Rosario gave Lyra's hand a supportive squeeze, not trusting herself to speak.
Information was what she'd wanted, and Elaine and Johnny couldn't have been more generous with it. They were offering answers, contacts, leads to follow; they were telling her in every way they could that she wasn't losing her mind, she and Lyra hadn't gone crazy. She should've been reassured by that, at least.
But knowing that she wasn't crazy meant having to deal with the realisation that the world was, and Rosario's head was swimming enough from the dead woman from the forest and the faeries and the Archer of it all without contemplating stories manifesting as people and belief warping the universe and wizards owning comedy clubs and the saints her abuela prayed to walking round and fathering kids like normal people and demigods—
The question was still there, pressing on her chest like a physical weight. She didn't want to ask it, she was dreading the answer, but she couldn't walk out the door not knowing, it was gonna eat her alive. So as Elaine stood and crossed to the kitchen bench, Rosario screwed up her courage and forced herself to say, "What— what does that mean, demigod? I mean, I, I know what the word means, but how—" Her voice caught again, snagged on a ragged edge, but it was too late for second thoughts. "How are we different?"