Both woman and daemon were still. She, indeed, was so still that she looked dead. Her lips were open slightly and her eyes, intense and burning, were distant and unfocused. She had not changed, just gone upstairs and let down her hair and now sat on the edge of the vast bed, laid with a deep-gold, satin throw that had been perfectly folded at the pillow to reveal a cream-peach, goose-feather duvet and thick pillows with embossed cases. The room was the very definition of finery; light-beach panelling, pine floor, hand-made, varnished dressing-table. The dressing-table was scattered with beauty implements; yet, it belonged to Mrs. Coulter, so there was somehow an elegance about the tossed-away clasp bag, embedded with black onyx gems, which had opened and was spilling a pearl-coloured powder puff, a small bottle of perfume with a spritz-top, a gold-rimmed lipstick tube and an ebony-coloured purse that matched the bag.

A breeze blew the fine golden hairs of the monkey-daemon; a breeze that blew from an open set of intricately-made French doors that opened onto a small balcony. The balcony was framed by gold, swirly metal fencing and looked down upon a small courtyard that the house encased. A fountain of water splashed quietly from the mouth of a mermaid and stilled in the basin below, in which a constant pool of water drained out of the bottom to prevent the fountain from becoming dirty; a different tube pumped new water in, which travelled up through the stone to the mouth of the mermaid, who spat it out continuously.

She was sick of it. She was sick of the noise of the fountain - she felt she could sympathise with the mermaid. A beautiful decoration shipped in to just sit and look pretty and spout rubbish.

In truth, she was sick of the whole lifestyle. Her husband led a life of luxury; money was his answer for everything and he used it to his best advantage. Money had bought him the stunning, clever, sharp lady he met, quite by accident, on the street. Money had bought him his huge, sought-after, disgustingly expensive Oxford townhouse and money had bought him a social status that had caused him to mostly live away from this splendid house and instead live in London, in his more modest town mansion. Marisa was proud of herself, certainly, but Edward had been her big disappointment.

She wasn't a romantic; she had realised as a ten-year old that she wasn't good enough to find herself a husband that would love her. Love, she had realised at age thirteen, was a simpering, weak excuse for a human longing to be loved; nobody stuck together through thick and thin, nobody would give up riches for a life with their poor love. And if they did, they would die unhappy. She also knew that the only way she would ever find herself in an admirable position would be to be a conniving, scheming, manipulative bitch. She would have to obey and fake and do things that she didn't even want to think about. She would have to act like a whore, a lady and a thief, and it would be difficult. But she made herself a promise, and she never went back on it. She loved power; everybody did, even if they tried to hide it. Everybody wanted to be the best, everybody wanted to be the hero.

And she had done it. She had risen through the ranks; she had started at the worst and she was at the best she could be.

But she hated it.

Knowing she was a pretty pet hadn't bothered her at first. People still took her seriously; she was Mrs. Coulter; she was one of the most powerful and forceful women people had come across. Edward was proud of her; she hated him.

She also admired him. She told him so, and he told her, truthfully, that he admired her back. Their relationship was an odd one; she knew this herself. She wasn't content, exactly… she was more or less satisfied. For now. And she knew that there wasn't anything better.

"Marisa?"

She jumped slightly. Goose-bumps prickled on her arms and the fine golden hairs stood up. Edward stood at the door of the room, looking at her. She smiled graciously.

"Those at the Institute – the men especially – were glad to hear you would be coming tomorrow. Tell me, Marisa, what exactly do you talk about with them?" his voice was hard, arrogant.

"Politics, Edward. What you talk about – money…power."

His daemon, a lithe jaguar named Siffarin, looked the golden monkey up and down and settled on the floor next to the bed, the plush fur of the rug making Edward go slightly drowsy immediately. He shed his jacket – he wore a suit every day – and gave it to Marisa. She eyed him coldly as he turned away to loosen his collar fussily, and dropped it onto one of the bedposts. He didn't notice.

Marisa held out her arms to her daemon, but Edward stepped in the way and the monkey fell back. His little eyes glinted blackly, but he dropped onto the floor at the opposite side to the jaguar. Edward gathered Marisa in his arms and kissed her roughly; she pushed away.

"Not tonight, Edward."

"What?" his eyes had hardened and narrowed. "What do you mean, 'not tonight'?"

She had turned away from him. The breeze from the balcony pushed against her dress and hair, and it irritated her, so she shut the doors quietly and locked them with a little ornate key.

She turned; Edward was waiting, expectant.

With an inward sigh of hate and disgust, she padded over to him and turned her back. He reached up and laid his hands on her back. She wasn't soothed, and he knew it. He sighed and raised his hands to pull the delicate material taut; with his other hand, he took ahold of the tiny zip and slowly slipped it downwards.