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Mary took a step, then she took another.
The town was silent, even more silent than it was during the day, when at least the quiet could be broken by some of the kids roaming the streets, or some animal looking for easy nourishment. Each of Mary’s steps, resonating in the night air, took her further away from the old house where she left Paola and Angelica.
She didn’t take much with her, knowing she’d be back with the children before the breeze from the sea got too cold. Equipped only with the shirt on her back, Mary walked around Cittàgazze looking for something that had escaped her in the daylight. Each cobblestone in the street shone in the moonlight. A curtain escaped an old open window, trying to join the wind. It filled up with air and it moved in a fluid dance of shapes.
There was beauty in this town. There had been, at least. Mary saw it everywhere. Every painted sign, every fountain, every carving on wooden doors. Cittàgazze had been built by people who knew about fine things. Mary thought back to what Angelica had explained to her earlier in the evening, about the name of this place. She wondered if that’s why it was named after magpies. An eye for precious things, no matter the cost.
Angelica had explained a lot, getting chattier by the minute as the girls lead Mary around town all afternoon. Paola had been less loquacious, but Mary figured she would speak when she felt like it. On the other hand, the youngest girl had been the most eager to show Mary around. It had been her who had convinced Angelica to bring Mary around to their house.
The girls stayed at their old family home, scattered with images of loved ones who were no longer around. The first thing Mary had noticed when she had stepped in was the state of disarray. Mary was used to a little controlled chaos in her spaces, but this was all but controlled. This was abandonment. It was this sight that had shown Mary just how alone these kids were in the world. They climbed on top of furniture like little monkeys, and kept themselves fed on stale bread and fruit from a tree in the garden.
These were children who knew far too much about fending for themselves, Mary had observed as they invited her into their life. You can’t promise things to children like this and not deliver. So Mary had tried to cobble together a proper meal for them, and put them to bed, and tried to consult her book about what she could do for them. The book hadn’t said much that Mary understood. Something indecipherable about things opening and closing, about leaves and petals and roots, about forests and monkeys and snakes, about rotting, about thriving.
That’s why Mary had opted for a walk. She did find that fresh air often helped in cases like this. As she got to a terrace overlooking the sea, she really felt the truth in that. Feeling - Angelica had explained earlier, with her mouth full of Mary’s granola bars - was the same word in their language as hearing. ‘Like hearing, but in your heart,’ had added Paola, chewing on a slice of orange.
Between one wave and the next, there was a moment of silence, and if Mary really listened to that silence, the way she did when she spoke to the Cave, her heart could hear something reassuring. It was a muted sound, but not distant. It rang all around Mary and it told her: continue. The way is through. It put a new reassurance in Mary. There were so many stars in this world, it was impossible to feel alone. It was impossible not to feel on the brink of something, when the air was so full of salt. There was clarity somewhere, even though Mary could not grasp it.
What she did grasp, here, looking out to the sea, was that maybe meeting Paola and Angelica hadn’t been a casual stop to her true aim. How could she assume that, when she didn’t know what her aim was. She knew she was supposed to be on a journey, but no one ever said she was supposed to be alone. Perhaps, if her only mission was to continue on this journey, nothing that was part of it could be an obstacle to it.
So, as she resolved to help the girls on their way, she hoped it would in turn help her on her own way. She began to walk back towards Angelica and Paola’s house, hoping she’d remember how to find it in this maze of a town. The moon shone a little higher now than it did before, and everything looked slightly like the ghost of itself.
As she had feared, Mary came to a point in her path that she couldn’t remember walking before. She must have taken a wrong turn, but she couldn’t think of when that had been. She found herself at the crossing point of two alleys, unsure where to turn. One of the streets was better lit than the other, so Mary figured if it wasn’t the right one, at least it was the safest one. She knew by now that the spectres that haunted the town were no danger to her, but something had just shifted in the atmosphere, and all of a sudden Cittàgazze felt like a dangerous place to be. Maybe it was just in Mary’s head. Either way, better safe than sorry.
Encouraged by the alley’s slight slope, Mary started climbing with gusto towards the highest part of town, where she knew the girls’ house to be. Soon, she could see that the street opened up into something like a square at the foot of the tower, but the uphill climb meant she couldn’t see into the space. Curious, she sped up her pace, almost running. She stopped, breathless, where the street met the piazza .
Then, she saw her.
A woman. The woman from back in Mary’s office, days before. The experimental theologian.
The woman - Marisa Coulter, Mary remembered - was sitting at a café table, in the company of a man, with her back to Mary but her face turned slightly, so that enough of her traits were recognisable to Mary. And oh, did Mary recognise her. The first time Mary had seen Marisa, it had been out of the blue. But this was a new level of unexpectedness. Even more unexpected, she seemed to be accompanied by some sort of creature, sitting on top of the table like… A monkey?
Mary was so taken by the sight, that it took her a moment to realise the man, the one sitting opposite Marisa, was not moving. Marisa was also very still, but it is a different stillness, rippled with breathing. The man was still like someone who would never move again.
In an instant, Mary felt her own heart beat in her ears. She knew she had to do something, but she didn’t know what. There was no one to call. There was no way of knowing what Marisa’s involvement in this was. There was no apparent reason why she would sit so still. Against her better judgement, Mary walked up to the table.
If Marisa saw Mary approaching her, she didn’t show it. Her gaze was lost, unmoveable. The monkey’s, on the other hand, followed Mary’s every step. It had a sorry look on its face. The closer Mary got, the clearer she could see the scene, the less she understood. Marisa’s hand was resting on the table, palm up, entirely inert. Mary saw it was injured. No. There was a candle on the table, not lit but still smoking. The hand wasn’t injured, it was burnt.
It didn’t look pleasant. Mary felt compelled to reach out to Marisa’s hand, to try and get a better look at it. The instant before she touched the other woman, the monkey jumped, letting out a horrifying shriek.
It scared Mary to the brink of death.
Marisa moved for the first time then, fully facing Mary. When she spoke, she did so in a hoarse voice and eyes like she’d just woken up from a lucid dream.
‘Dr Malone.’
She simply stated Mary’s name, sounding more surprised that she remembered it than she did of seeing Mary in Cittàgazze.
It was Mary who asked her ‘What are you doing here?’ instead. That was the first question that came to mind. It was fifty more questions, about the monkey, about the hand, about the man, whose death Mary was now certain of, all packed into this one question.
Marisa stared at her.
‘Lyra.’
It was all she said. Of course it was all about Lyra.
For a moment, Mary considered if she should tell Marisa that she was also looking for Lyra. Maybe the information she had gotten from Angelica and Paola could help Marisa. The thing was, Mary wasn’t sure she should help Marisa.
The very first time they’d met, Mary had been unsure about Lyra’s mother. She hadn’t had the time to figure the woman out before she’d disappeared from Mary’s office and from her life, and, after that, Mary had had more pressing things to worry about, but she still wasn’t sure. None of the people that had come to Mary looking for Lyra before had done that in the child’s best interest.
Mary looked to the dead man and realised just then that she recognised him. It was the man Oliver had brought into the office. She tried to remember his name but couldn’t. Sir Something-or-Other. Mary had met him. She hadn’t liked him but she didn’t wish him dead either. Yet there he was. There his body was, lifeless in front of Mary and a woman Mary had no reason to trust.
‘What happened to him?’
The monkey made an unintelligible sound.
‘He was in my way. In Lyra’s way.’
Her voice sent a shiver down Mary’s spine.
‘So you just…?’
Marisa smirked.
‘He drank something he shouldn’t have.’
So she had killed him. The strangest thing was that Mary did not feel threatened. Afraid, yes. Worried. But as she looked to the woman before her, a self-confessed murderer, Mary knew she couldn’t hurt her. She didn’t know how, or why, but she knew it somehow came from the same secret ringing she could hear between her breaths. An invincibility of sorts.
‘What’s wrong with your hand?’ Mary asked, as if in challenge, strong of her newfound sureness.
Marisa clutched her hand closer to her chest faster than Mary has ever seen her move.
‘Nothing.’
‘Let me see.’
Mary held out her hand and took Marisa’s, prying each finger open, one by one, to reveal the burnt palm.
‘We’re going to have to do something about that.’
Mary wished she had her backpack with her now, tried to scrounge her pockets for something useful. She didn’t dare letting go of Marisa’s hand, afraid it wouldn’t be as easy, getting her to show it a second time around. Nothing in Mary’s pockets. She would have to make do somehow.
From the top of the table, the monkey let out a small noise. It was looking at a napkin. Mary grabbed the piece of pink fabric and hoped it was clean enough. She tied it around Marisa’s hand.
‘We’ll find something more suitable later.’
Mary didn’t know how she had ended up helping Marisa. If she’d had her doubts about the woman earlier, now she was sure Marisa was dangerous. But Mary knew she was mostly safe from danger, and if that meant she could buy herself time to find out more about the woman and her aims, if it meant she could help keep Lyra’s safe, she would happily nurse a hundred burnt palms. What she was about to do next, though, nothing had prepared her for.
‘You can’t leave him there.’ Mary says, her chin pointing to the man in the chair.
Wordlessly, Marisa got up, and started pulling the chair inside the café, the closest abandoned building.
Mary imagined the man’s death had been swift, elegant. Moving his body was anything but. Marisa had something primate-like in her movement, feral and eager to get this done with. Mary joined her, pushing the chair from the other side. When they had to get it past a step into the building, the two women exchanged a look. Then, they just moved together, lifting the chair at the same time.
The monkey observed them in fascination.
Once the body was inside, Mary found a tablecloth to cover him with. It wasn’t much for a burial, but it was the best Mary could do. Marisa didn’t seem to care one way or another.
In fact, she was already almost out of the café, stepping away from Mary and, potentially, out of her reach forever.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know.’ Marisa replied without turning to look at her.
There was no way Mary was letting her just walk away, not without knowing what her plans where and if she was a peril to Lyra.
‘You’re coming with me.’