it.
Another one.
She reached toward it.
Then Clara grabbed her arm.
"Don't."
Lyra looked at her.
"Why?"
Clara's face had gone pale.
"Because that's my mother's handwriting."
Tied to the key was a small piece of paper.
Lyra carefully unfolded it.
Only one sentence was written there.
If Lyra Vale has come, take her to the Hollow before nightfall.
Lyra's heart dropped.
"Your mother knew we were coming."
Clara shook her head.
"No."
She looked toward the open door.
"My mother knew you would come."
Outside, somewhere in the trees, a branch snapped.
They both turned.
Someone was there.
Watching them.