"That these principles need worshipping is a misconception. They just are. It is only a matter of seeing and seeking them." Morrigan's hand reached Professor Lyra's wrist and she took it; the touch was light and the touching hand cool. Her thumb brushed across the scar, as if to ascertain by the way it stood on the skin some measure of its significance. She contemplated it for a long time. "Have you ever first recognized a pattern, Professor, to then notice it all around you? One that you can never unsee or forget. Has something ever called you—called you in sleep and waking and not let go? Then you were touched by these underlying truths. Then prayer is the devotion of hours and minutes and seconds towards seeking. It's to be changed." Morrigan let go of Lyra's wrist.

Secret history was woven underneath the history known. The principles were present in the mundane, but it was akin to standing in a shallow stream that led into an ocean, and thinking the stream to be all there was to be known about the potential of water. Her smile turned wistful and melancholic. What she saw confirmed to her that the woman across was already ways into the dark sea. She just did not know it yet. Who had taken her, while leaving her blind? The image of Griffith at the table in the great hall crept up in Morrigan's mind; A hand, raised to receive a cup from across the table and a red scar blinking at her, to disappear into the sleeve of a black robe; A face sheltering dark eyes that warped and compressed whatever had the misfortune to stay in their gaze for too long. The corners of her mouth tightened in disdain. What she just learned did not raise her opinion of that man. "Where has he gone, really?" she asked tersely. "Is he returning at all?"

Another thought; if Lyra revealed to him everything Morrigan told, she needed to protect herself. His haunted appearance in a corridor the day he took his leave took on a new quality in her mind.

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