Chapter 225: Patricia
Lyria's POV
I changed quickly.
The old gown came first—the one I had worn numerous times before, softened by years of wear and faded to a colour that could scarcely be named. It was not pretty. It was not fine. But it was comfortable, and it would not draw attention, and that was all that mattered.
I pulled the cloak over my shoulders and fastened the clasp at my throat. The fabric was dark and heavy, the hood wide enough to shadow my face when lifted.
I masked my scent next, rubbing the crushed herbs against my wrists and along the collar of my cloak. The smell was bitter and sharp, familiar after so many years of use.
The drawing was tucked carefully into the inner pocket of my cloak. I patted the fabric twice to ensure it was secure.
Then I turned toward the colour pencils.
They were still spread across the table where I had left them. I gathered them carefully and returned them to their original arrangement before wrapping them once more.
