Lady Vane didn’t answer. She just kept the feather moving, maddeningly slow, from arch to toes and back again. She knew exactly where the nerves were most raw. Lyra’s laughter grew louder, more frantic. It wasn’t joy anymore. It was a tide rising past her control.

“You’re holding it in,” Lady Vane observed. “Such discipline. Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Lyra lifted her chin, defiance still flickering in her eyes. “It was trite. The rhymes were forced.”

Lady Vane paused, holding the feather still. The silence was almost worse than the tickling. “I want you to mean it when you apologize. I want that sharp, clever mind of yours to collapse into nothing but the need to please me. I want your submission .”

She produced a soft feather—goose, long and flexible. She began to draw it slowly up the sole of Lyra’s bare foot.

A tear of mirth escaped Lyra’s eye. A snort. Then a real laugh, short and bright, shattered the library’s silence.