Lirael woke earlier than she would have liked. Typically, it was still dark, with only silvery moonlight for company. So she pulled herself to her feet, stretching a little to encourage her sleepy muscles into working for her effectively.
'Up.' She mumbled to herself.
As far as she could tell, it was far too early for her to be awake properly, and yet she was. She muttered the activation spell for the light-charter mark and it flickered into a warm, mellow glow that illuminated her bedchamber effectively enough.
In comparison to her room in the Clayr's glacier, it was an ultimate luxury, though any room to herself was a luxury in itself.
Though she had been brought out of self-company a little by her new family, Lirael's time alone was still precious to her, and she savoured it with relish.
Her chambers were big, and more than Lirael could have asked for, being generally happy with humble accommodation. The bathroom alone was bigger than her room back at the glacier. It had a smooth granite floor, with a bath on a stand, deep and with an endless supply of hot water. The floor was built on a hypocaust, and was always warm and comforting.
Opposite the bath was a shower that gushed out powerful jets of hot water, and next to that a wardrobe full of more clothes that Lirael could ever possibly want: though she had soon learned when the appropriate time was to wear each garment.
A deep sink with a pump offered a cool drink or a good face splashing when it was needed, and the small, mirror-faced cupboard above it was chock full of shampoos, soaps, bubble baths, flannels and sponges, among other washing apparatus.
The vanity desk in between the toilet and sink was the thing that Lirael had not once touched, finding no comfort in admiring her pale features. She had only ever used the hairbrush, finding no pleasure in the make-up contained within the drawers.
The bathroom was next to her bedchambers, which was an extravagant place: a fore-poster bed with soft, squashy pillows, mattress and luxurious linen sheets and velvet hangings. A shelf full of hundreds of various different books… most of which were Lirael's favourites from the library.
The three most important books she owned: The Book Of The Dead, The Book of Remembering and Forgetting and The Skin Of A Lyon lay on her candle-covered altar which stood in front of the French windows that led out onto her balcony.
The third room was her own practice room, a place where Lirael could be found practicing activities that were newly discovered to her such as yoga, meditation and Parchî – a sort of martial art that improved her speed and helped her hone in on her faults in fighting.
Now that she was Abhorsen, Lirael could not afford to neglect fighting arts, and so she trained herself sometimes by herself, sometimes with Sabriel or Sam. Usually, she worked herself hard, using all the equipment in the practice room, but today, as she drove herself to punch the swinging sack, she found her aim was becoming poorer.
She cursed herself, and resigned to the shower, where she stood, naked, washing herself down with her hand, especially the stump where her right hand had once been as it was often itchy – a sign that her body hadn't yet caught up with the fact that the limb simply was no longer there.
After Lirael had washed and dried, she set herself through breathing exercises, simply sitting on the floor of the bathroom, taking in breath after breath. As she progressed in the calming exercise, she pondered what had woken her. She thought over what had alarmed her about Lord Cronwell and tried to dismiss it – but she could not shake the feeling of his eyes travelling over her body – her hips, breasts and legs.
No matter how much she told herself she was being a vain or noticing things that hadn't happened, she was sure that there was something wrong with him… something not right. He couldn't have been dead or she would have noticed – wouldn't she?
He can't be of any Free Magic. She thought, slowly, or I would have smelt it… maybe… a Mordaut?
Lirael shuddered at the thought- what on earth could that creature be doing to her family? She shook her head to rid herself of the thought. No, Cronwell was too in-control.
It couldn't be that. Maybe it was just her own paranoia? After losing… after losing Touchstone was she just being over-protective of her family.
The Dog would know. She thought miserably.
That, admittedly, was true. The Disreputable Dog would know whether the Lord was to be trusted. Lirael thought for a moment, and then… she realised.
Yrael, she thought suddenly. Yrael! Yes! Mogget will know… if he's willing to tell me.
She stood suddenly, picked up her towel and rubbed herself down. She wrapped her towel around herself and crossed to the wardrobe, from which she took out clothing that she would never have though to wear ordinarily.
A sleeveless vest, which hung just below her collarbone – so it would give nothing for Lord Cronwell to stare at should she meet him. The other garment was a simple pair of three-quarter length trousers, mule in colour and made of a fine, breezy fabric, which would allow her skin to breathe.
She tied her damp hair up into a scruffy bun – though it looked rather unruly was practical. She didn't think anyone would see her in the attire and was glad, mostly because she liked to be predictable. She could change once she'd found Mogget.
After dressing, she pushed her feet into sandals that she usually wore now that it was getting nearer to summer in the Old Kingdom and walked out of her room.
'Ugh!' she said, as she bumped – straight into Nicholas Sayre.
'Lirael!' Nick said, startled, and going red, as she looked her up and down.
'Oh, Nick!' Lirael said, wondering what on earth Nick was doing outside her door.
'Did you need me for something?'
She noticed his eyes looking her over – and found that, unlike the perverted stares that Cronwell gave her, Nick's subtle eye-flickers over her form were somehow more appreciated. She still felt rather uncomfortable – but in a shy way, in a way that made her want to walk away quickly, rather in an outraged way.
'Nothing,' Nick muttered, 'I just…walking… you know. What are you doing?'
'Er…' Lirael thought about asking Nick about Lord Cronwell but decided against it. 'Um, just…walking. It's too stuffy in my room.'
'Same here,' Nick said in a too-bright voice. Lirael caught his eye and realised the subtleties in his voice were overruled by his obvious want to go with her.
Lirael, however, liked to be alone.
She began to walk on. 'Just… you know…' she turned and disappeared round the corner, wondering why she wanted him to follow.
Mogget had his own room of preference – the living room. Of course, there was more than one in the palace, but Mogget most liked to occupy the living room in the West Wing- several hundred doors and two staircases down from Lirael's chambers. It was here she found him, curled up a cream coloured pouffe.
She prodded him awake, and one piercing green eye opened, growling its discomfort.
'I've told you before Abhorsen.' It mewed savagely, 'Never wake me in the night.'
'Sorry,' Lirael apologised. 'I just… needed some advice.' Now that she was here, asking advice from the collar-contained Yrael sounded stupid and foolish.
'You needed advice from me?' The cat asked incredulously. 'And here I was thinking that humans were supposed to be the cleverest beings on earth!' Lirael was not fooled as the second part was drowning in sarcasm.
'Obviously, Yrael, you are a thousand times cleverer than I,' Lirael sighed.
'Than any human.' Yrael corrected grudgingly.
'Than any human,' Lirael agreed. 'But this… this Lord Cronwell, I need to know… is he trustworthy?'
The cat eyed her with a mix of deep sarcasm and pity – pity for her stupidity Lirael guessed. 'Well, at least not all Abhorsens are total idiots.' Mogget muttered.
'You've got sense at least. And now that King Torrigan's gone… How does mistress Ellimere feel?'
'I don't know,' Lirael admitted, 'She hasn't spoken to me much. Somehow, it feels like its my fault he's dead.'
'I will not continue this pointless talk unless you cut down on that self-pity.' Mogget growled, sounding more like The Disreputable Dog that Mogget.
'You humans are rather foolish and I don't have to tell you anything.'
Lirael frowned. Not because refusing to tell someone something was out of Mogget's character, but merely because the last sentence was rather off subject.
'I'm only asking for your opinion.' Lirael tried feebly. 'I just feel like…'
'Well, you'd be better asking Kibeth about this matter shouldn't you eh?'
'Yes.' Lirael agreed, her head drooping.
'But you can't,' Mogget said.
'No.' Lirael agreed.
'Well.' The cat sighed. 'I suppose I ought to ask her then.'
He kept one, half-open green eye on Lirael and Lirael got the hint.
'How can you do that?' Lirael asked.
'I have my ways.' Mogget yawned lazily. 'And I suppose perhaps its worth the bother if my free-er is in danger. As my last debt to Abhorsen.'
Mogget was talking of course, about Sabriel, and how she had freed him with Belgaer. Mogget stretched to scratch his long white neck,. And a small imitation of the tiny bell sounded – a thoughtful, helpful sound.
'You owe no debt, Mogget.' Lirael said softly. Despite the prospect of contact with her dear friend, she could not send Mogget on a quest which he did not have to take.
'I am getting too soft.' The cat growled, and a last peal of Belgaer rang before the cat disappeared into death.
