Lyra had read her own report four times and still could not find herself anywhere in it.
It was her handwriting. Her phrasing, down to the habit of writing "the subject" instead of a name, because Rio had told her once that names made a scout sentimental. Three pages on the tomb of Aeolus: the condition of the seals, the depth of the dust, the fact that the sarcophagus lid had been pushed from the inside rather than the outside, which she had underlined twice and then, apparently, never thought about again.
And then, at the foot of the third page, a single line.
Sir Colwyn recovered a potential initiate on the return leg.
That was all of it. Six weeks of her life, and one sentence for the only part that mattered.
