Fëanor woke the next morning with Marisa in his arms, the tiniest shift of her arm alerting him to the fact that she was awake. He didn't move, he didn't even open his eyes, but pretended he was still sleeping to see what she would do.

Stelmaria, lying at the bottom of the bed with her tail wrapped around his legs, opened her green eyes and watched Marisa. Fëanor could get a dim sense of what she was seeing: Marisa was still, not moving but eyes open and biting her lip in pain, because –

A sudden flash of thought: her dæmon wasn't there. The golden monkey was outside the room, pulling away from her. Marisa was learning to separate from her dæmon.

Fëanor knew that witches could go a great distance from their dæmons, but they had a different method, doing it all at once, not bit by bit. He'd never before come across anyone willing to put themselves through the pain of distance from their dæmon to gain the power of separation.

But if anyone would do something like that, it would be Marisa.

He wondered what to do: should he reveal that he had been watching her? Yes, but not yet: wait until the monkey returned first.

She was distracted by the pain, so he risked opening his eyes, without moving another muscle, and observing her himself. It felt unnatural seeing a person in this world so far from their dæmon: he had learnt to tell when someone had a part of them just… missing.

They lay there in silence, the woman without her dæmon and the elf-lord watching her. For a moment Fëanor realised how surreal this situation was: after all these nights alone, he could finally sleep with a woman and she was only half there.

The clock on the bedroom wall ticked by. It was six o'clock in the morning by now, and sunlight was beginning to slip through the cracks in the blinds and into the room. Fëanor was impressed at how long Marisa and her dæmon had stayed away from each other, not that he would ever admit that.

Finally, he caught sight of a golden blur dashing into the room, visible once it slowed to a walk as a monkey. He waited for a while to watch it leap gently up onto the bed and curl up beside Marisa, and then he said, "Good morning, Marisa."

"Good morning, Lord Asriel," she said calmly, twisting herself around to face him. Was there a slight note of fear in her voice about what he could have seen? Or was he just imagining it based on what he knew?

He decided to test her acting skills, see how well she could hide her guilt. "You slept well, I trust?"

"I did," replied Marisa calmly. "And you?"

"I also did, thank you. How far can he go?"

"I – I don't know – what you mean."

Her face was a picture of surprise and horror. "Don't lie to me, Marisa. I know you know what I mean. How far away can your dæmon go from you?"

"A couple of yards," said Marisa casually. "The same as most people. Why would you want to know?"

"You're still lying," he said.

"Am I? Why don't you tell me the truth, in that case?"

How could she be so casual about this, as if she didn't even care that her darkest secrets had been discovered? What was there about Marisa which let her just keep going even when she must know it was worthless?

"I saw you," he said. "Without your dæmon. He was gone, and you were here."

"Really?" asked Marisa. "How strange. You must have been dreaming. It's a very common thing, dreaming while believing you are awake. I assure you my dæmon was here beside me all night." She reached down to stroke his head between the ears.

He was almost convinced. Many another person would have been convinced by the innocent (and, if he had to admit it, beautiful) smile on her face. It was a very good effort, he had to admit, but it wasn't anywhere near good enough.

"Marisa," he said sharply, and pushed her away with a sudden violent shove so that she almost fell off the bed. "Stop playing your games, we both know the truth. There's no reason for you not to admit it." He pulled the duvet back and swung his legs quickly out of bed.

"I'm sorry," said Marisa, "do forgive me. Very well: you were right. My dæmon was out of the room."

He nodded, already standing up and searching for clothes in the wardrobe: the King had asked to see him, so he would have to be presentable today. He didn't have any more time to waste on Marisa.

"You won't tell anyone, of course," said Marisa. She dragged herself out of bed and adjusted her thick white dressing gown, tying its cord tight about her stomach.

"Won't I?" asked Fëanor, angrier than ever in the face of the absolute certainty of her statement as he pulled his smartest suit from the wardrobe and laid it down on the floor.

Marisa stood up and walked slowly around the bed to the wardrobe to stand next to him. She took two steps forward so that she was standing in her bare feet on his suit. "No," she said softly. "You won't."

He stayed absolutely still, simply longing to see what she did next. He could have said something, but it felt like she'd put some kind of spell on him to keep him standing there, waiting.

Moving slowly, as if he were a wild animal she was trying not to spook, she placed one hand on his bare chest and reached out with the other to caress the back of his neck and pull him closer, gently pushing his head down and twisting it sideways until her lips were touching his ear.

Then she breathed a single word.

"Fëanor."