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Chapter 15

Golden Auroras

"Come on, Will," Mrs. Coulter said as soon as they exited Sir Charles' house. While she'd spent the past half hour ignoring him, she now took him by the arm and guided him off to a side street, checking over her shoulder as they walked.

"What's going on?" Will demanded, trying and failing to weasel out of her grasp. She hung on tightly, squeezing even harder the more he resisted. "Who is that man, and what does he want?"

That was the question of the hour. Who was Sir Charles, and how was it that he knew Mrs. Coulter? And how did he know Lyra, and about Mrs. Coulter's work, and about the people she reports to? It was so strange, the way he'd entered the situation. It's like when you walk into a movie at the half-way mark: you know that you've missed things, you hear some of it, and you hang around to see if you can piece together the information. Except in this case, Will still wasn't able to pick it up. And it frustrated him.

"I'll tell you, but is there anywhere we can safely talk?"

They were out of Old Headington now, and Will scanned the landmarks to help him reestablish where, exactly, they were. He saw busy streets and more suburban venues, like big subdivisions and some street-side stores. They were firmly in New Headington, and getting closer to where they'd been in Oxford proper. "There's a coffee shop up ahead," he remembered out loud, and Mrs. Coulter nodded as she led them to the direction he pointed. She was still grasping his arm, so he added: "But if you want to go in, you have to let me go so I can get my money out."

"I have money now," she said swiftly. How? All Will could do was stare as she continued to guide him forward over to the store.

" Tell me. " They were seated in the corner of the café, a hot chocolate for Will and a mocha latte for Mrs. Coulter. Now that they were sitting face-to-face like this, Will could see how tired Mrs. Coulter looked. She had bags under her eyes, and her shoulders were slumped as she leaned on the table. It looked like she hasn't slept in days.

"You don't look so good," he observed, wondering more and more if he'd gotten himself into something terrible.

It all had happened so fast—Mrs. Coulter and Lyra appearing in the house, convincing him to team up, traveling with him around Oxford. He realized that he hardly knew these people, and that they'd brought even more stress into his life. He normally would avoid people and would never make such a hasty decision, yet he'd decided to go with them anyway. There was just something about them that he couldn't describe, and couldn't resist. He could hardly make sense of it.

Where else did he have to go?

The thought crept up on him as he continued fighting with his thoughts. He had no one. He had nothing. The incident at his house stole so much from him in terms of options and support. As far as he could tell, he was completely and utterly alone in a big mess he didn't think he could climb out of.

Mrs. Coulter and Lyra were all he had at this point. And he had to accept it.

"I don't even know where to start, Will," she finally sighed, sipping her mocha. "Everything is a mess. Carlo—er, Sir Charles—is a man from my world, and he's got connections with some people who desperately want to hurt Lyra."

And so she told him what was going on, and Will listened to her intently. She was being vulnerable in a way he hadn't seen before. She'd been vulnerable during her time without her daemon, but not as open and honest as she was being now. It felt like she was actually telling him the truth, which he hadn't felt before. All Will could do was listen, and realize that in trusting him with all of this information, she was evening the playing field between them. Now, they both knew important things about the other that could make things difficult for them. And Will respected that.

"I knew he seemed crooked," Will exclaimed once she'd finished. It made sense for him to be involved in some kind of mysterious plot and to blackmail whoever he wanted. Something about him just didn't seem right. And his behavior certainly hadn't resolved him of anything.

"And now we have to find Lyra," Mrs. Coulter said, her face regaining some of the determination from when they'd first met. "And then, Will, I promise we will figure this out and help you with what you need to do."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The sight was unlike anything Father MacPhail had ever seen in his forty-four years of life.

He and the Magisterial soldiers were lined up in the golden bridge, watching as glittering particles swirled all around them. He knew what it was, of course. Dust. He couldn't help but recoil at it. Sin. It clung to adults and to daemons and scattered about them as they moved forward and around—bright and foreboding.

But what does it all mean? Eulalia wondered, her eyes tracking the movement of a nearby Dust cloud. How can we ever fully combat it if we don't understand it?

That was an important question. Nobody knew the answers, to what Dust was, where it came from, what it did, and what they should do about it. Not even Asriel, in all of his academic pursuits and blatant hersey. Or Marisa, with her repugnant experiments and promises to deliver results. It wasn't within Father MacPhail's purview to understand the theoretical properties of these particles, and nor would he ever want it to be. But, as Eulalia's wandering mind could attest to, it wasn't something he could completely avoid. That puzzling curiosity would likely always follow him, as it felt key to so much of what people of faith and the Church struggled with day after day.

They reached a crossroad at this point now, the men pausing and moving aside for Father MacPhail to move to the front.

"We're awaiting your command, sir," said the army's general, nodding to him and stepping back.

Left or right? It was a crucial question, Father MacPhail knew. It was one he'd learned about in his priesthood preparation, too, as decisions were a central theme in the Authority's work and His legacy. Two different options, two different sets of possibilities. An important aspect not to be taken lightly.

So which would he choose now? Left, or right? Which did Asriel choose? Which did Marisa? It was impossible to know, and Father MacPhail knew that he'd be long-entrenched in these options either way and regardless.

"You lot go right," he said to the men on the one side, "and the rest of you go left with me. Understood?"

They were sift and efficient, picking up their weapons and marching in the direction they were ordered. Father MacPhail sighed as he followed the general down the left path, knowing fully well it was the only beginning of a hard journey from which he could only hope to return.