"I remember," Old Mrs. Covington repeated firmly. "She's your mother!"
Lyra's heart hammered against her ribs. How could Percival's grandmother possibly know about her connection to the Moreau family? She'd been so careful to keep her past separate from her present.
"Mrs. Covington, I think you might be confused," Lyra said carefully, trying to keep her voice steady. "Mrs. Moreau is—"
"No confusion at all!" The elderly woman's eyes sparkled with certainty. "I remember Eleanor from years ago. The resemblance is striking. Those same eyes, that same elegant posture."
Percival stepped closer to his grandmother's bedside, his expression guarded. "Grandmother, perhaps you should rest. The doctor said—"
"Oh hush, Percival. My mind may wander sometimes, but on this I'm perfectly clear." She reached for Lyra's hand, patting it gently. "When I saw you at the wedding, I thought you seemed familiar. Now I understand why."
