Chapter Text
Marisa Coulter has always liked rules and laws, in a way, though to say so is much too simple. Rules are a defined set of expectations about consequences and behavior, based on an intricate but discoverable set of shared facts, assumptions or perceptions. So it is with experimental theology, so it is with the social rules governing society’s interactions.
It’s most accurate to say she has always enjoyed dissecting those rules, pulling them apart to see their inner workings, until she knows every aspect of how they function, every assumption on which they are based, every consequence that may flow from adherence or transgression. Then she is free to use them, to manipulate them precisely as she chooses. Rules, as well as laws of the universe, when studied and understood, become a weapon, a sword and a shield. Like flying a gyrocopter at a cliff and knowing the exact last moment at which she can turn to avoid a collision, or knowing just where to aim a pistol at a certain size target in specific conditions to wound, or to kill.
The same applies to the study of human behavior; the social rules and niceties interacting with the real human desires, producing a predictable response. Every gesture she takes, whether of kindness or cruelty, is calculated for a certain effect. She avoids the subject's strong points and exploits the weaknesses. Letting her hand linger on the sleeve of Lord Boreal; refilling an empty glass for Professor Frye; flattering Father Kiefer with feigned attention while he prattles on about his work. She can lean too close just so or say just the right thing to suggest or demand, convince or cajole or intimidate just as she chooses, push at the fear, appeal to the desire, spark the ambition, and so bend matter and people alike to her will.
She goes out of her way to meet Asriel Belacqua because she expects him to be useful to her. He is known to be interested in the properties and behavior of Rusakov particles, though he has neither published nor lectured on the topic. She must know what he knows. When she hears that he is back from whatever Northern expedition he had been away on for so long, she arranges an evening party with the members of the Royal Arctic Institute and those with the money to fund it. However unconventional he may be, he won't be able to avoid attendance.
The party bores her, as most of them do, though she hides it well. It is the same at every social event attended by Magisterium officials, members of the Consistorial Court, and professors of the colleges. Like elementary particles attracted and repelled according to discoverable laws of behavior, the men in the room are wary of her, even condemn her, for her beauty and charm, while jostling each other to be next to her at dinner, their little dog demons practically panting, condemning her for what they themselves feel and think. No matter, she thinks, scanning the room for Lord Asriel among them. It’s simply a game and those are the rules; she can play a rigged game too, and win it.
He strides into the party abominably late, dressed all wrong, somehow too big for the space. He alternately speaks a little too loudly and watches the room disdainfully. He does not demand respect as the other men do, claiming the social niceties and flattery as something due him because of his rank or wealth or position; he simply acts as if he has it or as if he doesn’t need it. Marisa spends an interesting hour--perhaps the most interesting hour at one of these parties she has ever spent--watching him, sure he is laughing at them all behind their backs, as he drinks with the politicians and church officials and flatters them and coaxes them into funding his next exploratory trip.
He notices her watching him, as she intends him to do. The predictable consequence follows; he manages to seat himself next to her with a fresh drink. She introduces herself and he does not try to hide his contempt when she gives her last name. Rude and arrogant, she thinks, how shocking.
"I hear you've been doing some groundbreaking work on Rusakov particles, Lord Asriel," she says, interrupting the small talk by inviting him with her eyes to ramble on about his work, as the male scholars of her acquaintance are so prone to do.
He smiles rather enigmatically. "Not particularly," he says. "My expeditions are exploring many areas. Dust is only one, and far from the most interesting."
"I find that difficult to believe," she smiles. "Perhaps you'll lecture at our next symposium," she urges.
"I think that unlikely," he says.
"Why, we're waiting rather impatiently to hear your conclusions. I'm sure your contributions will expand our little knowledge of the phenomenon." Her tone has become rather sharp, she notices.
“You are assuming I have findings to report, madam," he says curtly. "Excuse me, I think I'll get some air." He gets up as he's speaking, not waiting for her response, and walks out onto a balcony.
Infuriated, she follows--is that what he intended? The weather is freezing and he wears no coat, but he seems not to notice. A northern explorer, she remembers; not just a scholar. Harder and rougher around the edges, and clearly proud of that. Perhaps a different tactic is called for.
"Why do you come to a party only to condescend?" she demands, opting for direct challenge.
"For the same reason you come to flatter and wheedle, I expect," he says. “What is your interest in Dust?” he continues, crowding her against the edge of the balcony. It's a long drop over the edge. "I was under the impression that the Magisterium considered the matter of Dust an unsuitable subject for study. At least publicly. You are a member of the Magisterium, are you not? And your husband? I assume you subscribe to the orthodoxy."
"What is your interest in Dust?" she returns. "If the subject is so dull. Do your findings contradict the fact that it is the physical manifestation of original sin?"
Something dark flares briefly in his eyes before his expression twists into disdain. "The physical manifestation of original sin," he scoffs. "I assure you, nothing could interest me less."
He's very close now and she thinks about kissing him now, to throw him off balance, to gain the upper hand, or perhaps just because she wants to.
Instead, she slips out of the space he has pinned her in. "Lord Asriel," she says formally, "If you'll excuse me." She turns and walks back to the party, feeling his eyes on her as she goes.
Two days produce the calculated effect. He comes by her house under the guise of borrowing a book of Edward’s. Such a flimsy excuse, as even by then, neither of the Coulters kept anything heretical enough to spark the interest of Lord Asriel. She plays along, as if anyone is watching, and leads him to the library. When she presses him against a shelf of books on the nature of original sin to better map the exact shape of his collarbone, she doesn't even notice the irony. She wonders what it would take to pull him apart.