YOU ARE ALIVE.
Daylight. A warm, comfortable bed, in a dormitory. Smells of ointments, feel of bandages.
WAKE UP.
Lyra opened her eyes. Death was sitting on a wooden chair next to her. She felt numb.
« Where am I? she inquired.
THIS IS THE INFIRMARY OF THE ASSASSINS' GUILD. YOU WERE BROUGHT HERE BY TEATIME AFTER YOU FAINTED.
- Oh. Which way did he take?
THE ROOFS. YOU WERE ON HIS BACK.
- So you've been watching me all night.
NO. ONLY ONCE I HAD DONE MY JOB.
- Oh gods, Steven...
HE SAID HE WAS HAPPY YOU HELPED HIM. HE LOVED YOU ALL THE MORE FOR ACCEPTING TO KILL HIM. HE RECKONS YOU ARE AN EXCELLENT FIGHTER. HE WILL REST IN PEACE, THANKS TO YOU. HE LIKED THE FIREWORKS. I FOUND THEM INTERESTING TOO.
- He taught me most of what I know. The Guild only showed me how to add class to it, that's all. Did he say anything else before going?
YES. THAT TO HIM YOU ARE THE PERFECT WOMAN. A GODDESS.
- Is there anyone who can hear us now?
NO. YOU CAN LET IT OUT. »
At last, Lyra let herself cry. She allowed herself to feel the pain from her wounds and her broken rib, to fully grasp what she had done, even though it was out of mercy. She hated and dreaded herself for not being able to help her beloved werewolf in any other way, for looking blatantly stupid in front of Teatime, for letting things go totally out of control.
HE LEFT THIS MEDALLION. A FAREWELL GIFT.
She folded herself around the ruby into a foetal position and let her tears soak the pillow. She was shaking with her sobs and from stress relief. Unable to feel any compassion, the best that Death could do was to lay a bony hand on her shoulder before disappearing, leaving her clutching the gem, which was a crimson heart-shaped ruby laced by grey gold leaves. Lyra instinctively put it around her neck; the chain consisted in a short black silk ribbon.
Someone had put a white dressing gown on her, and she had been washed, her hair braided. She just hoped that a woman did it... that dealt yet another blow to her dignity, but she wasn't in a position to mind anyway, so she simply wept herself back to sleep.
« Lyra? Can you hear me? It's Jonathan. Snap out of it, you've been like that for three days now. »
A hand was gently shaking her. She turned to look at Teatime and tried to work up a smile. Why didn't he let her die? That was very unlike him. He usually didn't bother with humans; among the many things you could say about Teatime, one was that he was a selfish little bugger.
He was currently jiggling with a knife.
« So, are you getting up or what? If you don't, I'll be bored. We wouldn't want that now, would we? »
Indeed, we didn't. Teatime could not stay in one place for more than ten minutes without cutting through something.
Lyra stood up unsteadily; she was no longer in the infirmary. She had been moved into the bedroom she had at the Guild. It was supposed to be her home, but she had hardly slept in it ever since she had acquired the attic. The place was still slightly spinning and her wounds hurt under the bandages, but a clear thought had formed in her mind: clothes. Gotta get dressed, a little voice in her mind said, you can't stay in that nightgown forever. Maybe have a bath first.
While she was busy excavating an outfit from a large chest and half-hurrying, half-falling in the bathroom's general direction, Teatime searched himself for something appropriate to do.
He had been in many a woman's room, always for business reasons. Like any other young man, he had tried seeing a seamstress, but he might not have fully grasped the negociable affection system. The experiment had failed miserably, mostly because said seamstress had proceeded to touch him in weird places, without warning, not to mention permission. His was an obvious case of self defence, right? He had been forced to get rid of her, but nicely; only a single stab through the cervical artery. She hadn't even suffered much, although she would have deserved more pain, due do her lack of respect, but he had been in a hurry back then.
He could hear Lyra washing herself, with an occasional grunt as she removed her bandages. It had been a close one for her; the teachers had not wanted to speak of what had happened to her, which meant that something went horribly wrong during her examination. Maybe she would agree to explain it all to him; he was impelled to admit that the redhead had a gift for piquing his curiosity. The reason why she had decided to resurrect him was still unclear and he was determined to sort this out. Surely that couldn't be for the sheer fun of it; only he could emit thoughts like that.
As he was pacing around the room, he eventually found himself near the bathroom's door. He had often been scolded at for being too inquisitive but he just needed to sneak a peek through that keyhole...
No. You didn't do that to a friend, or so he had been told. It was bad manners if you didn't intend to inhume the person, and Teatime doubted that anyone would pay to have this girl dead. Why bother? Her attacker would be killed before even finishing to read the contract.
She had been really, really nice to him, so he found it logical to like her. Her presence was enjoyable in every way. She wasn't indispensable – no one was – but in some way, just by looking at her, he had wanted to care, just a bit.
He had seen her being blown away by the explosion, of couse, since he had been watching her all along. The scrying glass she had bought for him – it was pitch black, lovely – had allowed him to see her face. It had been completely expressionless, which meant that she was in a state of shock at the time. Otherwise she would have at least given it a good yell and tried to catch herself up on a chimney with her whip. Her sight had been worrying for some reason, which, he reckoned, was certainly resulting from his brain adjusting to life again. Could take some time to get used to, life.
He heard tissue rustling, « Bugger that rib » was muttered, and he just got to the other end of the room in time before Lyra came back from her ablutions.
« There, now I can let people look at me without dying of shame », she said.
She had put on a red corset, to which she had pinned her Assassin badge, and black trousers; her hair was loose, hiding half her face. She brushed it aside; there was a collar with a ruby around her neck. Every inch of skin Teatime could see was pure white, except for the freckles.
« Something wrong? she asked.
- Shouldn't you be... you know, covered in scars, that sort of thing?
- Ah, yes, that. Well, see, I still have the spellbook I used to close that poker wound of yours. I think I'll keep it for a bit longer. Comes in handy. »
She walked past him to open the window, filling his nose with a smell of roses. She gazed at somewhere outside, seemingly thoughtful, her chin resting in her delicate hands. Teatime couldn't hold the question any longer.
« I was wondering... out of mere professional interest of course...
- You want to know what went on that night, she sighed.
- How did you know?
- You're a curious little devil. »
She came closer to him. Really close. So close he could see the black streaks in her hair and count them. There were eight of them.
Lyra reached up to his face and pushed a blonde lock from his forehead. It was the sweetest gesture he had ever seen. There was no trace of agressiveness in it. Then she placed her index a bit higher than his left eye, her middle finger on his temple, her thumb on his jaw, and looked him in the eye.
Night. Rain. Tall man crying, client.
Not client. Steven. Father in love, not in blood. Father friend missed him
So that was how she would tell him. Telepathy.
Love love love. So much. Pain. Father sick, wants me to
wants me to
no
no
NO
The man had raised her for a few years, apparently. He wanted to die from her hand. Teatime saw him beg on his knees, through Lyra's eyes. He felt himself going down.
Hold him tight feel him smell of forest of rabbit blood of everything home, childhood, memories, happy, will help him never leave him again sorry
Jonathan watched/felt Lyra kneel and hug the person called Steven. He felt an increasing heartache as her arms gripped the huge man, then she touched the scarred face just like she was touching his, for a few seconds.
Moonlight. Steven unstable. Can't control can't contaminate anymore can't feed
There was a deep outburst of dread.
Steven is my father.
Steven is a werewolf. It's either him or me. He's going to kill me he's hungry oh gods
he doesn't know me anymore
The man had unwillingly transformed into a massive beast. Its yellow eyes were glowing as it howled, then it lauched itself towards the girl.
Father unstable
Father
no
I must fight
STEVEN
must live
LOVE ME
for
for
him...
The rest was a blur. She had pretty much stopped thinking at that point, letting the survival instincts take over. Everything seemed to fast-forward from there on; she had fetched the head, closed the eyelids and wrapped the animal in a blanket, laid a kiss on the grey fur and blown up the place.
Please don't make me repeat myself. Your mind, crimson. Pretty. Like having you around –
The world came back as soon as Lyra removed her hand. She was looking down, so that her hair hid most of her face.
« That's all there is to know. Now if you'll excuse me, I really need to work. Do be a darling and close the door behind you. »
Thus she planted him there and walked out. Something about her said, if you try to follow me I'll have to murder you because I really need to kill someone and you happen to be close. So Teatime waited a bit, then danced happily down the corridors to his own apartments. She had let him know. She was a friend then. He couldn't choose between discovering a way to inhume the Oh God of Hangovers and finding a proper restaurant to take Lyra, as had been advised by Downey. The Guildmaster might be far from trustworthy, but he probably had some knowledge about how to deal with women.
