18
‘It’s about the lyre,’ I said to Ayllin.
‘I could have guessed that much,’ she replied. Her eyes strayed to my father, still seated upon his throne, with the moonsilver lyre in his lap. I tried to read her expression, but failed; she was impassive, after an icy fashion.
‘Can you fix it?’
Her gaze returned to me. ‘Fix it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it broken?’
‘Um. My father’s presence on that throne says it is.’
To my surprise (and discomfort), she smiled at that with genuine amusement. ‘Perhaps he is not the only one who has drawn such a conclusion,’ she said. ‘But he’s no less wrong for it.’
‘I… don’t understand.’
‘How did you get it back?’
‘The lyre?’
‘Yes, the lyre. What is it doing here?’
‘We retrieved it from the water, obviously.’
‘We?’
‘Yes. You knew that was the goal — you help
