Aware of Lyra’s curious mind, give her a tour of your ballroom and courtyard displays.

You walk with Lyra through the outer edges of the courtyard, regaling her with stories tied to the statues you see there. Your great, great, great grandfather, Stallon, with his antlered helmet and enchanted greataxe; his daughter, Saheena, and her beast companion -- a great boar with tusks like short swords.

You lay out the history of your family, connect the dots between the statues, between the ancient, repaired vases that were gifts from overseas, that now held exotic plants and blooming flowers. Lyra asks you questions of a more and more enthusiastic timbre, letting you in on her own family’s lineage, the places between the lines of written history where your ancient ancestors may have intersected. A war here, a battle there, a fishing conquest of some dispute in the northern seas.

As you head inside to show her some paintings you believe she may find fascinating, she plucks two glasses of wine from a servant and passes one to you. You each drink deeply. You make the round through the ballroom all the way to its other side, where you exit into the courtyard once again.

“A fascinating tour,” she says, leaning against the high wall of a garden bed. The guests around you chat low, admiring your castle’s cultivations and the careful care given to your inner terraces. “A little dusty on the edges,” Lyra goes on, quelling some of the obvious, perhaps overeager enthusiasm from her voice, flattening it into that cool edge of hers. “But fascinating.”

“I should think you’re accustomed to dust, given your bookish proclivities.” You smile.

She smiles. Her eyebrow quirks daringly. “Indeed,” she says.