Marisa woke in his arms, encircling her so tightly that she couldn't hope to move without waking him. That she refused to do: she couldn't say why, but waking him just seemed wrong.

However, just because she couldn't move didn't mean her dæmon couldn't, and this was the perfect opportunity to practice something she'd been working on for a while.

Without making a sound, the golden monkey slipped off the bed and began making its way across the room to the still-open door. It was when he stepped through the door and into the corridor that Marisa first began to feel the pain: it felt so wrong, so unnatural, for her dæmon to be so far away, and she could feel a dull sort of ache or longing in her chest.

It only got worse as he moved slowly further and further away until he was halfway down the corridor, and it was all she could do to hold still and prevent herself from running to him. She bit her lip and focused on lying as still as she could.

The pain didn't ease at all, but after a while she found it more bearable and could almost relax in spite of it. She watched the clock tick by and told herself to wait for two minutes before letting him come back.

The time passed slowly, the hand seeming to slow to half its speed, but finally it was one minute past six. Come back, thought Marisa silently, and he did. She smiled as she saw the golden blur coming closer until he could leap up onto the bed and curl up beside her.

"Good morning, Marisa."

She fought her first urge to whip round and face him, carefully controlling her reactions to gently twist around instead. He couldn't know that she was on edge. What had he seen? "Good morning, Lord Asriel," she replied calmly.

"You slept well, I trust?"

"I did," she said, voice carefully level, daring to hope she'd got away with it. "And you?"

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

Her heart skipped a bit. "I – I don't know – what you mean." She felt almost morally obliged to lie and try and get out of it, even though she knew it was hopeless.

"Don't lie to me, Marisa. I know you know what I mean. How far can your dæmon go from you?"

"A couple of yards," replied Marisa casually, hiding her sense of resignation and defeat. "The same as most people. Why would you want to know?"

"You're still lying."

"Am I?" asked Marisa, tilting her head to one side and smiling innocently. "Why don't you tell me the truth, in that case?"

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

"Really?" asked Marisa, still sounding perfectly innocent. "How strange. You must have been dreaming. It's a very common thing, dreaming while believing you're awake. I assure you my dæmon was here beside me all night." She reached down to scratch his golden fur between the ears.

"Marisa," he said, sounding angrier than she'd heard him before. He pushed her away so hard that she struggled not to fall out of bed. "Stop playing your games, we both know the truth. There's no reason for you not to admit it." He flung back the duvet and swung his legs quickly out of bed.

"I'm sorry," she said, years of practice guiding her every word, "do forgive me. Very well: you were right. My dæmon was out of the room."

He only acknowledged her with a nod, already busy finding clothes in the wardrobe.

Marisa pulled back her side of the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed, adjusting her dressing gown. "You won't tell anyone, of course," she said.

"Won't I?" he asked, pulling a suit out of the wardrobe and placing it on the floor.

Something in the way he'd said that made something snap within Marisa. He'd been in control of this relationship right since the beginning. It was about time she did something about it. She got to her feet and walked around the bed to stand next to him, and then deliberately but without looking down stepped forward so she was standing on his suit. "No," she said, "you won't."

Then, moving slowly and gently, she reached out to touch him. Her right hand (wedding ring removed) was placed against his bare chest (she ignored the tingling feeling; she wouldn't yield to her emotions now, she would show him) and with the left she caressed the back of his neck, pulling him closer and tilting his head sideways until her lips brushed against his ear.

He didn't move: she had some hold over him already, it was working. Her magic hadn't lost its touch.

It wasn't too late: she didn't have to do this. It was too dangerous; she didn't need to. There were far better ways to ensure his silence. Those thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, but she couldn't stand this any more. She was prepared to face the consequences of what she was about to do, to suffer almost any pain just for the satisfaction of being able to shock him, just this once.

It went against everything she'd ever learnt: twenty-four years of training in precisely how to act, what to say, what to do, gone in an instant. It was the most dangerous thing she'd ever said. He could kill her in ten seconds.

What had he done to her? How had he made this seem like the only way when there were a thousand better choices to be made?

Why was she doing this?

All of those thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, and she knew it was no use trying to stop herself. She'd thought she was taking control, but she was out of control of herself.

Even so, she whispered that word.

"Fëanor."