The steamship cut a white line in the cool grey waters of the north Atlantic. Lyra was standing near the bow of the ship with Pantalaimon, enjoying the stiff breeze and the salty smell of the sea. She hadn't been on the ocean since she and Serafina had returned from the world of the Mulefa. She had forgotten how much she missed it, how wide and open everything seemed when there was nothing around you but water.
Pan was perched on the railing, his fur rippling in the wind. Lyra's hand was on his back, not for his safety, he had perfect balance, but for her own reassurance. She was nervous, as much as it angered her to admit it, even to herself.
She knew she would have to lie, that much was certain. Not like that was much of an issue, lying came as naturally as breathing did to Lyra. But she was part of a governing body now, as much as that irked her, and her lies had limits.
Serafina could feel Lyra's conflicting emotions rolling off her, as evident to her as if Lyra had spoken her thoughts aloud. "Lyra?" Serafina said, coming to stand next to her.
"I forgot how much I hate politicians," Lyra said grumpily. "That's all they are, en't they? Just politicians in disguise as priests. That's all the liars are."
"It's to your advantage, Lyra," Serafina said. "If they were only priests, they could simply hide behind the inaccuracies of their religion, and do whatever they pleased, saying that it was the will of the Authority."
"I know that," Lyra said. "But I don't know how that's going to help me see them. You know as well as I do that they won't want to see me. What's to stop them from refusing?"
"Have you ever encountered the Seminary Council before, Lyra?" Lyra shook her head. "You've never been to the Northern Union, correct?" Lyra shook her head again.
"Then you must listen carefully to me now. The Magesterium in the Union has completely permeated the existing government. They are bound completely by the society in which they live, the society that they created. Everything there is based on appearances. Truth and honesty counts for little in the Union, particularly in the Capitol. Lies and deceit will be your strongest allies."
"I'm a good liar," Lyra said absently. "I just don't know what to tell them. I still don't know how I'm going to see them. They en't gonna notice me."
"Perhaps it would be better for us to stay on the ship," Serafina said thoughtfully. "You'll have a difficult enough time to getting through the city without a coven of witches following you around everywhere. Though I am loath to leave you alone. Perhaps we can wear human clothes, constrictive though they are." Serafina looked extremely put out at the very thought of donning human clothes.
Lyra had a thought then. She felt as if she could see the perfect solution in front of her, shining and wonderful; it was her own personal sun. She smiled. Serafina looked at Lyra curiously.
"Serafina," Lyra said, "You wouldn't be opposed to walking through Boston with me, would you? Dressed like you normally are, I mean."
"Of course not. But how will that help us?"
"If I just go, they can ignore me. But if we all go in together, and walk through the city, everyone's gonna see us. Everybody's gonna notice us. They can't ignore us then. It'll be like they called us there, not like we was dropping in on them."
"Lyra, child," Serafina said in wonder. "Yes. Well done. Well done indeed."
Lyra's eyes were dancing with excitement. "This is going to work."
Boston. The wealthiest and grandest city in the Americas, and the capital of the Union. A city steeped in history, it was the first city to fall to the British Army in 1776 in their war to take the Americas as an official British nation. They failed, ultimately, in acquiring political territory, but the Magesterium was able to slip in to American politics easily.
Under their influence, Boston became the cultural center of America, and after the Civil War was over, it replaced Philadelphia as the nation's capital. As such, it served as the home for the politically powerful and the socially elite. It was a city as far removed from Oxford as a city could be, and as alien to Lyra as London had been when she was a girl.
She stood by the ship's railing as it passed through Boston's busy harbor, Serafina at her side, both of them silent and watchful. Pan was curled up in her arms, his nose twitching every now and then at the new smells.
The ship took about an hour to get a berth and dock, and as the gangplank was lowered, Lyra stepped for the first time onto American soil. She was dressed elegantly, at Serafina's insistence, in a long navy skirt with a matching jacket over a light blue blouse. Her hair was tamed into an elegant bun with gold circlet to hold it in place.
Serafina and the other witches stood out in sharp contrast to Lyra. They were clad, as they normally were, in strips of black silk. They wore their bows and quivers on their back, and every witch had her own cloud pine branch with her.
Every eye was on them in the shipping district, not one man could look away from them. The burly dockhands were whistling at the witches, stopping their work and pointing at them openly. Many of the younger sailors and captain's boys looked as though the sight of so much bare skin had stunned them.
The witches, used to this reaction from strangers, were unabashed. Lyra was far too distracted to notice their stares, and if she had noticed, she would not have cared. She set off with a purposeful step towards the city center, her heathen guard in tow.
The shipping district ended abruptly as the stone and metal warehouses opened into the Boston Common Marketplace. A huge stone courtyard was filled throughout with hundreds of vendors, all of them clamoring for a sale. Lyra felt at home here; a brief respite, for in the throngs of busy shoppers, they were unnoticeable.
Serafina whispered in Lyra's ear, and she turned right out of the Market and onto a wide cobblestone street. As the road curved, the sounds and smells of the Market faded, only to be replaced by the suffocating sound of the rich going about their business.
The colorful stalls of the Market were gone, replaced by boutiques and shops with wide windows and gleaming anbaric lights. There weren't nearly as many people in the streets, and what were there were mostly women and children. All of them were dressed to perfection in the latest styles, and all at once Lyra, Serafina, and the other witches were the center of attention.
No one stopped in their tracks, no one pulled their children behind them to shield them. But all eyes were on them, and none of them were friendly. Every now and then they would catch part of a whispered conversation held behind daintily gloved hands.
"Who are they?"
"My God, what are they wearing?"
"Is it even legal?"
"Mommy, who are those harlots?"
"They can't be real witches!"
"Surely not!" And so on.
The witches, able to be equally haughty and aloof, ignored them. Lyra, prone as she was to remarks about her heritage, found it necessary to confront a pair of young women. The plumper of the two had just finished calling them peasants, an offense that Lyra couldn't take.
In a moment she was in the woman's face, and Pantalaimon was snarling in the face of her stoat dæmon, who shrank away from him to hide behind his human's ankles.
"How dare you call us peasants!" Lyra said passionately. "D'you know who we are? I'm Lyra Belacqua, a noble by birth, and a witch Queen by adoption. And that's Serafina Pekkala, Queen of the Witches of Norroway! You best beg her pardon. I wouldn't want to anger a witch."
The plump girl had gone very pale, and bobbed her head to Serafina before hurrying away with her friend. Lyra stared after them in disgust, a look mirrored on Pan's face. She spit on the sidewalk and turned back to the witches, only to find them staring at her in evident amusement.
"Lyra child," Serafina said, "you never were a subtle creature."
"Yeah, well. We en't got time for subtle."
They began walking again, through the narrow streets lined with shops and into the business section. The fashionable women were replaced by men in suits and jackets, all of them equal parts mortified by and attracted to the witches, who, for their part, kept their heads up and gazes fierce.
And so they cut a path through the city, heading all the while towards Beacon Hill, the epicenter of the city and the nation. Sitting atop the crest of the hill and overlooking the rest of the city sat the Basilica of Saint Botolph, the grand seat of the Seminary Council.
