Archive of Our Own

The Stinger

“Your mother is going to kill me someday,” Father says, flopping down onto the sofa next to her and picking up the newspaper.

Like, that’s an acceptable image to plant in the impressionable head of his young daughter.

“And when she does, it’ll be up to you to avenge me,” he says with the same tone, like he’s discussing sport with the boring men Mother has over for tea.

He stuffs his pipe into his teeth, looking very much like the wooden man he is. Lyra picks at her hands, feeling her ears go hot. She likes it when Father chooses to spend time with her, to sit in her presence, where Pan can play around Stelmaria’s paws. Today, she feels like getting up to see if any of the gyptian child are close enough to play with instead.

She heard the yelling coming from Mother’s study before Father came huffing down the hall and into the reading room. He never pays much attention to Lyra, preferring to have her bear witness to his thoughts, so she gets away with stuffing one of the forbidden books between the couch cushions to pick up later.

Mother’s down the hall on the wire with someone important, she spots Lyra--no matter how invisible Lyra tries to make herself and beckons her.

“Where are you going?” Mother asks.

“Out to play,” Lyra gestures outside.

Mother’s face goes through a journey of emotions before settling on acceptance, the cranky kind where her upper lip twitches. Lyra walks towards the stairs with the calm kind of purpose, the one full of nervous energy just waiting to explode out of her once Mother’s back is turned. She makes it to the bannister and is mounting it when her neckerchief is held in place, keeping her from sliding.

Oberyn stands there, black eyes offering up no argument. Lyra groans, rolls her eyes, and dismounts.

“Kiss,” Oberyn rasps.

Pan pads back up the few steps he’s gone down and shifts into a lemur, pressing his muzzle against Oberyn’s.

“Sundown, no later,” Oberyn says, his tone matching Mother’s so well.

Lyra nods, deciding to push the limits of sundown’s definition. She probably shouldn’t, not when Mother’s in A Mood. But, if she and Father are at odds, then anything Lyra does can be a slight against the other, and this is the best time to get something she wants.

Maybe she’ll ask for a bike again.

She jumps from the gargoyles marking the entryway to the Belacqua family manor down to the ground, making sure to roll to protect her ankles.

Compared to Oxford, Berkshire is terribly dull.

 

This Be The Verse

By Philip Larkin

 

 

 

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

    They may not mean to, but they do.   

They fill you with the faults they had

    And add some extra, just for you.

 

But they were fucked up in their turn

    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

    And half at one another’s throats.

 

Man hands on misery to man.

    It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

    And don’t have any kids yourself.

This is where we begin

Sometimes, the dreams of an orphan come true. At age six, Lyra Belacqua’s uncle, Asriel, arrives in a fancy car with a fancy woman, and the promise to take her to a fancy new home.

Lyra looks at the tilt of the woman’s head and thinks of stories of wicked stepmothers. The kind who leave children in the woods to wander hungry and be captured or eaten. Naturally, she’s wary of the soft voiced woman in a fur that matches both her monkey daemon, and Uncle Asriel’s hair, when she crouches down to speak to Lyra.

“Lyra, that’s such a pretty name. How would you like to come home with us? It might not be as exciting as Oxford, but we’ve got plenty of books, horses, and,” the next part of what she says seems to be said around a stone in her throat, “chocolatl. I’ve heard it’s your favourite.”

Lyra withholds judgement, crossing her pudgy little arms and frowning. She wants to hide behind Uncle Asriel’s legs, but Stelmaria is standing there like a statue. The Golden Monkey daemon keeps close, looking at Lyra with an emotion she can’t identify. Mrs. Belacqua holds a finger up, making her face look comically surprised as she reaches for her clutch, “Oh! I forgot. I brought you something.”

It’s a necklace, the sparkly kind, covered in shiny rocks that glitter, even under the pale grey sun. Mrs. Belacqua looks funny when she smiles, like her mouth is practiced at doing it, but her eyes aren’t. Still, the necklace is hypnotic, and Lyra stretches her neck out to look at the stones. She keeps still as it’s wrapped around her neck.

Mrs. Belacqua is very careful not to scratch her, even with her long nails, as she clips the necklace into place.

“There we go. See, it matches my ring, and your fa--Asriel’s brooch. Look. We all match. Like a properly family,” Mrs. Belacqua’s smile looks real this time. Lyra feels compelled to hug her, maybe because that’s what families are supposed to do, and maybe because Mrs. Belacqua looks pretty and soft. She smells nice, and clutches Lyra with a surprising intensity, knocking some of the air out of her.

Uncle Asriel overlooks them from his spot, talking to the master. He makes a face where he lets his brows dip and his mouth go slack--it’s an expression that Lyra will later recognize as the closest thing to affection he can feign.

So, Lyra’s small world is packed up and placed in the back of the fancy car, and they leave Oxford by road. She presses a hand to the window, seeing the figures of gyptians who’d wandered inland. She likes to think it’s to say, ‘goodbye’, and not to yell at her for tearing open that bag of grain this morning.

Mrs. Belacqua insists that Lyra call her, “Mother” and Uncle Asriel, “Father” . Like a real family. With a Mummy, a Daddy, and Lyra as the baby.

It doesn’t feel right on the tongue, but Mrs. Belacqua washes Lyra’s hair, and dresses her in nice clothes, so she tries. She practices under her breath.

“I miss Oxford,” Pan whines, pressed against her chest, “I miss getting to run around. It’s so boring here. All they do is read and have tea.”

Lyra quietly agrees, stroking his fur, “We’ll get to go North soon enough Pan, with Unc-- Father , and Mother won’t be able to throw any more of her stuffy dinner parties.”

It takes one tantrum to get the truth. Lyra’s torn her dress and throwing her mouth back, howling like a shrieking monkey, “You can’t boss me around! My real parents wouldn’t treat me this way!”

Mrs. Belacqua’s nice face falls away, and Lyra learns to fear God, because God’s real name is Mother , and she marches forward like an ink stain, black curls brushing her cheeks as she bares down on Lyra.

“You don’t have any other parents! And, so help me God, I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it. Thirteen! Thirteen bloody hours in labour, Lyra. And, you think you have the right to be ungrateful? Every breath you take is because of me! I ruined my body for you! So you could sit there and insult me. Don’t you dare tell me how your real parents would or wouldn’t treat you!”

Lyra spends the afternoon sitting in her closet crying, feeling the eyes of Mother’s golden monkey outside, peering in through the slats as she cries louder and strokes Pan--who has turned into a soft white cat.

The door eventually opens, more gently than she wrenched it shut.

“Lyra, dinner is ready,” Mother’s recomposed herself, curled piled back into place, and lips paler, the rouge removed.

Lyra hugs her knees closer, snuffling tears, “I’m not hungry.”

Mother sighs, “You had to learn the truth one way or another. We shan’t have you going around with false pretenses anymore.”

“If you are my mother then why did you abandon me?” Lyra asks around the flesh of her arm.

Mother closes her eyes and scrunches her face up like Lyra does when she’s getting a needle, “I never wanted to, Darling. Mummy and Daddy had to protect you from the world until it was safe for you to come home. And, now that you’re home, I just want us to be a normal, happy family. Do you think we can be that, Lyra?” Mother’s eyes are soft and pleading. Lyra can’t help but nod, feeling the impulse to give Mother whatever she desires.

In penance, Mother scoops her up and carries her from her room, bouncing her on her hip, and to the wash basin to clean the tears off her face and ready her for dinner.

Father sits stone faced at the head of the table, pointedly indifferent to the dramas of the afternoon.

“Glad to see that’s sorted,” he says with a brush of his moustache.

“This whole thing is so terribly gauche. Bold, but gauche. A party to parade their bastard around. Have they no shame? After what they did to Edward?”

Lyra’s watching the woman with the peacock daemon declare this to her companions, fluttering a fan in front of her face to hide suspicion. Lyra frowns, stuffing another grape into her mouth. She likes the sweetness, and how they pop between her teeth.

A hand pulls her out from under the table in a sweeping motion. It’s Mother, with her eyes hard and her mouth soft.

“There you are, Darling. I want to introduce you to Lady Estrella,” she says, hiding dragging Lyra by linking their hands.

“Who’s Edward?” Lyra asks, once she’s finished chewing. (Mother already spanked her for talking with her mouth full.)

Mother’s gait staggers, but she recovers quickly enough, “He was a bad man. I’ll tell you all about it when you’re older.”

Lyra stows that information away, needing the right bargaining chip, but having the topic to pursue.

For the rest of the evening, Mother keeps her close, steering from one boring conversation to another, preening when people remark on Lyra’s beauty and how she gets it from her mother . Lyra nods, wishing she were playing beneath the tables with the other three children in attendance.

Mother finally frees her in the company of Father, who is entertaining a crowd of young scholars with stories about his northern exploits. Mother glides into the conversation like a hot knife, placing Lyra’s hand in Father’s, and leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“The Magisterium are here to discuss my proposal,” she whispers.

Father stiffens, but nods, cupping Mother’s hip with his free hand, then kissing her in acknowledgement.

“Sorry, Gentleman, where was I?” he asks, dropping Lyra’s hand for his glass of scotch. There’s a nervous laugh of approval.

Lyra remembers fading in and out between the story about the bears and the one about the witches.

When she awakens, the people are gone, and she’s being carried up the stairs by Father’s arms. She plays still, plays asleep, because it’s rare for him to hold her like this.

“Was the evening the success you hoped for?” Father's voice rumbles against her ear. 

Mother must have taken her shoes off because her footsteps are silent, “Wins and losses. Naturally, the rumour mill was in a frenzy this evening. Lyra asked me who Edward was.”

“She won’t let that one go, it’s best to tell her before she finds out from someone else and you’re left playing damage control.”

“She’s too young to understand,” Mother breezes.

“She’s more grown up than you give her credit for,” Father says.

Lyra wants to nod in agreement. Yes! She is grown up, thanks. Mother just wants her to act like a baby forever.

“Then you can tell her,” Mother says.

They’re in Lyra’s room now, removing her shoes and jewelry. Pan yawns against her chest and she knows the time for feigning sleep has past.

“Is the party over?” she flutters her lashes and frowns, going for cute confusion.

“Yes, my love, everyone’s gone home,” Mother’s voice is a hush and she’s looking at Lyra with unguarded adoration. Lyra groans as Father steps aside, letting the hard light hit her eyes.

“I’ll let you get undressed,” he says, clearing his throat.

“Daddy,” Lyra reaches out for him.

His lips are prickly and his breath sour as they brush Lyra’s forehead, “Goodnight, Lyra.”

“Night, Father,” Lyra says.

Mother puts her to bed with a hum and a kiss, one long finger reaching down to stroke Pan’s soft white head. Lyra shudders and squirms, but doesn’t dislike it. Sometimes Oberyn will hold her hand, or Stelmaria will lick her cheek. They’re her parents' daemons, so of course Mother is like Pan’s mum.

Once the light’s out, Lyra’s eyes snap open and she darts to the door to peak.

Mother and Father sway at the end of the hall, wrapped in a dancer’s embrace, but Father’s face and hands wander and Lyra hears Mother’s gasp. There's a thump as she hits the wall, then Mother's hands sliding into Father's back pockets. Kissing noises.

“Gross,” she whispers, closing the door with a click. No secrets tonight, just grown up stuff.

She doesn’t even have to ask. She crawls up to sit next to Father while he’s reading the paper, and for a time she thinks he’s ignoring her, but he turns the page and says, “Edward Coulter was your mother’s first husband.”

This little truth is intoxicating, like fruit on the tongue. Father continues, “Your mother was married to him when she got pregnant with you.”

“Is he my father then?” Lyra asks.

Father laughs loudly, like a surprising shot. He lowers his paper and holds a hand out for Lyra to press hers against. She compares their hand sizes and the shades of difference between their skin. She’s darker than Mother, but lighter than Father. He lowers his fingers until he’s trapping her smaller hand in his. “No. And that’s why he tried to kill you.”

Killing and death are still abstract concepts to Lyra, so she’s just caught in the danger and the adventure of the story.

“It’s why you had to spend so many years at Jordan College. Your mother and I had to stand trial for Edward’s murder,” he snorts, “We got the best lawyer in the country, and still, I don’t think anyone could’ve sold it except your mum.”

There’s this fond glimmer in his eye, like the memory of evading justice for murder is a treasured one he keeps on the mantle of his subconscious.

“We had to legitimize you in the eyes of the law and before God himself. Spun a grand yarn about how your mum and I actually met and eloped when she was a teenage girl, but were separated by the war, and assumed the other dead. That her marriage to Edward was technically the nullified one, since death had not parted us. Magisterium didn’t buy it, but the public did love all of the gossip.”

It does sound like a fairytale. She sees it in her mind's eye. The princess waits for her true love to return from war, but is tricked by a wicked king into thinking her beloved dead. And, in her heartbreak, is forced to marry the wicked king. But! Her true love returns, and together they slay the wicked king. True love triumphing over evil, and all else. But. Lyra picks at the sofa, she wants to know the good details. How did they kill Mr. Coulter? Did Lyra play a part? Was it her infant self who fired the final shot?

“Six years of that bloody circus, now we’re chained to the Magisterium in debt, and they still took half my lands,” his moustache bristles.

That does stick with Lyra, “Is that why Mother always has the smelly old men over?”

“That’s why,” Father says.

Lyra frowns, ruminating on that.

“Can I see the gun? Was it a gun? Did you duel him?”

“What?! No! They took the gun. We don’t have it.”

Father looks at Lyra with some alarm at her young morbidity. God, she is so much like her mother sometimes. 

“Aww.”

Lyra doesn’t really know Mother until Father leaves them both for the North. His return date is a vague spot in the future. Before you know it , he said. Like a liar.

Mother starts all smiles, pleased to have Lyra all to herself to homeschool. To mould. 

The battle of wills that follows is over leisure time versus arithmetic, language, and etiquette lessons. Mother can use her angry calm voice all she wants, but Lyra is faster and escapes to the roof. This becomes her lynchpin in their arguments. They'll fight, and she'll flee to the roof. 

"Lyra, it's starting to rain!" Mother cries from the balcony. 

Lyra folds her arms, ready to buckle down with the sluicing water. 

This is when Lyra learns two important lessons about her mother: 1. Her mother has a monkey daemon for a reason. 2. Her mother will doggedly follow her into any dangerous situation, either by love or pure spite. 

Seeing her mother climb with alarming speed and that look in her eye that means a spanking is promised is learning the fear of God all over again. 

"The view is rather lovely from up here," Mother says breathlessly, holding a squirming Lyra. 

She hates Mother when he leaves and Father when he returns. It's Mother's fault that he runs away. She's too needy, too henpecking, too much. She chases him away and Lyra has to pay the consequences. Father leaves for five months, disappearing into the ice and snow of his research. When he returns it is with less of the hero worshipping sheen she used to have and one of suspicion. Why does he need to be gone so long? Who is with him out there? Why does he run away in the first place? It’s the kind of thing she knows Mother thinks about, because she’ll catch her. Muttering about young research assistants, and the allure of witches like the colours of the aurora.

But, Father has returned, and she remembers the way her heart used to leap into her chest upon his arrival. How she wanted all of his stories and attention. Now she wants him to get back on his airship. Away, away from their house and back to his ice and snow. It’s like Mother says. They’re better off without him.

He’s got more silver in his hair and a face like a polecat that Mother is currently attacking with her expensive creams.

“Honestly, Asriel, you can’t be bothered to wear any sun lotion? We have arrangements all week and my husband looks like a leather bound book.”

Stelmaria leans over to Lyra to whisper, “Notice how even when she’s angry, she still possesses us?”

Father stands still, scrunching his face only on the occasion that Mother prods an eye or nostril too hard.

“I’m out there most every day, Marisa, no cream lasts that long,” he lies.

Mother doesn’t fall for it, “If I can look this good when I visit the North, then so can you.”

“I’ll never look as good as you, Marisa,” Father says with a charming slant of the mouth, and Mother swats his cheek for it. But drops her lashes to bat them and accepts the kiss he presses to her finger.

Lyra’s come to understand that Mother and Father don’t really communicate with their words. This could be a gibberish conversation for all they’re saying. They’re physical creatures, like she is, wild animals that got rounded up by some shepherd years ago and stuffed into their shirts and sheep masks.

Which is why, no matter how hard Mother tries to keep Lyra’s sheep mask on, Lyra always finds herself running off to the fields to howl.

She refuses to respond to Father when he asks her about her schooling, or about what she’s been doing. Mother smiles with her sharp teeth, having won in the tug of war they have.

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” he says, lowering his knife and fork, “I intended to be home sooner than I was. I’ll take you into town and buy you whatever you like to make up for it.”

Lyra gets up and leaves the table. Mother does not follow her, but Oberyn does, keeping an eye from the stairs.

(She’s furious when she goes to retire in Mother’s bed and finds the door locked. Nanny reads her a story instead, and all Lyra feels is betrayal. She feels it the next morning too when they’re giggling at the breakfast table like she’s not even there.)

Lyra runs away. Because they don’t care. They’ve never cared. All they care about is each other, and tea with Minister so-and-so, and dust . Which is something she’s not supposed to know about, but she’s pretty sure it’s not the housekeeping type, because neither of them have ever held a broom. It’s a different kind of dust. The kind that’s only whispered about.

The further she and Pan get, the more she turns to look back, both hoping and fearing they’ll be running after her. That they’ll be looking for Lyra, and she won’t be there. Serves them right. To not love her. To trick her like this. A nasty trick played by nasty grown ups. Pretending to be her parents. Pretending to love her, but ignoring her. Missing her birthday. She was better off as an orphan, so an orphan she’ll be.

“Lyra, we should go back,” Pan says, nervously chittering as a little bird.

Lyra puffs out her cheeks and walks faster.

Ma Costa lets her onto the boat with a wary eye.

“Your mum and dad, they know you’re out here, right?” she says.

Lyra nods, hoping her red eyes and dusty tear tracks don’t give her away.

She plays with Billy because Tony says he doesn’t play with babies anymore, and goes out to help bring some fish in instead.

Lyra and Billy are in the middle of an elaborate wooden airship battle, full of crashing noises and explosions when Pan’s ears pick up a knock at the door. Lyra’s attention is stretched between the fantasy of being a sky pirate alongside Captain Billy and Ma Costa’s low voice versus a higher one.

“Lyra, your mum’s here to take you home.”

She flinches, then sneaks a glance up from the toy she’s playing with. Mother stays at the threshold, perfect hair out of place and wild, and stockings torn at the knee. She and Oberyn both look like they’re being held back by invisible leashes.

Lyra takes her time packing up, caught between not wanting to anger Mother further with disobedience, and wanting to prolong the inevitable punishment.

It’s Pan who overhears Ma Costa talking to Mother.

“. . .assumed she was putting on a brave face. She’s a tough one, your girl, but her heart’s very soft.”

“Do you think I don’t know my own child?” Mother’s voice is frosty.

The silence makes Lyra think Ma Costa is going to say something more. She finishes, lamely, with, “It’s not my place.”

“No, it isn’t.”

They wave goodbye to the gyptians and dismount, back onto dry land, with the dragonflies, and the crunchy dirt under foot.

The grip Mother keeps on Lyra’s wrist is bruising, “Stop! You’re hurting me!” Lyra cries out.

Mother whirls on her, eyes bigger and shinier than Lyra’s seen them, “Do you know what could have happened to you out here? Do you know, child of mine, that there are men? Men, who, even when unarmed, are armed with enough to do unspeakable things to a girl like you. That there are those who will take you and hold you captive for mine and Father’s money? Lyra! You could’ve been dead or worse! But, no, you never think of the danger. You’re just like Asriel, always running off to chase this or that and never thinking!”

It’s fear, and heartache, and exhaustion, that breaks Lyra down into red-faced tears.

Mother’s rage deflates, and the leashes on her and Oberyn go slack. She scoops Lyra up in her arms, and pushes her up and onto her horse. The pretty black one Father got Mother for her birthday.

With the rhythm of the horse below, and Mother’s arms and scent all around her, Lyra drifts off to sleep.

Mother starts throwing up after Father leaves again. Lyra thinks it might be from all of the drink. Mother leans heavily on black bottles of dark wine after every meal. But, she throws up even in the mornings, when she’s had nothing to drink at all.

Lyra knows, because it wakes her up. She’s drowning in Father’s pillow when she hears the retching. She pretends not to, though, feeling like she’s keeping Mother’s secret.

It’s a baby, she learns. That is making Mother sick. The doctor comes and tells Lyra with a smile and a lolly, that she is to be an older sister.

“I remember when my mother was pregnant with my little brother,” Mother tells her as she brushes Lyra’s hair into soft waves--so they match. “I was angry because it meant I would no longer have all the attention, but pleased, because it was easier to sneak away.” She kisses the back of Lyra’s head, “So, I’ll understand if you have similar reservations.”

Lyra avoids eye contact in the mirror, feeling like her own thoughts are foolish in comparison. It’s Pan who speaks up, “It’ll be nice to have someone to play with.”

Mother’s belly has been getting rounder, and Lyra’s been enjoying listening to it. To her little brother in there. Mother knows it’s a boy, because she and Lyra are the same--unlike Father, who is an only child. Father, who is, again, delayed in returning home, but promises he’ll be there for the baby’s first cry.

Lyra wakes up, not to Mother retching, but to a wet bed, like when she was freshly little. Except. Except it smells terrible. She lifts a hand, black and sticky in the moonlight. Her eyes drift to find Mother looking faint. Her breaths are shallow and her skin waxy. 

She’s heard the wrenching, screeching, clanking of two automobiles colliding in town. She imagines that an airship crash sounds ten times as worse. And, that’s the noise that fills her head as she screams, looking down at Mother dying.

It’s Uncle Marcel, not Father, who arrives like a gust of wind to save the day. They roll his sleeve up and attach a needle and tube. Blood. Bags of it to replace all Mother has lost. Lyra offers her’s, because she’s made of Mother, so her blood should match. They smile thinly and tell her she’s too young. Instead, she stands on the balcony and watches the cleaning staff drag the bloody bed out into the yard. 

Her brother is stuffed into a coffin too small even for a baby. He was dead before he could take a breath. They never even got to meet his daemon.

Father arrives on the evening wind, looking paler than Lyra’s ever seen him. The wooden man did not return from the North. The man who is her father claws at Mother’s bed in his agony. He bypasses the machines keeping her alive and presses his lips to her head, eyes closing to hide the glimmer in his eyes.

“Marisa,” he whispers, “You have to wake up, I can’t do this without you.”

And Lyra silently begs Mother too, because Father’s right. Without Mother, Lyra will be sent to boarding school, allowed to return home once her daemon has settled and her father won’t have to care for her.

The blood takes, and the colour returns to Mother’s cheeks. Her breaths are normal, not shallow and fast. Lyra falls asleep at the foot of the bed, Pan curled between her and Mother’s leg.

Lyra waits until breakfast to lunge at Father.

He holds her in the air, reflexes trained for Tartars and armoured bears. Lyra’s still proud of the blow her flailing lands on his jaw.

“You could’ve killed her!” she screams, “She almost died!”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Father hisses, but his heart isn’t in it.

“En’t it? Good fathers look after their babies. That’s why he left! He knew you’d be a terrible father and didn’t want you ruining everything like you always do! He made the right choice. I wish you weren’t my father either!”

Slap.

Lyra holds her cheek in shock. Father pants, but doesn’t look ashamed, his eyes are still hard.

“You don’t even know what to say, do you? You can’t even punish me right,” Lyra scoffs, leaving.

Father doesn't know what to do. But, he does stay this time. 

He takes a job at Oxford, teaching experimental theology, and on Lyra’s birthday, he gets her a spotted pony.

He still doesn’t apologize.

Tabitha Bennett learns the hard way that calling Lyra a bastard and her mother a whore will get her nose broken and sand kicked in her face. Lyra has to be pulled off by two schoolmarms to save Tabitha’s teeth. The punishment is a switch that makes both sitting and standing uncomfortable. But, worse than that, is Mother’s arrival at school. The click-click-click of her heels and the slapping of Oberyn’s paws. Lyra closes her eyes and clenches her teeth, and when she opens them Mother is standing in front of her, all whites of her eyes and clenched jaw.

“Mother--”

“You will wait in the car.”

She does. For what feels like hours, ears trained for gunshots coming from the principal’s office. Nothing. Just more approaching heels and the car door opening. Mother sits up front with the driver and Lyra tests the locks on the doors as they drive. Just in case she needs to make an escape.

“I don’t care what low bred children like Tabitha Bennett say, Lyra, you can’t just hit other girls,” Mother says over tea and some of her favourite cakes.

See, this is another case of Mother’s words being meaningless. They’re sitting at the fanciest bakery in town, and Lyra can feel the pride radiating off her.

“She needed to learn to watch her mouth. Now she’s had that lesson,” Lyra says, eating a lemon tart in two bites.

Mother brushes some crumbs away from Lyra’s cheek, looking a little morose, “Darling, you know that such matters require more of a needle approach than that of a hammer.”

“You be the needle, I’ll be the hammer,” Lyra says.

Mother laughs at that and Oberyn runs his fingers down Pan’s spine. It’s one of those precarious moments where Lyra isn’t sure if this is a caress or a warning. They so often blend together. 

“Violence is the language of beasts. There are other ways of getting what you want that won’t have you labelled as a brute or worse.”

Lyra fires back, “You hit me. Are you a beast?”

Laws of etiquette and social propriety are the only thing restraining Mother from lunging across the table at Lyra. Lyra knows this and uses the fuming pause to smugly eat her cake. Mother exhales a few times.

“It is different. A child must be disciplined.”

“Yes, and I was disciplining her,” Lyra licks some cream off a spoon, just because she can.

“She is a stranger to your house, it’s against the law.”

“So I can only hit someone who is a member of my family? Suppose like you did to Edwa--”

Oberyn hauls Pan down by the tail under the table and Mother’s lips are alarmingly thin and pale.

“What is it you seek to do with this confrontation, Lyra? What outcome are you possibly reaching for with testing my patience so?”

Lyra feels a flare of anger at the injustice, and after years of being dragged around by the ear by the woman across from her, Lyra and Pan are getting a bit numb to the pain.

“You’re a scholar, but also a theologian, so it’s not like you’re attached to logic anyway,” Lyra says.

Mother’s lip curls, and it’s satisfying, knowing right where to strike. Mother’s academic pride. Her brilliant mind. Marisa Coulter, who aches with the desire to be a respected professor. One of the great minds of her age, left wasting away as a socialite.

“What logic are you trying to use to leverage your argument?” Mother says, treating her syllables like vegetables on the kitchen cutting board.

“You’re a hypocrite,” Lyra hisses.

Mother gets that smug scholar look, “Oh, Lyra, that’s not an argument. That’s a personal attack. Ad hominem is such an ugly way to ruin all of one’s prior points. Not to worry, we’ll go over logical fallacies during your studies this week. Seeing as I’ll be doing your schooling until the end of your suspension,” Mother’s smile is placid.

“If you can explain your argument with reason then you don’t need force,” Lyra fires back and Pan kicks Oberyn hard in the chest. He escapes from reach, climbing onto the table (much to the shock of their fellow diners) then perches on Lyra’s shoulder as a golden monkey. And, based on the look of awe Mother is giving her, it’s a lot like winning and losing. 

Mother takes her to London when Father is North and Mother is needed. There's progress on the project for the Magisterium. The one that keeps Mother in her study swearing over documents, or, has her running off first thing in the morning to a laboratory Lyra isn't allowed to visit. 

The Penthouse is hallowed ground. A space Mother had designed all on her own. It lacks the age and lacquer of Belacqua Manor. It's all fresh marble and slick brass.

"I thought you might like something a little older," Mother says, showing Lyra her room with contained enthusiasm. Lyra sees it, though, in the swish of Oberyn's tail, and the twitch of Mother's lip. 

The room is beautiful and soft. Whites and seafoams, less cluttered than her room, but it does feel grown up. Sophisticated. 

She can feel Mother's anticipation souring. 

"I love it," Lyra says with a big smile. To prove this, she belly flops onto the bed and starts making a fabric starfish of herself, "I'm drowning!"

"Come on, let me show you the terrace," Mother says from the door. Lyra obliges, extricating herself from comfort. 

The view would be amazing if not for all the buildings in the way. London's nothing like Oxford or Berkshire. People and concrete as far as the eye can see. It could do with more water and trees if you ask Lyra.

"Let's have breakfast here every morning, weather allowing," Mother says. 

It's very urbane of them, two ladies living in the heart of London. But, this comes with more schooling, since Mother's spending even more time in the lab. 

The girls in London know things. They know about boys, and cigarettes, and boxing clubs just for girls. Lyra finds herself, not exactly the queen of popularity, but part of the pack. Not an outsider, like in Berkshire. (And, not the only mixed girl for a change.) The girls here aren't afraid to tear their dresses or sweet talk a man into buying them an ice cream. It’s the same thing, really, Lyra realizes, as she watches Mother laugh too loudly at some dull comment Lord Boreal is proud of. It’s about the angle of the head, and the batting of the lashes. She studies the mastery of it now, now that she’s had a taste of the game herself. It’s about how much you can get for how little you give. Some crocodile tears gets her a bag of peanuts and a ten pound note from a kindly, if stressed looking man. Hitching her skirt up higher and biting her lip gets a bottle of the clear alcohol from a boy with a snag toothed smile. He tries to get more but she runs, and her friend, Mary, helps with the distraction. They all end up on a rooftop, laughing from above as he curses and retreats. It’s the men he brings back with him. The ones with knives and leather jackets that makes them run. Stick to the rooftops. Don’t do that again.

The game, Lyra understands, is dangerous. But, she’s a Belacqua, and they never learn their lessons when it comes to danger.

Mother’s playing her own dangerous game, and it’s Lyra dancing around her for it. Marisa is volatile. Some days she comes home and immediately reaches for the expensive bottle of Scotch. Lyra creeps around on these days. She plays the role of perfect child, because Mother will look for any excuse to pick a fight. To wrestle control back from someone in her life. So, Lyra is obedient, watching each microexpression and waiting for that tense leash to go slack.

Some nights she’ll come home with drooping curls and tear soaked cheeks, and she’ll totter into Lyra’s room to collapse on her. These nights are easier. The nights when Lyra is a sweet pet meant to hold and comfort. Mother will tell her that she is important, and special, and that she’ll always be Mother’s baby.

So, when Mother comes home from a Magisterium meeting looking like she’s been deflated, Lyra doesn’t dare ask. Instead, after dinner, she runs a bath. Mother squints at her in suspicion as Lyra leads her into the perfumed bubbles and heady air. Oberyn takes his usual spot, giving them privacy in a way that is so much like Father, that sometimes Lyra wonders about the nature of daemons. If Father fell for Mother because she is like Stel, and Mother for Father because he and Oberyn are the same.

“What are you doing?” Mother asks.

“I’m washing your hair,” Lyra says lightly. And, she does, she gathers the hair, coats it in the citrus shampoo that Mother favours, then massages her fingers around Mother’s scalp, they way she does when their roles are reversed.

“This is nice. Why are you being so nice?” Mother asks.

“Because you look tired.”

“Tired is another way of saying a woman looks old,” Mother huffs.

“You can be young and tired.”

Mother slides further into the tub, sulking.

“Did you secure the funding?” Lyra asks in the lull.

Mother sighs, leaning back against the tub, “Almost. There are obstacles. Largely the Magisterium. They despise progress unless they’re the ones behind it, yet refuse to fund research projects. Want it both ways, I s’ppose.”

“And how do you do it? Secure the funding, I mean?” Lyra asks.

Pan creeps across the floor, taking the red lemur form they’ve been practicing lately. He sits behind Oberyn and begins to groom him. His father is suspicious, much like Lyra can feel Mother’s own guard go up.

Still, she is an arrogant creature, and being asked about herself is never something she can resist.

“All manipulation boils down to one thing, my Lyra. You must have something the other party wants. Men are easy, because they all want one thing, and it’s one thing all women have,” Mother gives Lyra a sardonic look, “As I’m sure you know by now.”

Lyra lowers her eyes, feeling her cheeks go hot. Mother reaches out, sloshing bathwater as she does, and strokes Lyra’s cheek.

“You musn’t feel ashamed because of them, my love. They will look. They always look, whether you draw attention to yourself or not. Because they see you as prey, and they are always hungry.”

“Is that what the Magisterium wants?” Lyra asks.

Mother’s lip curls and she snorts humourlessly, “In a way, yes. But more than that, they want something even more intoxicating.”

Pan is careful in his nitpicking, smoothing his fingers through Oberyn’s hair. The same way Lyra is doing to Mother right now, trying to keep her touch steady and her breath even. The bait has been laid out, and mother’s nosing her way into Lyra’s trap.

“What’s that?” Lyra asks, idly, like she’s humouring Mother.

“Control,” Mother says.

“And you can give them that?”

“That’s the idea,” Mother’s smile spreads wide, and Lyra understands. They are, after all, both liars.

The big hall here is almost as big as the one at home. Same old stone, same old wood, same old money. 

It’s a fundraiser, and Mother is smearing rouge on Lyra’s lips. It’s darker than the pink she stole. The one she keeps in her schoolbag and applies once she arrives. This colour makes her look like a child aping an old woman’s tastes, but she’d never say that aloud. To dare imply that Mother’s aesthetics might be outdated. Instead, she bares looking like a girl who’s gotten into her mother’s makeup bag for an evening, because it does work its own charm. She’ll be seen, but disregarded. Lady Belacqua’s bastard-not-bastard, trotted out like a trained monkey to serve canapes. And, she’ll do it, because so many people keep loose tongues around children.

Her dress is a few shades brighter than Mother’s, of course, because they must match. Marisa Belacqua must take some time out of any occasion to draw attention to their similarities. To crow about her daughter’s excellence. (Even if it is largely exaggerated, whether about Lyra’s academics, manners, or prospects. Lyra’s really just good at climbing, fighting, and lying. But, as a Belacqua, that is part of her inheritance.)

She shoves the plate of canapes into a servant’s hand and slides between a wall and a curtain, having spotted what she was looking for. It’s excitement that flops around in her stomach, as she watches Mother work her magic.

The room is secluded, bigger than a closet, but intimate. Somewhere one wouldn’t want to be caught.

Pretty crystal tears glaze Mother’s cheeks. Lord Carlo Boreal hands her his handkerchief, and she dabs under her eyes, making that smile. The one that is endearingly embarrassed and just a little broken. Lyra schools her own features into a mirror of it. Pan crawls into the crook of her shoulder and neck, changing into a chameleon. She strokes a finger down his back.

“. . .I fear him. That’s--that’s what the Oblation Board is really about, I suppose,” Mother sniffs, “If I can get enough support from the Magisterium, then perhaps,” she gets a faraway look in her eyes and smiles so brittle, Lyra feels her own heart ache. Mother clears her throat and stiffens her posture, “Then, perhaps I can finally be free of him. I just don’t want to tip my hand. He may take it out on Lyra. Like, the way he took it out on poor Rivan. ” Her hand goes above her womb, a poor mockery of motherhood. How. Dare. She? Lyra grits her teeth. Liar. Liar. Liar. It beats in her chest. Lyra’s nails dig into her palms. Mother squeezes Lord Boreal’s forearm, “I’m sorry. This is all very dramatic of me. You’ve been too kind, to comfort me, and allow me to entertain such silly notions.”

“Not at all,” his voice is soft and comforting, “If you need anything. . ..”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask.”

“I’ll talk to the other members of the board. See what we can do.”

Hook. Line. Sinker.

Lyra waits until they’re both gone before sliding away back through the curtain. She smooths her dress as she exits, only to find Oberyn waiting for her. He smiles, “Did you enjoy the show?”

Lyra averts her eyes, surveying the party instead and startling as they land on a familiar figure. Her heart still leaps when she sees him, despite years of schooling it for disappointment. Father . The high collar of his kurta is decorated with golden thread, and the green of it matches Mother’s dress exactly.

“Stel ,” Oberyn whispers with his whole body, turning to look for his mate longingly.

And, he is allowed to go to her, because it is Mother’s party. Of course Father would arrive to be supportive. The delight at seeing one another is genuine. They’re always the poorest actors around each other. Like card players so engaged in talking that they show their hands. Mother must project fear, animosity. Father doesn’t have to do much, already seen as a fox in the hen house of polite Brytish society. But, aloof and dangerous doesn’t hurt. Instead, he embraces his wife with tenderness, and she winds herself around him the way a cat would. It’s Pan who has to save the day, by turning into a cub and trotting past his parents to say, “Boreal is watching.”

Mother looks fearfully over her shoulder, and Father tightens his grip on her from affectionate to forceful. 

Feeling accomplished, Lyra steals a bottle of wine and makes her way upstairs. If she’s to be an accomplice like this, she feels like they should pay her better.

It’s auditory trauma. No amount of pillows can drown out the frantic lovemaking down the hall. Oh, how she misses the space and thick walls of Belacqua Manor. At least at home, she’s only stumbled across them like this while climbing from window to balcony. A confusing sight for her at age seven. Father, nude and hairy, mauling Mother to her noises of pain and delight. Like playfighting but not. And, when she asked about it, Mother turned a rare shade of pink.

“I’ll tell you about it when you’re older.”

(The cook’s boy told her. Sex , like what the dogs do. It feels good and it’s where babies come from. )

She’s eleven now, and it’s no longer a confusing concept. Just something she wishes they could do with any regard for her being in the apartment.

Giving up on sleep, she goes out to the terrace for a cigarette, and waits for the noise to subside. 

They have breakfast together the next day. Father, pretending to be paying attention to his paper, but Stel is tongue bathing Oberyn under the table. Lyra shudders into her mimosa. 

"Not for children," Father says, snatching it away from her. 

Lyra scoffs and looks to Mother for backup. Traitor. She's got her lip between her teeth, delighted to see the outcome of the power struggle. 

"Fine," Lyra grits out, pouring some coffee instead.

Then she procures a cigarette, taps it twice on the table and makes a grabbing gesture for Mother's lighter. She hands it to her. Tobacco fills her senses and lungs, the hit of nicotine being a nice pairing with eggs and fig. 

"Marisa!" Father cries out. 

"Yes, Darling?" Mother's having a rare indulgence of toast. 

"She's eleven!"

Lyra rolls her eyes. She sees Mother's mouth pinch to the side, and readies herself for the hit Father is about to take. 

"Right. If your lot'd raised her, she'd be getting ready for marriage about now."

"My lot?" Father repeats. He looks stricken a moment before hardening. 

Even Stelmaria and Oberyn have paused their grooming beneath the table, hackles raised. 

Lyra's mentally doing the logistics of how fast she can get dressed and out the door. She's fairly certain there's a boxing match scheduled for today. Or a picture show she can sneak into.

“I don’t know why you take such offense, Darling, that king blood you’re so proud of comes to you through child mothers.”

Lyra takes another sip of coffee before going for her room.

There’s broken glass on the terrace when she returns, but Mother is out there with two fingers of scotch and looking very relaxed. Lyra sits on the stone edge and accepts the drink Mother pours her.

“We got the funding,” she says.

“So?” Lyra asks.

“So, we’re moving.”

The North, as it turns out, is boring. It’s a juxtaposition to home. No long fields to run through, or Gyptian children to play with. No school to go to. Just long grey halls leading to wide studies, or canteens full of red-nosed and squinting scholars.

But, it is new, and there is mischief to be done. To her luck, studying is the only hyper focus that can tear Mother away from picking at Lyra. (Which has increased with little notes about how Lyra is becoming a woman and needs to watch how she does this or says that.)

No, Mother is cooped up in her lab, cigarette dangling between her lips and the big round glasses she never wears in public. Her hair is piled atop her head, and she’s been dressing almost exclusively in trousers and Father’s shirts. (How scandalous.) When Lyra tries saying things to her like:

“Mother, I’m going to the greenhouse.”

Or:

“Mother, I’ve burned the whole library down.”

She gets thoughtful responses like:

“That’s wonderful, Dear. Go find your father.”

Or:

“Sorry, Darling, can you hand me that piece of paper?”

So Lyra wanders, not worrying about Mother’s eye, but nearly falling off a ladder after finding Oberyn in the grate she meant to sneak into.

“How can you do that?” she gasps, holding her chest.

His tail twitches and he disappears back into the small tunnel, no doubt going to tattle on her.

“How does she do that?” Lyra asks Father.

He, like Mother, has flipped personalities when exposed to cold. Father is energetic, enthusiastic, and willing to entertain Lyra. He’s readying expedition equipment and prefers her nimble, smaller fingers for checking his knots anyway.

“Well, could be a lot of things,” he grunts, checking the straps of a harness, “Your mother is an extraordinary woman.” He says it as a fact, “My bet, though, has always been about her father.”

“What about him?” Lyra leans on the sled.

“Your mother’s father was a witch’s boy. See, witches have children with human men, but they can’t keep the boys. Magic doesn’t pass, see? So, they abandon their sons with mortal men and those sons are called witch-boys. And, though they don’t have all the powers of a witch, they are a different kind of special. Sadly, most hide their identity, so proper studies haven’t been conducted.”

“I’m part witch?” Lyra perks up.

“Part a lot things,” Father pauses to grab a sip of his tea.

“Do you think I can fly?” Lyra bounces on her feet.

“You’ve no pride in the Tsars and Sultans whose blood you carry, but you care about this? Some Dutch bastard?” he’s a little testy and a lot incredulous.

“Can a Sultan live hundreds of years?” Lyra fires back.

Father grunts.

Non-scholars at the Arctic Institute are rare (usually just staff) and children rarer, so Annie Briggs is a treat. A girl her own age, with dark braids and a toothy smile, and a daemon that favours lizard shapes. She’s never had a best friend before. It’s like a confidante, and a defender, and a sparring partner. Annie’s laugh is infectious, and she helps Lyra find all the secret corners of the Arctic Institute. Annie helps her steal wine from the cellar, and split the bottle, drinking it in an abandoned wing until the ceiling spins.

“I have a brother, you know,” lies fall from Lyra’s lips as if spun out of silk, “His name is Rivan and he’s in the Kashmir, training to be a Sultan like my great-grandfather.”

“What’s a Sultan?” Annie asks.

“It’s like a king,” Lyra says, but she can’t quite remember the distinction herself.

“So you’re a princess?” Annie lifts her head.

“Probably. Or something. Not the special kind anyway.”

“What about Rivan then? What makes him so special?” Annie says, sounding both suspicious, and offended on Lyra’s behalf.

“Rivan’s special because he’s perfect. Ever since the day he was born.” Lyra leaves out the part about dead children always being perfect, because he didn’t live long enough to be an annoyance to Mother and Father.

Annie knows wires and tidal charts. She tells Lyra about summers on the seaside, and about all the creatures she’d find on the beach. In return, Lyra tells her about stars, and Berkshire, and Dust . She whispers about the last one when they’re pressed together, nose to nose, in a fabric tent hastily assembled in the back of the library.

They adopt a new language, because Annie’s mother knows codes and linguistics, so they build an alphabet and a dialect that’s all their own. And, they swear on their pinkies to never share their speech with another soul.

Mother can detect Lyra’s shifting attention and the joy that goes with it, so naturally, she brings it up at dinner.

“I see Lyra’s got a new little friend.”

Lyra shrugs, pushing her food around and feigning indifference, “There are no other kids here.”

“It’s good. Having chums your own age,” Father says brightly, “The kind you can lean on later in life. I’ve spoken to the girl’s father. Bright man, inspecting the growth and shrinkage of ice.”

Mother is biting her lip and looking at Lyra. Pan burrows against her skin in his ermine form, keeping his paws and tail clear of his father. Oberyn, to his credit, is beneath the table stroking Stelmaria’s ears and observing dinner through mostly closed eyes.

“We should have them over for dinner then,” Mother says with too much enthusiasm.

A tightness squeezes Lyra’s chest. She wants to tell Annie to hide instead.

Lyra’s reading a mystery book when Mother enters without knocking. Lyra glares, but Mother is undeterred, shucking off her shoes before crawling onto the bed next to Lyra. Oberyn stands at the foot, observing. There’s a tension as Lyra stays still, unsure of what Mother wants. She flops down next to Lyra, curled around her like a mother cat. Lyra steels her reaction as a hand goes to her scalp and starts playing with her hair. The sensation makes her lids flutter. She leans into the embrace.

“What are you reading?”

“ And Then There Were None ,” Lyra says through a yawn.

“Bit advanced for you. Did your new friend recommend it?”

Lyra’s eyes snap open. Oberyn’s on the bed now by her feet and it feels like an ambush.

“The libraries here are all full of textbooks. Mysteries are the only fiction I could find,” Lyra lies. The inside cover has a loving inscription to Annie from her Aunt Sylvia.

“What’s this one about?”

“Someone lured a bunch of bad people to an island, and now they’re getting killed off in different ways,” Lyra says.

Mother’s expression turns to one of genuine interest, “Is it God?”

“Dunno, haven’t finished it yet.”

“If I tell you to run, then you run, okay? Don’t question me, don’t wait for me, just obey every word? Do you understand,” Father’s a little breathless.

Lyra’s colder than she’s ever been, but excited. They’re roped together, him with the ice axe and her with the camera equipment. Just a short day trip, but the kind of adventure she’s been craving since she heard stories of the lights as a little girl. Before them, untouched snow, and ice so pure it glows blue. Blue ice, white snow, green sky. She understands better now. Why Father loves this place so. It’s so easy to feel endless, and infinite in an indifferent world. It’s humbling and empowering at the same time.

“Come Lyra,” Father yells over the wind.

She does. It’s a fun challenge. Climbing something that is softer and slicker than stone. Still, the reflexes are there. Which holds to grab, when to jump, when to roll.

Father’s panting when they reach the top and regards her through his goggles, “You really are a monkey,” then pats her head.

“What are we photographing, Father?” Lyra asks.

“Proof,” he says with the excitement that’s only been building on their journey.

But, it’s the excitement that makes them linger too long.

“We need to carve a shelter!” Father yells.

“What?!”

He takes his axe and starts hacking away at the ice.

“Stop! You’ll make the mountain fall down!” Lyra yells.

“Then at least we’ll make it to the bottom!” he yells back.

They end up in a crack, wind whistling to their backs and fronts. There’s barely enough room for both of them, plus Stel, so Pan turns into a mouse and hides in Lyra’s neck.

“I think this might be a cliff ghast nest,” Father says. Lyra looks up at him in horror to see the joking slant of his mouth, “Well, if we’re lucky, then we won’t run into any.”

They have to sleep like this, and it’s the first time Lyra’s attempted sleeping whilst standing. Father dozes off easily, and it’s infuriating, because his breath is terrible and he snores. She has no idea why Mother prefers him in her bed to Lyra. He stirs around sunrise, suddenly alert, all dark brows and pale eyes searching for something in the dark.

“Father?”

His jaw twitches.

“Father, what is it?” Lyra asks.

“Wait here.”

She tries to follow and he shoves her back, “Do you remember what I said at the beginning of this expedition? Run when I say run?”

Lyra nods.

“So, stay when I say stay.”

If she had anywhere else to go, she would, but running away in this moment is unwise.

Each minute that ticks by has her fearing the worst. Father falling into a crack in the ice and breaking his body, or being carried away by cliff ghasts. Finding his body picked clean. Nothing but bones.

And she cries, fat, frightened tears. She regrets the thorned gloves she always holds Father with. What if he dies thinking she despises him?

Then there’s a rustling at the front of the cave. Pan growls, turning into a shrike because it’s small, but fierce.

Father comes into view, “Come Lyra, there’s a small break in the storm, and I’ve found a bigger cave.”

She clings to him, pressing her teary face into his chest.

“Nothing found you?” he asks, patting her back.

She shakes her head, unable to speak.

“Nothing scared you?” she can hear his confusion.

“No, Baba.”

The cave he leads her to is a lot bigger, and with that comes the realities of caves.

“Is that a skeleton?” Lyra asks.

“No, that is an ice mummy. You can see that the flesh is still intact. Which is good and bad news. If we’re here longer than our rations last, that’s the next good eating before we turn to eating each other instead.”

Adventuring, like the North, Lyra decides, is so much worse in person.

Father packed enough rations for five days. On the fifth day, she awakens to the sound of something big walking around in the snow outside. She’s lying on her side and sees Father raise a gloved finger to his lips for quiet. She crawls behind him. He’s got his gun pointed at the entrance to the cave.

This is when a large white head pops in, “Lord Asriel?”

“Who’s asking?” Father keeps the gun level.

“Iorek Byrnison. I was hired by the Lady Asriel to retrieve you, should you still be alive.”

“Father, it’s an armoured bear,” Lyra whispers excitedly.

“Yes, I am an armoured bear,” Iorek says.

His gaze shifts from her to the mummy, “Are you going to eat that?”

Father shakes with laughter and relief, “No. By all means, help yourself.”

Mother is waiting for them with chocolatl and blankets. She kisses Father all over his face, even though it is leathery and his breath stinks. And, she picks Lyra up, even if Lyra is too big to be held this way.

It’s when they’re being washed and checked for frostbite that Lyra asks, “Where’s Annie? I thought she’d be waiting.”

“Oh, Darling, I’m afraid Annie’s family had to go. They wanted to wait for you to return, but the storm might’ve kept them trapped here all winter. But,” Mother rolls the word around in her mouth, “You can have her as a pen pal.”

They return to London, and Lyra sends Annie letters. Annie sends Lyra letters back, but with less frequency, until one day they stop altogether.

“Oh, Darling, it is a shame, but with some people it’s--” she sighs, “Out of sight, out of mind, I’m afraid.”

This is where the story we know begins

(Lyra finds Annie’s name on a list in Mother’s desk along with blueprints for a guillotine-looking contraption.)

(She runs away on the eve of her twelfth birthday.)

(She does save Annie from having her daemon cut away by Mother, only to be betrayed by Father for the same.)

(She hallows hell, and recreates original virtue, and she sees her parents briefly before they kill God.)

Lyra returns to the Belacqua Manor at the age of fourteen with a broken heart and a full inheritance. One estate, one London penthouse, and one airship. All the money in the world, and not a person to share it with.

She remembers being intimidated by this place and its history when she arrived, so many years ago in that big black car. 

It’s just a house. A big monument of wood and stone.

Except, there’s a pair of fresh coffins next to Rivan’s in the family plot. Empty ones. Fancy ones. The kind of ostentatious presentation Mother and Father would like, she thinks.

Because bodies and souls cannot be recovered from the dark spaces between reality, and that’s where they are. Stretched for an eternity, falling between life and death and never meeting either.

It’s a fate worse than anything and it’s exactly what they deserve.

Which is why Lyra finds herself sitting on her parents balcony, wrapped in Mother’s robe and drinking tokay straight from the bottle. The house has always been big, empty, and uninviting. Having them haunt it would be a welcome change. But, it will never happen, because they’ve gone where she can’t follow. Where none can follow, and none can return. The last trick before the jury of their peers. Evading justice by evading existence. The prince and the princess running away to a kingdom where they won’t be found. Where their guilt can’t catch up to them.

Lyra sobs and drops the bottle. It’s a precious thing, from a rare batch. But, it’s just a thing. Just things in an empty house. And she, is a girl looking at this museum of all they left behind. 

They’ve been gone so long, and the staff are so efficient, that the sheets have long been changed. Any scent left has been washed off, folded, and put away. Lyra sprays Mother’s perfume on one pillow, and Father’s aftershave on the other, then flops onto the bed, hoping to drown, or else wake up from this wretched dream. Pan climbs his way up her, twisting himself around her neck in some shared search for comfort.

She thinks they’d be proud. If they knew she was mourning them by haunting the house in a drunken depression. She knows they’d argue over who she gets it from, each wanting credit. She wears Mother’s clothes in the most garish combinations, knowing it was displease her. She smokes all of Father’s good hashish, then is sick on the balcony. The world spins and Lyra finds that in the quiet moments when she doesn’t mourn them, she misses Will. She misses his dark eyes and his warm smile. She misses being held in her sleep.

“Perhaps we should stay in bed for the rest of our days, Pan. It hurts out there,” Lyra says.

“Maybe if we go out there, we can find ways to make it stop hurting so bad?” Pan suggests.

“Like what?” Lyra asks.

Pan scampers off to the window, “Whatever there is beyond that horizon?”

“I’ve had enough adventure to last me to the rest of my days,” Lyra sighs.

She hears sturdy steps ascending the stairs and falls into a dream of Father carrying her to bed. Her eyes open not to Father, but to Ma Costa, flanked by her two sons. The curtains open with a hiss and Lyra cringes away from the light.

“That’s enough moping out of you, Young Lady. You’re rejoining the world,” Ma Costa leaves no room for argument, hauling Lyra into the tub. Her hands are gentle, like Mother’s, in Lyra’s hair. Mother, who Lyra will never see again.

She collapses into herself like a dying star, radiant and ugly in her grief. Ma Costa lets her cry, holding her against her chest.

“You’ve been so brave,” she says soothingly.

“I want my mummy,” Lyra sobs.

“I’m sorry, Lyra.”

She takes all the jewelry from Mother’s box and pays a man to melt it down, then plate it onto a gun in ornate shapes of leaves and monkeys. It’s deadly and beautiful, and Lyra cries when she holds it.

She does the same with the silver, commissioning an elaborate leopard-head handle to a sabre, and--

And, it’s a little easier to breathe. 

She sleeps on Ma Costa’s boat most nights, avoiding the house. She returns when the umbilical cord pulls tight, pulls her upstairs to Mother’s study.

This is where she finds unopened letters from Annie, stowed away in Mother’s desk.

So, Lyra burns all of her parents research in the front yard.

“I think I’d like to become a Gyptian,” she says to Ma Costa.

“Alright then.”

The Epilogue

She sells the estate, and sends that money in pieces to the families who lost their children to the Gobblers. She keeps the airship, because it’s like a houseboat, but for the air. And, she keeps the penthouse in London, because she can’t bring herself to be rid of it.

And, she marries a man named Amal. A proper Gyptian wedding with a proper Gyptian man who has a grey cat daemon and Will’s smile.

He’s not Will he tells her when they marry.

He tells her the same thing when they divorce.

But, he does give her a daughter. Her Soph. With dark eyes and a toothy smile. Little Soph who is born with a little brown monkey daemon Pan names Scylla.

Soph’s six years old when she starts getting curious about where she comes from, “Ma Costa says I have another grandma and grandpa.”

“Well, yeah, you’ve got Grandpa Iorek, and Grandma Serafina, and Grandpa Faa, and Grandpa Coram.”

“No, no, she says you were raised by a Mommy and Daddy,” Sophia has very little patience for her mother’s bullshit.

And Lyra opens her mouth and closes it a few times. She thinks of Sultans, and Tsars, and witch-boys, and princes and princesses. And, instead, Lyra tucks Sophia in with all the grandiose preparation of a great story yet to come.

“A long, long time ago, there was a monster who did her best to fit in with all the humans she lived alongside, but never quite did. Then, one day, she saw a monster pretending to be a man, and for the first time in her life, felt like she wasn’t alone in the world. And, they fell in love.”

“Monsters aren’t real!” Soph protests.

“Oh. Really?”

Soph nods.

Lyra tilts her head, “Then what are cliff ghasts, and armoured bears, and the men in the black robes? Aren’t they just monsters with more than one name.”

“Bears aren’t monsters.”

“Hmm, maybe not, but like monsters, they’re big, and have big teeth, and they can roar,” Lyra roars for emphasis.

“So your Mommy and Daddy were monsters?” Soph still doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes, Soph. They were terrible monsters who gobbled up children, and tore holes in time and space,” and even fifteen years later, Lyra feels a knot forming in her throat. 

“If that’s true then why en’t you a monster?”

“Because, it’s like your Ma Costa says,” and Lyra boops her daughter’s nose, “You can be anything you wanna be. And I didn’t want to be a monster.”

She takes a deep breath, looking down at the little girl who she would gladly kill God, or die for, and pulls her lips down, “But, I kept the big teeth, see?”

And, after she puts Soph to bed, she stands on the bow of the ship. A pair of jeweled green dragonflies go whizzing by, the same colour as a dress Mother once had. Lyra hopes it's her sometimes. That the universe, so infinite and complex, isn't petty enough to waste the star stuff of Marisa and Asriel Belacqua on oblivion. That even monsters can become the atoms that embrace their granddaughter. 

God Only Knows

By The Beach Boys

if you should ever leave me

my life would still go on believe me

the world could show nothing to me

so what good would living do me?

god only knows what I'd be without you