Disclaimer: I do not own the His Dark Materials Series.

A/N: Hello again! I had a strong surge of inspiration, and I wrote this one up just this morning. Normally it takes me a while to mull things over, but this just came to me. I actually have a pretty good draft of the next part, too, so hopefully it won't be too long before it's up!

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story so far. It thrills me to see that people like this story and the delicate, undervalued angle that is Mrs. Coulter's complex maternal feelings. I've elaborated a little bit more on her duality here in this story-titled chapter, so please let me know what you think and how you think the story is going! I appreciate everything :)

o7.

Luxurious Lies

Tilting her magnifying glass ever so slightly to the right, Mrs. Coulter gazed into the gently curved lens to see a distorted view of the pile of wood before her. She watched a trace of heat start to rise from the edge, and her blue eyes seemed to dance off the surface of its reflection.

"Almost there. Just a little more."

Sparks started to erupt, and soon enough the frozen bits of sticks caught flame, their glow minute amongst the roar of the tundra. Setting the glass aside, Mrs. Coulter hurried to cover and protect the fire, her hands lingering in the warmth of its proximity. It was unbearably cold outside, like always, and her hands were in desperate need of a thawing.

Sighing slightly, Mrs. Coulter allowed herself a moment of rest. She let herself sit back and close her eyes, not having to worry about what she had to do next. For just a moment, she could listen to the soft crack of the fire and allow the heat waves to roll off her cheeks. She could breathe in the scent of charred wood and rapidly-forming heat, and she could simply sit there, lost in a moment of peace and solace.

But then came the crying. Her eyes flickering open, Mrs. Coulter heard the pants and whimpers of her child, who was curled up in a blanket nearby. She felt the instinctual pangs of concern and anxiousness, but as she rose to her feet and glanced over at her daughter, the golden money leaping to her shoulder, she felt something more.

Every moment of every day was spent fretting and catering to Lyra. She would be hungry, she would be tired, she would be sick, she would be sad; she would need Mrs. Coulter to cook for her, to read to her, to sing to her, to comfort her. When they were back in London, Lyra had been autonomous enough to not need as much attention. They lived in a flat adorned with abundant servants and innumerable resources, and either of them hardly had to lift a finger for anything.

Yet here they were trapped in the midst of the deepest rank of the arctic. They were alone save for the team of huskies taking refuge in the corner of the tent, and everything that they needed was dependent upon her. Mrs. Coulter had to cook and preserve rations so that they could get through the day. Mrs. Coulter had to clean up Lyra's mess when she ate too much salmon and vomited all over her furs. Mrs. Coulter had to drop and beckon to Lyra's every call. As natural as it probably was and as spoiled as Mrs. Coulter had most definitely been, she wasn't sure if she liked it.

Now you realize what it's like, the monkey scoffed, sneering in her ear. It's not all fun and games, Marisa. This is a real person you're meant to take care of.

But of course she knew that already. Brushing off his taunts and jeers, Mrs. Coulter went over to her daughter and crouched down beside her, running a hand along her face. She was hot and sweaty, and Mrs. Coulter could tell from the look on her face that she was having a bad dream of some sort. The child moaned and whimpered a little more before promptly falling back asleep, her daemon curled up tightly around her throat.

Is this all that you've amounted to? Mrs. Coulter turned back to the fire, setting up a kettle and some tea leaves. Did you go from the most influential woman in the entire Magesterial Ministry to nothing more than a cackling mother hen?

"That's enough."

You know it's true.

"I said enough."

You can't run from it anymore, Marisa. You've gone and made a complete fool of yourself all for some ungrateful, dirty-handed child.

"ENOUGH!"

Startling the dogs, Mrs. Coulter stopped to get control of her breathing, which had become rough and haggard. She sensed a cold jab of surprise from the monkey, and she felt him slowly descend from her arm down to the floor of the tent, staring up at her.

"I don't need this right now," she exclaimed, feeling more of this strange bitterness bubbling up in her stomach. "I understand what happened." She paused, feeling an uncomfortable sensation tense in her throat. "I know what I'm doing, and I know what's at stake."

Without even having to look at him, she felt it as clear as a bell. Do you?

Mrs. Coulter turned away and went over to a corner away from Lyra and the dogs. Her sleeping bag was set up beside Lyra, but at this point, Mrs. Coulter sat down on her bottom and curled up her legs, wrapping her arms around them. Her daemon hovered by the fire, his tail twitching awkwardly, and the huskies gradually dozed back off to sleep, their breathing slow and steady amongst the howling of the wind.

Sitting there, Mrs. Coulter felt a single tear slide down the surface of her red, flushed cheek. She had tried to stop it, but as she stayed there, curled up in a pathetic heap of weakness, she just couldn't help herself. In all honesty, what on Earth was she doing? Bending over backwards for Lyra's every want and need, just who did she think she was? Was this really what she wanted? Was this really what she needed? Was this really worth ruining everything she had ever accomplished?

In the end, was Mrs. Coulter just living a luxurious lie?