Thankyou to all my reviewers, this chapter wouldn't have been written without you.
Thankyou to HDMcrazy-no problem, yes, all by myself, incredibly, some subconscoius stroke of genius i never knew i had. Thankyou also to Faige and some anonamous person who demanded to hear from will, Jaimee-what the hell is a potatoe-in-the-waterthing?but thanx for reviewing, and thankyou to Zephdae-Alvin Maker, rings a bell but i cant think from where, ill look him up, terribly flattered all the same.
And of course an enormous thankyou to my amazing Beta Alice, to whom all the spelling, grammer and general sense of the stroy can be atributed.
Diclaimer: Phillip Pullmans characters and situations not mine.
Chapter 4Mrs Delarue was Lyra's nemesis, partly because she was a useless maths teacher, partly because she absolutely adored Edwina but mostly because she was a malicious and stupid woman who always sprung surprise tests when everyone was guaranteed to be distracted.
Like for instance, the day before the ball. The weather seemed to be as discontent as the children, howling winds battered the buildings, making it creak and groan like a wild thing, snow was piled up outside the window, and snow flakes whirled, indistinct behind the frosted glass.
Inside the classroom was freezing as the students sat huddled together in their rows for warmth, the anabaric lighting flickered, making the girls seem haggard and ghost like. In front of them, Mrs Delarue and her obese black rat sat, like a fat queen and her advisor, observing their minions, small piggy little eyes scanning the room, alert to any communications.
Right at the back, Lyra was scraping her way through the complicated algebra problems, reminiscing about Will, when a small scrunched up piece of paper flew four rows from Matilda (where she had been forced to sit after flicking ink at Edwina's back) and landed perfectly on her desk.
Black or purple?
Writing her reply as casually as she could, she flicked the note back to her friend.
"Lyra!" whispered Grace in her ear, Khalifa nudging Pan as he dozed on the edge of the chair, "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why not?" she whispered back, expertly catching the returned note in her left hand
"You might accidentally throw it onto Mrs Delarue's desk," Grace replied, ever cautious.
"Aw, come on!" Persephone, who was now sitting on Lyra's right, hissed back, "You are talking to the hockey, poleball and lacrosse captain for the last two years. I'm sure she can hit a desk at five metres!"
Lyra ducked her head and shared a look with her daemon. She would be flattered if she didn't know that Persephone was only doing it to annoy Grace.
"I'm just saying Lyra's already in trouble and…" Grace started.
"Oh, stop being such a stick in the mud!" mocked Persephone's, the racoon daemon rolling his eyes.
Lyra sighed as she felt Khalifa kicking Axum, for that was the racoons name, under the table and shook her head; sitting between these two had definitely not been a good idea.
She read Matilda's message, and blocking out the quietly raging argument aound her, she paused and replied: Because I'm still in love with Will.
"I'm just being cautious, that's all," continued Grace.
"If Lyra wants to pass notes, that's her look out," Persephone retorted.
"Just 'cos some people don't look out for their friends, doesn't mean everyone…"
Just then their bickering was broken by an unwelcome screech.
"Oh! Mrs Delarue! Matilda and Lyra have been passing notes." Mrs Delarue looked up at the smug Edwina waving the incriminating paper.
"Tell-tale!" muttered Matilda as Mrs Delarue slowly reached across the table and treating Edwina to a regal smile, she opened it up.
Lyra and Pan watched in horror as a malicious and self satisfied smile crossed their teacher's face, barely noticing the death glares that passed between Persephone and Grace.
"You can't read that!" Lyra said heatedly, while her pine marten bared its teeth. "It's private!"
"I hardly think you're in a position, Miss Belaque," replied Mrs Delarue, in her sarcastic drawl, "To tell me what I can and cannot do."
And she began to read it out, the fat, black rat by her side snearing at Pantaliamon.
"Black or purple. I haven't decided yet. It's tomorrow; you really aren't excited about this are you? No. Why. Because I'm still in love with Will."
Lyra let out a growl, Pantalaimon arched his back, furious that their deepest thoughts could be so casually exposed.
" How sweet!" Mrs Delarue chuckled at Lyra's evident anger. "Lyra's got a boyfriend!"
"What happened? Did he dump you?" Edwina called.
Lyra stood up glaring at them, "Will wou'n't never dump me! Cos he ain't my boyfriend, and never will be!" she shouted defensively, her cockney accent coming out in her anger.
"Well, don't take it out on us then." replied Edwina looking disdainfully down her nose, "Your failed love life is no business of ours!"
"Poor, rejected Lyra!" interjected Gertie, one of Edwina's lapdogs.
"Shut up." Lyra screamed, making some of the girls take a step back, as unbeknownst to Lyra, a terrifying energy, not unlike Mrs Coulters, overwhelmed them, sending shivers down their daemons spines, "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"Young lady! Control your anger!" said Mrs Delarue, leaping up with an astonishing speed and slamming her hands onto the desk, Stalin leaping across the classroom to stand before Pan.
But the gibe at Will had been too much, her anger getting the better of her, she pushed over the desk on which Stalin had landed, screaming back, "and you can go to Hell, you idiotic, ignorant, useless excuse for a teacher…"
"How dare you!" gasped Mrs Delarue, in a dangerously quiet voice, her daemons red eyes sparkling menacingly.
But Lyra did not notice. She was unstoppable, all the pent up despair and anger at losing Will was coming to the surface, as Pantalaimon shrieked and barked and snapped at the teacher's daemon, chasing it around the room; Matilda and Morgan taking advantage of the distraction to slip ink into Edwina's fish bowl.
Predictably, the commotion ended with Edwina being sick, Morgan and Matilda getting detention, and Lyra being sent to the headmistress by an enraged Mrs Delarue, heatedly announcing she was going to expel them all.
Throwing her books into her bag, as her friends whispered their luck, Lyra high tailed it out the classroom and into the corridor from where she was frog marched into the headmistress' office by Edwina (who had sufficiently recovered) and her friend Gertie.
"Mrs Haines!" Edwina announced, dragging Lyra into the room, "Mrs Delarue wants you to expel Lyra because I caught her passing notes."
"Miss Scott! Can't you see I'm in the middle of a meeting?" the Headmistress frowned, her beautiful green-winged macaw soaring around her head, "And we don't expel people for passing notes."
"And she insulted the teacher," added Gertie, to which Edwina nodded, "And he…" she pointed an accusing finger at Pantalaimon who tried (and failed miserably) to look innocent, "He attacked her daemon."
"Well, thank you for bringing this to my attention, but if you would be so kind," she said impatiently, indicating the door.
Edwina opened and shut her mouth a few times, feeling distinctly put out. Lyra and Gertie however, aking the hint, started to make their way out of the room, Lyra's shoulders sagging in relief.
"Actually, Lyra, would you stay behind for a moment?"
Lyra turned like a prisoner back into jail, determinedly ignoring the self-satisfied expressions of the other two as they walked out scot-free, and took a tentative seat in front of Mrs Haines' desk.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Haines, really I am," she said, trying to look as apologetic as possible, while Pan curled himself up in attempt to appear sorry, "I wont do it again, I promise!"
"Don't make promises you wont keep," she said with a smile, "Though, of course, insulting your teacher is not to be encouraged and will of course have to be punished." Here she gave Lyra a reprimanding look, "But we have more important things to attend to. I was going to come and fetch you after classes had finished, but seeing as you're here now. Lyra, I would like to introduce Mrs Coulter's lawyer, Mr Trugar."
It was then that Lyra noticed that she was not the only person in the room. On a chair on the other side of the clutter huddled an old man, with long pianist's fingers, his daemon a chameleon at his side.
When he saw her looking he nodded and managed to wheeze out a, "Miss Coulter."
Lyra opened her mouth in astonishment and looked over at Mrs Haines, who was smiling amusedly, her pen set aside.
"Mr Trugar, this is Mrs Coulter's daughter, Lyra Belaque."
"Miss Belaque." The lawyer nodded his head again, holding his coat around him as though he was cold, completely nonplussed at his mistake.
"Lyra," Mrs Haines turned to her, "You've just inherited Mrs Coulters fortune."
"What!" Lyra just stared in shock.
"Or what's left of it, once the church has been through with it," Mrs Haines said as she held out a piece of paper, covered in carefully curled letters. "They were most upset that she didn't leave it to them, so they've been doing backwards somersaults to claim as much as they can for damages and criminal activity and so forth, so there isn't much actual capital left."
"Un ha?" Lyra and Pan looked at each other, expressions of equal confusion plastered across their faces.
"Well, anyway. I won't bother reading the whole thing out to you, but I made a copy if you want to have a look?" she passed over the paper she had been working on when Lyra had first come in. "Basically, she's left everything to you, including her flat in London and all its contents. There was also a nice country house in Geneva, but I believe that it's been seized already."
"Oh right," Lyra said while her head reeled as it took in this new information, it was, after all, not everyday that you came into a fortune. "Will I have to live there?"
"Goodness, no!" she replied, "Not unless you particularly want to, of course?"
Lyra shook her head adamantly.
"I didn't think so. No, I suggest you sell it and add to the small sum that your mother already left you. Which is the reason I called you," continued Mrs Haines.
"Mr Trugar here fears for his health, and the doctors say he might not be here come Christmas, so time is of the essence!" Mr Trugar nodded his head and coughed again, as though to prove his point, "I thought perhaps you could go down to London tomorrow morning and sort out anything you'd like to keep or sell, then catch the last Zeppelin up in time for the ball. What do you think?"
"Sounds great!" said Lyra, eyes brightening at the prospect of going to London again.
"Good!" the macaw flapped his wings decisively. "Now if you don't mind, Lyra, I am afraid we have a mountain of paperwork to get through. Mr Trugar, if you would be so kind?"
The next morning dawned bright, crisp and clear, the snow from the night before, covering the ground, as two excited girls and one old man made their way from the Aërodrøme into London. The city was just starting to awake, stalls were being set up, the snow was being swept off the streets, shops were being opened and the first customers were already arriving, rubbing their hands to keep warm.
Street urchins, much like Lyra's childhood friends, galloped through the streets, shouting and calling to each other, as they played and fought in their own complicated politics.
The rich and the famous did not brave the freezing smaller hours of London, still lying warm in their beds, recovering from the night activities. The only evidence of their existence was the fat nannies waddling their way through the park, the precious heirs and heiresses bundled in their prams, sound in their grasp.
The street on which Mrs Coulters flat lay was no exception and was filled with the lazy quiet of slumbering residents; the only movement being a large ginger tom out prowling his icy territory.
"I don't know how you managed all these stairs!" said Matilda, as Lyra swung her way around the banisters at neck breaking speed, and continued up.
"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to," said Lyra, stopping to wait for her friend.
"I guess I just couldn't resist missing double maths!" came the cheerful reply.
Lyra grinned at her, "Did you see the look on her face when we told her we would both be going!"
"Moral support! Her dead mother's house, you know, could be very traumatic!"
The girls giggled at their small victories and waited by the door for Mr Trugar, as he gasped and wheezed up the last flight of stairs.
Inside was much as she remembered it: the same gold and white striped wall paper and heavy gilt frames of peaceful forest scenes, floral lampshades and thick plush carpets, delicate harlequins and china boxes. There was even the same heavy perfume that her mother had used to wear; leaving ghost-like trails of her scent everywhere she had passed. The expensive glass-wear and plates still sat, delicately piled in their place, waiting patiently for the return of their mistress. The flowers in the window were just brown stalks, old and dead from neglect. This home was, like the others of its class, still sound asleep. However, unlike the others, it would never again be woken, but packed away and split up, like the particles of the dead.
Lyra was suddenly glad that Matilda had come with her.
"Is it as you remembered?" asked Matilda.
Lyra thought for a moment. "It's not as glamorous and it's smaller."
"That's probably because you've grown." muttered Matilda.
"And I'm still considered short, you're just abnormally small," said Lyra before shrieking as Matilda threw a cushion at her. "I'm joking, I'm joking. You're right, you're the perfect height, and it's the rest of the world that's too tall."
Her friend's pride satisfied, the two girls got to work on the tedious job of sorting the entire contents of the house into what they would keep, what they would sell and what they would throw away.
Five hours later, they were still only half way through, and decided to call a lunch break. Mr Trugar left, on the assurance that they would be perfectly all right on their own, to eat in the nearby pub, while the girls settled down to ready-made sandwiches from the cook on the floor.
"Well, let's continue then, shall we?" asked Matilda when they had finished.
"Ugh!" groaned Lyra, lying back on the bed. "Let's wait until Mr Trugar gets back."
"Do you want to miss the ball or something?" asked Matilda getting up and starting to open the cupboards.
"Well I don't have anything to wear…" started Lyra.
"Yes you do, you have tons of stuff."
"And I've got detention tomorrow, so I should really get some sleep tonight," Lyra finished.
"So have I!" Matilda threw open the final door in exasperation, "So stop making excuses and…Oh my! Lyra!"
"What?" Lyra shot off the bed to her friend's side, to see what she was looking at. "Bloody Hell!"
It was indeed an impressive sight; there was row upon row of dresses and coats, racks of shoes and boots propped underneath and seven tier shelves piled high with hats and headdresses. Silk and velvet, suede and fur, every colour under the rainbow shimmered with beads and feathers. There were suits and skirts and gowns of every style and for every occasion, and all of it now belonged to Lyra.
"Why does she have so much stuff?" asked Matilda in awe, walking down between the racks and pulling out a dress at random.
"She didn't like to be seen in the same dress twice," replied Lyra, dragging out the information from all those years ago.
"Well, you know what," said Matilda, wistfully swirling around with the dress in front of the mirror, "I bet you could find a ball gown in here!"
"I think there might just be enough to find gowns for both of us!" said Lyra.
However, after trying on several different shaped dresses and skirts, it was realised that Matilda, who had been five foot one age twelve and had not grown since, was not going to fit into any of Mrs Coulter's clothes.
"Ah well!" she sighed, looking longingly at the beautiful garments on the bed, "Never mind."
Looking at her dejected friend, Lyra suddenly had an idea and, dashing from the room, she came back five minuets later with an enormous box.
"I didn't think she kept them, but when I stayed with her, my mother bought me absolutely loads of clothes; they should be about your size," Lyra said, holding out the box, "An early birthday present for you."
"Oh no! Lyra, these are much too nice, I couldn't!" exclaimed Matilda as she carefully emptied the box.
"Well, they aren't going to fit me any more!"
So the two girls settled down to the incongruous pleasure of trying on clothes. Lyra discovered that Mrs Coulters' ball gown collection was quite extensive, and that her biggest problem was having too much choice. Matilda, however, with her slightly smaller range found what she wanted relatively quickly.
She chose the dress Lyra had worn to the Arctic Convention, made of a pale blue-green silk called Eau de Nil, with a deep square neck, drop waist and three quarter length sleeve. It was studded with silver beads that shimmered as she moved. Unfortunately there were no shoes that fitted her, but she had brought the cream high-heels from her original outfit that went very nicely.
Lyra on the other hand was finding it very difficult to decide. She had narrowed the choices down to three items; a close fitting dark red dress, a silver one that fell nicely off the shoulders and full length midnight blue velvet ball gown with a full skirt and petticoat that Matilda loved but in which Lyra felt ridiculous.
"Which one?" she asked in exasperation, holding them up against herself in the full-length mirror.
Matilda sighed, and started to do her make up from Mrs Coulter's cosmetics at the side table, "Like I said, I think the blue with those pearls looks absolutely gorgeous, despite what you say."
"Okay," said Lyra throwing it onto the bed, "Forget that one for a moment, out of these two."
"Oh, I don't know, it's your dress, you decide."
Lyra sighed and looked between them. "I'm going for another look," she decided, and disappeared into the wardrobe again.
Matilda and her daemon shared a glance. At this rate they were going to miss their flight.
Twittering, her daemon picked up a simple chain with a delicate Celtic cross hanging in the middle.
"Hey Lyra, can I borrow a necklace?" she called.
"Sure," Lyra's muffled reply came back.
"Perfect!" she said and hung it round her neck. Putting the finishing touches to her make up, she admired the final effect. Very good, that necklace really did set the dress off, gave it a certain air of royalty and power.
"Okay, I've decided," announced Lyra, coming through the door.
Matilda's eyes flew open in amazement at the person who stood before her, and the change that the dress had made over her friend.
The dress was of black silk with a drop waist similar to Matilda's, and a sash that ended with a circular, silk buckle over her right hip. Beneath it, the skirt slit to reveal a fine, pleated chiffon underskirt that frothed out, a pale coffee colour. Around the low scoop neck, petals of the same shade poured over the rim, and continued around her slim shoulders where the dress did not.
Long gloves of a slightly darker tone of brown enclosed her arms gave her such an air of refinement that no one who saw her could believe that she had once run around the streets like a wild cat, hurling mud from the clay pits.
Both girls decided to leave their hair down, Lyra's shining bright in the darkness as they made their way to the ball, leaving Mr Trugar with instructions to send the clothes to Jordan and Colby-on-sea (where Matilda lived) and to sell the rest.
The bright morning had turned into a clear night, with a full moon reflected off the snow and lit up the drive to the Hall where the dancing was to take place. Small anabaric lights filled the trees like fairy lights, marking the way, and despite her previous disinterest, Lyra could not restrain her anticipation.
Together they walked among the other girls and boys, barely noticing the appraising glances that followed them, so entranced with the colours and grandeur. Pantalaimon, his coat washed and brushed, luxuriously soft, moved liquid like at Lyra's heels; his nose perked up, betraying his excitement.
But other people noticed them, especially Lyra, the blonde with intense brown eyes who flew through the other guests, with such unconscious grace.
"Oh Matilda! You look wonderful!" exclaimed Grace, running over and giving her a hug, not looking far off stunning herself in floor length pink silk. "And Lyra, wow!"
But Lyra wasn't listening, deaf to her friends; she didn't even notice Persephone's jealous acerbic comments. She was transfixed on one person in the middle of the room, her blood running hot and cold as that familiar, dear face turned towards her.
"Will!"
Sorry to leave u on a cliffhanger like that but…