It was all going according to plan: the baby had been born perfectly healthy. He'd named her Lyra and her dæmon Pantalaimon, and taken her to his mansion where Ma Costa had been looking after her. His other plans were going smoothly, too, and he felt able to take enough time off to go hunting.
His jet-black mare, Mórëlintië, flew over the ground, barely needing his urging in her sense of the thrill of the hunt. Stelmaria bounded alongside, strides matching the horse's. The wind whipped across his body.
"Asriel! Asriel!"
That was Thorold's voice, and it sounded panicked. He pulled back on the reins and Mórëlintië jerked to a halt.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Edward Coulter – he's here, he's searching the cottage – Ma Costa's got away to the manor, but – "
He didn't wait for another word; he turned Mórëlintië around and spurred her on, jumping right over Thorold and galloping at top speed back to the manor. He leapt off the horse, pushed open the door and charged inside.
Edward Coulter had his hands on the door of the cupboard, but he looked up as he heard the bang of the door swinging shut behind Fëanor, and he had a gun in his hand.
Without even thinking, Fëanor closed the gap and ripped the gun from Edward's hand before he had time to react. He tossed it to the side. "You don't touch my daughter," he said warningly.
"Your daughter? My wife's daughter! You had a child with my wife!"
"And?" asked Fëanor.
Edward suddenly lunged for the gun and snatched it up. "Come any closer and I'll shoot you!" he spat.
Fëanor grabbed his arm just as he pulled the trigger, and the shot went wide. They struggled until he was able to prise the gun out of Edward's hand. Then he pulled the trigger.
It was at point-blank range. There was no way he could have missed. Edward Coulter fell dead at his feet in a moment.
And that was that.
A couple of hours later, the police were at the door. He told them everything honestly: yes, he had killed the man, but it had been in defence of himself, his home and his daughter. He even told them who the mother was: Marisa wouldn't like it but it was the only thing to do.
They didn't try to arrest him, fortunately for them. If they had he probably would have killed them all. But they warned him, said they'd be watching him and they would set a court date for him to be put on trial for murder.
Not long after the police were gone, he had another visitor. He'd been expecting this one.
He hadn't seen her since just after the birth. They'd both sworn never to meet again. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress clashed horribly with her eyes and her make-up had run. This from Marisa was like bursting into tears and collapsing in a heap from anyone else.
"What have you done?" she asked. Her voice was level, and she was keeping her distance. Controlling herself.
"I am perfectly uninjured, as is your daughter. Thank you for asking," he replied sarcastically.
"You killed my husband?" she asked.
"Yes. I thought you'd be grateful."
"Grateful? For the loss of my reputation, for everything I've been working towards for the last three years?" She was holding herself back. There was none of the closeness there had been before. This was a distant, calculating Marisa. She was playing the game, her every breath a new move.
"For setting you free from a man you didn't love," he replied.
"If this is your idea of freedom, then I think I'd much rather be imprisoned. Think what it will do to me – an adulteress, a scarlet woman, I'd be shamed, I'd never be able to show myself in public again!"
She meant every word she was saying.
"Good," he replied. "Then maybe now you have no reputation to lose, you'll be willing to marry me."
She laughed: not the warm, cheerful, utterly fake sound she gave to politicians who pleased her, but high and bitter, almost chilling. "Marry you? After what you've done to me? I'd rather die."
"What I've done to you? You brought this upon yourself, Marisa. You chose to continue our affair as much as I did. I never forced you to do anything."
He was right, and she knew it and hated him for it.
"We'll see what the courts think about that, won't we?" she asked.
"So you're going to twist it so I was to blame, and you are – what, the poor innocent naïve trusting victim, never realising what she'd got herself into until far too late? And I'm the villain, calculating my every move to shame the angelic wife of Edward Coulter and ruin both of you forever?"
She shot him a look of utter hatred. "And what do you propose to do?"
"I'll tell them the truth. About what happened between us, about what I did, about what you did. And let the courts do what they like. They can't hurt me. Don't you want to see Lyra?"
"Why should I?" she asked. "It's not as if I care about your daughter."
He chuckled. "Oh, Marisa. Every time I think I'm used to the callous depths of whatever passes for your heart, you say something that reminds me that you've never had one."
"We have nothing more to say to each other," she said, turning away.
"I quite agree. Get out of my life. I have better things to do than conduct another affair with you."
"And so do I," she replied, not showing the pain that must have caused her at all. "Goodbye, Fëanor. Don't worry, I'll keep your little secret."
He watched her go and knew that she meant what he had said: both about keeping his secret and about leaving.
"Well," he said. "That's over now."
"Good," added Stelmaria. "It should never have happened."
