Chapter 124: The Unraveling
Lyra's diagram hung on the cottage wall a web within a containing circle, besieged by a void that sought not to break the threads, but to dissolve the very page. The warning was clear, yet frighteningly abstract. How did one defend the idea of meaning? How did an army of specific attention fight a war on the battlefield of philosophy?
The first sign was not dramatic. It was a forgotten name.
Old Bren, splitting wood behind his workshop, straightened up with a wince and called for Tessa. When she appeared, he blinked at her, his brow furrowed. "What's that word for the… the yellow flower you plant with the tomatoes? Keeps the bugs off. I can see it clear as day, but the name's… gone. It's on the tip of my tongue."
"Marigold," Tessa said, her smile fading as she saw the genuine distress in his eyes. Bren, who knew every plant by three names common, old country, and what he called their "soul-name" forgetting 'marigold' was like the sea forgetting salt.
