Chapter Text
“Careful, Lyra. They’ll hear us!” Pantalaimon whispered as Lyra leaned against the door to listen to their conversation.
She recognized the voices now, unsure of where to go. So, she stayed where she was, eavesdropping, even though Pantalaimon disapproved of it.
Lyra had arrived early at Marcel’s London office and waited impatiently in the lounge, where his secretary had told her that Monsieur Delamare was busy.
“He is with someone at the moment, Miss Lyra, but you can wait here and I will fetch you when he finishes with his guest,” Alma said, polite as always. She didn’t match Marcel’s style, Lyra had often thought; too good at being casual and far too nice. A meaner secretary would have suited him better.
Lyra waited five full minutes before she sneaked out of the lounge after Alma had stood up to answer the main door again. The closer Lyra got to Marcel’s office doors, which were currently closed, the more she heard noises.
It was a conversation, albeit a rather heated one. She couldn’t make out the words while standing far away from the door, so Lyra approached it and tried to listen in.
“I can't believe you had the audacity to do that!” A woman’s voice came through, and Lyra recognized it as Lady Eilhart’s.
“Again, you make the mistake of thinking you understand me, and you expect a different outcome. I thought you were a scientist. Aren’t you supposed to know that not changing variables will always land you the same results? How foolish of you.” He retorted, and Lyra could almost see his face, impassive but with a glimmer of amusement shining through. She knew that expression well, and she disliked it very much, which was why she wasn’t that surprised when she heard a loud noise, much like a slap.
“He is hurting her!” Pantalaimon whispered, trying to see through the door’s keyhole. “I can’t see anything; the key is in the door.”
“He wouldn’t dare touch her, oh no. She must have slapped him, I bet.”
Lyra struggled to understand their words, and their argument heated up again. Marcel switched to French, as he always did when he became angry or impatient. She could understand the language, but theirs was a very hurried discussion; it was hard to make out the words except for their intonation.
Then footsteps approached in a hurry, coming from insid e the room. Lyra stumbled away, barely able to avoid getting hit by the door as Lady Eilhart opened it furiously. She took a few steps out, then her daemon saw Lyra and whispered. The woman’s face changed from a frown to a milder and more pleasant expression.
“Oh, Lyra.” She braced her fur coat around her, a lock of hair falling over her eyes, which her daemon brushed away. “How long have you been there?”
“I just got here.”
The woman’s narrowed eyes scanned Lyra, wearing her shabby coat, naive blue eyes staring back at her nonchalantly. Had Dorothea not been so familiar with Marisa and Marcel, Lyra would have succeeded with that lie. Lady Eilhart, however, knew better.
“Don’t get caught next time.” There was a hint of a smirk on her lips; Lyra smiled back in complicity. “How much have you heard?”
“Just arguing, I swear. I can’t understand what he says when he is furious like that.” Lyra tried to look harmless, with Pan avoiding the robin to prevent him from seeing their true intention, which was to learn more. “What were you arguing about, anyway? What did he do this time?”
What hasn’t he done? Lady Eilhart’s face seemed to say, but she never voiced those feelings. Lyra understood little of what happened between her uncle and that woman, least of all their professional connection.
There was a sigh. Lady Eilhart glanced inside the room she had just left, but Marcel had not come after her. From her angle in the room, Lyra couldn’t see him anyway, though she was quite curious to inspect his face and see if the slap had left a mark.
“Political stuff. Never you mind, darling.” She approached Lyra and gave her a blunt kiss on the forehead before walking away. “Take care, Lyra.”
Lyra watched her leave in that hurried attitude, blood boiling to the point Pan mentioned he could nearly see the heat waves coming off her. She was so focused on the woman leaving that she hadn’t heard Marcel approaching the doorway. He had to clear his throat twice, then call her for Lyra to actually pay him attention.
“Sorry. I was thinking—”
“Always dangerous when you think.” He jested in his monotone voice, leading her into the room with his usual cold manner.
He was in a good mood, Lyra could tell, despite the sore smear on his right cheek. The owl nudged her face against it to soothe the pain, and Lyra tried not to seem too interested in that. Not that Marcel would answer her questions or share his personal details anyway. She was curious nonetheless, but showing interest would make it harder to get information from him.
“You’ve upset her good this time, haven’t you?”
“You could say that. I say she is a moody creature, prone to silly tantrums.” He sat at his desk, across from Lyra.
“I’d say you’re moody, but what do I know, eh?”
He didn’t quite roll his eyes — too well-bred for that — but his face twisted into an impatient expression.
“Don’t be funny. It doesn’t suit you.” His owl cooed by his ear, staring at Lyra, who leaned against the armchair and watched her uncle with lazy interest.
“What were you discussing?”
He paused, watching her, looking for something. If she had to guess, she would suggest he was looking for signs of deception. That in itself wasn’t a wrong move, but he was doing more than that: he was measuring her worth. She wondered if he had arrived at any conclusions about that, not that he would ever share.
“Political stuff.” That was all he said.
Lyra, unlike Marcel, wasn’t above rolling her eyes.
“That’s what she said. It’s what you all say when you’re talking about important stuff that you don’t want to share with me.”
“It doesn’t concern you. That’s all you need to know.”
“I’m sure that if you look deep enough, you will see that, yes, it does concern me, probably. What’s the matter?”
“She’s upset.”
“That much I could tell by myself. Why was she so upset, then?”
He shook his head, and his eyes looked outside the window, reminiscing. Unlike most people, Marcel’s anger was cold and distant; cruel, but passionless.
“Why is she ever upset? I can never tell why.”
“That doesn’t really answer me though, does it?” Lyra clicked her tongue with impatience. He didn’t even flinch at her demeanour, which was infuriating. “Fine. Don’t tell me then. She will, eventually.”
He allowed himself a smirk against his will.
“Oh, I doubt that very much.” The owl cooed softly in his ear; Lyra often wondered what she thought, what she had to say, but she rarely graced her — or anyone, really — with her words of wisdom. “Why are you here, after all? We had an appointment in the evening. It’s not evening yet.”
“Well, I got impatient and decided to pay you a visit. Can't I?” Lyra leaned against her chair. “I was hoping you had an answer to my request.”
Her eyes followed his movement with precise expectancy. She had learned to measure Marcel and assess when best to strike at him, with words rather than fists. He didn’t respect strength because few people used it well; but he respected wit, and Lyra was filled to the brim with it.
“I might. That’s why I scheduled dinner.” His eyes scanned her, searching for something Lyra couldn’t decipher. Pan understood it better; Marcel was trying to see if she was baiting him into telling her more than she already knew. “Why the hurry?”
She was anxious, that was the truth, but telling him that was out of the question. He disapproved of showing weakness, and Lyra, as much as she hated to admit it, hated his disapproval.
“I’m always in a hurry. Life’s too short for me not to be in a hurry.” She offered him an innocent smile that made him shake his head.
“You’ve graduated recently. You haven’t found a proper job yet—”
“I have a job! I’m working at the Oxford Times!”
“As a secretary.” He nearly hissed the words, a crease between his eyebrows.
“Nothing wrong with that! I used to clean up dishes when I was a child. Secretarial work is quite an improvement, I’d say!” She tried to lighten the mood in the room, but Marcel was still displeased.
“You have a college degree. Your mother made arrangements for your future, and you decided to take up an occupation that is beneath you.”
“My degree doesn’t allow for many options; either I teach or I teach and study more. I’d like to do something else at the moment. Secretarial work is good enough. People are pleasant there… Well, most of them are. And I hear lots of things!” Pan watched the owl; they had rehearsed this moment for a while now. “Like that crisis in the East.”
She admired her uncle’s restraint, up until it reminded her of her father. In some ways, despite Marcel’s best efforts to dislike Lord Asriel, they shared many traits, things that only Lyra could see, because only she had seen Asriel up close enough to remember the tiny details that belonged to him. Marcel rarely allowed her to be as close as that; he never let his guard down, never spoke his mind despite always asking her to do so.
When he heard the words, he blinked twice very slowly, unmoved, undisturbed by her attempt to trick him into talking. Asriel would have smirked, a tiny thought crept up the back of her head, but then Pan whispered to her: his owl blinked twice too!
She forgot what she had been thinking, attention renewed. That meant she had hit a nerve.
“We won’t discuss that.”
"Funny," Lyra scoffed. “I half expected you to lie.”
Marcel granted her a grin. You amuse me , it seemed to say, but you aren’t worthy of my trust.
“No use in lying. What is happening in the East is a complicated matter. Stay clear of it, for your own good.” His eyes examined her face; Lyra knew he couldn’t tell if she was bluffing or if she truly had heard rumours. “Tell me: who told you about that?”
Lyra hummed, amused.
“ We won’t discuss that. ”
“Very amusing.” He sighed, resting in his chair, his hand on his neck while he tried to relieve some of the tension in his shoulders. “Well, about what you asked of me: it will be arranged. I still think it’s a stupid idea, though.”
“How bad can it be?” Lyra clicked her tongue, displeased. Pan hopped on the table to look at Marcel pleadingly, who glanced back at him for a fraction of a moment, then turned his gaze back to Lyra, full of displeasure and all.
“Very bad. I tolerate you because Marisa would have liked me to, and I respected her enough to try.” He drummed his fingers against the table. “ Maman owes you nothing. She will be ruthless, she will say hurtful things.”
“I’d like to meet her all the same. She’s the only family I have besides you.”
He sighed again and they stood silent for a while. Lyra knew better than to interrupt his thinking, so she watched out of the window, London glistening with life, so unlike Oxford and its cosy, but quiet atmosphere.
“Very well, then. On your head be the consequences.”
“Lord, you make it seem like I’m walking into a death trap!”
“You might as well be, truth be told. I’m making arrangements with your grandmother, then with Dorothea.” He pulled out a small notebook and opened it to a clear page. “You’re not safe in Geneva, she’ll have to arrange certain protections.”
“You can’t do that yourself?”
“Not against that kind of people, and not without hurting my reputation.” His grin annoyed her.
“Well, at least you’re honest," Lyra mumbled, arms crossed over her chest. He remained unfazed by her attitude.
“I’ll set it up for New Year’s Eve." He ignored her, as he often did when she became extra insufferable.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m available on that date?”
Pan looked at her, intrigued. They had no plans besides Lady Eilhart’s Christmas party, and Marcel likely knew that already, but Lyra took offence with his not asking her all the same. She took great pleasure in annoying him.
Marcel glared at her, the owl mimicking him, and Lyra blushed a little, but she raised her chin and stood her ground. She had faced stronger foes than a malcontent uncle.
“Very well: are you available on December 31st?” He said every word in the most mechanical way he could find.
“Well, yes, I am. That will do!”
Marcel shook his head, but she saw a hint of a grin on his face.
“It’s settled then. I’ll make the arrangements.”
He wrote down in his notebook, pressed a button on his telephone, and in a few seconds, Alma knocked and entered the room, followed by her monkey daemon.
“You’re kicking me out!” Lyra said, with fake indignation, but Marcel remained passionless.
“Unless you have something else to say, our business is concluded.” He gestured for Alma to accompany Lyra out. “I’ll be in touch. Stay clear of trouble.”
“No promises.”