"Yes," she agreed, but her tone was distant. "Yes, I think so." Lysander Darcy. She wished she hadn't had to know his name. It would make it all that much harder to leave, and to stay away. She had seen Darcy as a child, after all, so how could she keep herself from imagining all of the ways that this child might grow up similarly, or differently? How could she live in the shadows somewhere and not constantly be wondering what her son was like?

Not her son, Lyra thought firmly. Her contribution to the boy's life ended here; everything else she could do for him would only be to his detriment. She had carried him for nine months, and had labored to give birth to him, but now he was no longer hers. He couldn't possibly be hers. This was August's son, now, and maybe if she thought of him like that — and only like that — the idea of being apart from him might become bearable.

"I should get that dress, now," she said, her voice a little hollow as though her thoughts were far away from her actual words — which, of course, they were. "How much time is left before the sun comes up?"