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

A/N: Hi, all! Here is another installment (super short, I know, sorry!). I'm really looking forward to expanding this story. I've been re-reading The Subtle Knife ahead of season two of the show airing, and I have some ideas about how these strange turns of events in this story might line up with that plot. As I think I said elsewhere, I've definitely strayed from some of the canon plot since this is first and foremost a story about Lyra and Mrs. Coulter navigating the world together (and apart). But the more I think about it, the more I think that doesn't mean I necessarily have to abandon Will and other characters. But, I do love writing Lyra and Mrs. Coulter so incredibly much.

Anyway, I will keep writing and thinking, but here's an update :) Thank you all so much for reading and sticking with this story!

Luxurious Lies

50.

A Stolen Moment

Mrs. Coulter took a deep breath before smoothing down her hair and then knocking exactly three times on the door.

"Lyra!" she heard from inside. There was a flurry of movement after that—rushed footsteps, the opening and closing of another door, murmured voices. Scuffling. The movement of a piece of furniture.

Is this what my life has come to? Mrs. Coulter thought as she waited, her foot beginning to tap on the cement porch she was waiting on. Is this really it?

The door opened just then, and all feelings of frustration were lost. It was Lyra. Her hair was pinned back into a loose up-do, a single braid circling her ponytail. She wore a long, tartan dress made of what looked like cotton, clad with a pair of still-shiny patent leather white shoes. It reminded Mrs. Coulter of the shoes she'd bought Lyra when she'd first moved into her flat in London. They were smaller, as the girl had gotten taller over the past year. Lyra looked so grown up here in this moment. And so much like Asriel.

"Why, you look absolutely beautiful," Mrs. Coulter sang as Lyra stepped to the side and held the door open for her. "And I bet you hate it," Mrs. Coulter added with a whisper as she passed her, eyes sparkling. Lyra's lips twitched up at that, Pan even looking up from his perch on her shoulder as a blue bird.

"Are you alright?" Mrs. Coulter asked quickly, aware of Madame Bisset approaching from the other room. "Is she treating you well?"

"Yes," Lyra whispered back, eyes turning to her mother's before jumping to her caretaker.

"Maria, dear!" said Madame Bisset, fully in the room now. "How lovely of you to join us! Please, come into the drawing room."

This was indeed Mrs. Coulter's life now—waiting to be invited to visit and spend time with her daughter. Pulling up a plastic smile, she nodded to Madame Bisset and presented a bottle of wine she'd brought for the dinner party. The golden monkey growled as the older woman squealed in that fake delight Mrs. Coulter saw every day with the women in this dreadful excuse of a town. They entered the drawing room and took a seat across from one another, Mrs. Coulter on the sofa and Madame Bisset on an armchair.

Once she had poured a glass of wine for the both of them, Madame Bisset offered, "Lyra, dear, you can go play while we wait for dinner to finish in the oven."

"No," said Mrs. Coulter quickly—too quickly. She smiled again, to recover. "Why don't you stay and tell me about yourself, Lyra? I spend so much time with young children. It'll be nice to talk with a more grown-up child."

And in an instant, Mrs. Coulter was transported back in time to a visit at Jordan College. She was sitting not on Madame Bisset's sofa but on that of the Master's, parlaying with tired old men saying tired old things before Lyra quite practically tripped into the room, her daemon skipping behind her before they were introduced and talked about everything and anything under the sun for the entire night.

Only this time, Lyra wasn't chatty. Lyra wasn't happy, it seemed. Not truly happy, as she answered questions politely and curtly in a way Mrs. Coulter didn't know was possible of her. It was like the light had gone out inside of her.

"That'll be the turkey," Madame Bisset said at the ringing of a timer. She struggled a bit as she sat up and stood from her seat. Mrs. Coulter knew the proper thing to do would be to offer to help, to insist that she help set the table or help bring out the food. But Mrs. Coulter made no such move now as she watched the woman hobble away from them.

"Oh, Lyra," she whispered instead, turning around to fully face her daughter. She was thin and very pale. Her brow looked permanently creased the way she stared solidly back at her. She was older, and wiser and more mature looking, but so completely and utterly different. "What's the matter, darling? You look so unhappy."

The golden monkey was annoyed, per usual, but Mrs. Coulter didn't care. She shifted closer to Lyra, whose frown only deepened.

"I don't like it here," the girl finally answered, looking down. Mrs. Coulter murmured a sympathetic sound, moving to tuck a loose strong of hair back behind her ear. "Madame Bisset is nice and all, but I just…Don't like it here. I don't want to be here."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Coulter responded. And she was. For all of it. For having abandoned Lyra in the first place, for scaring her off in London, for losing sight of her after their travels across the North. She was sorry for everything. She could barely stand it, how regretful she felt. It was all she could do to take Lyra's hand just then, squeezing it gently.

"I never asked to be here," Lyra continued, eyes starting to pool up. "When I got back to Jordan, they said it wasn't safe. They waited all they could, but they said I had to come here. Except I never said I wanted to leave Oxford."

"That's awful," Mrs. Coulter simply said, stroking the girl's hand. Would she have wanted to come back to me? she wondered, perhaps too desperately as she felt the monkey's misgivings settle upon her immediately. Did we have to be apart in the first place?

"What am I supposed to do?" Lyra asked her, tears starting to slide down her cheek as she squeezed Mrs. Coulter's hand back. "The Gyptians sent me here. They're going to check in on me. I don't know what to do. But I all I know is I can't be here. Even the alethiometer says it isn't right."

Mrs. Coulter didn't know. Even though Lyra had been there in town for a while, she still didn't know. This hadn't been something Mrs. Coulter was expecting. Her investigation into the resistance was still so shallow that she had no one to turn to her. They were on their own.

"Oh, my darling," Mrs. Coulter simply said, touching the side of Lyra's face and watching her eyes continue to water. "My sweet, poor Lyra. I—"

"Dinner is ready, ladies!" Madame Bisset called from the dining room just then, getting in the way of everything, as she does.

"We will continue this conversation," Mrs. Coulter promised, taking a handkerchief from her bag and moving to dab at Lyra's cheek.

"We have to go now," Lyra sighed, allowing Mrs. Coulter to finish before standing up.

"I mean it, Lyra," Mrs. Coulter said, moving up as well. Blue eyes locked on blue, and Mrs. Coulter wanted more than anything in the world to simply hold her daughter and make everything right for her. To ease her pain and lighten her burdens. To take care of her.

Except now, all she could do was watch from a distance, with the occasional opportunity to interact. It wasn't enough. She needed more. Somehow I will, she thought as she put on her smile again and moved into the dining room. Somehow she would get it. She'd do what she'd set out to do in this town and then somehow get Lyra back with her.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It'd been a few weeks, but Lord Asriel was heading back to the North—where he belonged.

The man and his daemon were on a ship, sailing from Afrika back to the mainland. They'd only just left their trip and had quite a ways to go yet. But they had a plan, and they were moving forward. They were moving more steadily north with each passing day.

"Are you sure about this?" the snow leopard asked him, looking up from her lazy perch by his feet.

Of course Lord Asriel wasn't sure. Nothing about his brand of science was completely and 100% sure. The numbers were indicative, to be fair, and odds painted outcomes to be likely or probable. But nothing was ever absolutely certain or sure. Not his research, not his personal life. Not anything he could control.

But they were doing it anyway, and launching ahead. They'd learned what they needed in the South in order to accomplish what they needed to in the North. It'd worked out as they planned—as had been probable.

"The witch will be here shortly," Stelmaria continued, moving forward with their conversation on her own without his contribution. "She'll help us with this next step, and then we'll be set. It'll work out."

"Don't pretend you're convincing me," Lord Asriel finally laughed at her, pleased at the surge of annoyance he felt trickle through to him. He enjoyed calling out her misdirected reassurance. "Always the worrier, Stel. It'll be what it is, and all we can do is what we can do."