One morning, when the ache in her heart became too great to ignore, she followed that inner pull — through forest and sunlight — to where a white horse waited at the edge of the trees.

One day, as she was working in the garden while her mother rested from a headache, she wandered into the rose patch—a special section filled with different varieties of roses: pinks and reds, whites, and even one that looked purple. She and her mother could never quite figure out how one particular rose bush looked so violet in the sunlight.

The little girl giggled and patted Needle’s trunk. “I think the tree heard me.”

Up and up and up the butterfly went, until it reached the very tippy tops of the trees.

“I thought I belonged up here,” she whispered. “But now I see I belong in the in-between.

The moment her fingers met his, the rooftop fell away in a swirl of stars and wind. Her shawl fluttered like wings, and her skirts rippled,.

Lyra’s head snapped up, her eyes, usually so veiled, flashing with a desperate hope. She moved to the bars, her fingers clutching them, knuckles white. “They… they bought me,”