When Lyra sings, for a moment, she doesn't sound like Lyra. Her voice is low, lilting notes with a coarseness at their edges, the words like twisting vines. It prickles the hair on Rosario's arms, sends a creeping shiver up her spine. On a paranoid impulse, she steals a glance over her shoulder, just to reassure herself that no goblin eyes are staring back from behind the silent tombstones.
Of course they're not. There's nobody else around to hear, human or otherwise. It's just Lyra and her, and she's being stupid. A few bars of a creepy song isn't gonna summon up the faerie court from wherever-the-hell. (It's not, right?)
"Dark, yeah," she agrees, reaching for the bottle to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. "Do you wanna remember it all? I mean, you wouldn't rather keep some things, y'know— locked?"