Marisa had been eighteen years old. Most of the girl-children that had wandered the streets with her either begged for coins or had meager work selling flowers on street corners. Many had fallen pregnant and wandered, listless, with infants in their thin arms.
She was determined that these lives would never become her own. The monkey was proud of his settled form, so different from any others she could see but his fur was growing matted, the gold just visible. She was getting still thinner by the day, trying her hardest to get the dirt out of her dark hair.
Everyone was waiting, ready for the downfall of Marisa "Mary" Shaw, the girl stupid enough to think she would ever be somewhere.
"But we weren't stupid, were we?" the monkey would whisper to her later, "We were cleverer than they could ever be."
Marisa would wander at the backs of the manor houses in the other sides of town. She would have to wake early to be home by nightfall. A few times she would enter the servant's door at some of these times, begging for work. A few times they would take pity on the pretty, emaciated girl and give her an apple or a slice of bread but never a job.
Never what she truly wanted.
She tried her best, wore the best clothes she could find, tried to get rid of the dirt and lice crawling from her hair.
Never, never, never.
One house was different, though. One housekeeper couldn't take a scullery maid, especially one without a dog daemon, but did find pity enough to need a girl to carry water and Marisa, wincing at the obvious charity of it, took the job.
And when the real scullery maid was caught with the hall boy and had to be fired, who to hire but that sweet, hardworking girl who carried the water? Nobody could have guessed Marisa had spilled her water on purpose, only so that they could be found by the well?
An innocent girl like her wouldn't be capable.
Marisa felt the gentle tug of the brush on her hair as her maid pulled the pins from her hair. The girl's daemon, a skittish, shy Jack Russell terrier, groomed the fur of the monkey who looked a little too smug at being cared for the way he was.
"Did you have a nice evening, madam?" the maid, Ana, questioned.
"Mmmm," Marisa responded, forgetting her usual composure around the servants. The rest of the evening had been somewhat dull. Marisa had been flitting between different aristocrats who needed to be charmed and flattered, watching Asriel out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes their eyes would meet and she would, in a moment, turn herself back to the person she had been speaking with.
The monkey would sometimes whisper to her that he would be back in the North soon, that she had better not hang her hopes too high, that he had not looked at her as other men looked. Marisa had laughed off his worries, insisting that every man wanted her, looked at her. Still, the questions had stayed in her mind.
"That's well, madam," Ana replied, pulling more pins from Marisa's hair. Ana had always made Marisa a little nervous. Despite her subservient, nervous disposition, she had a perceptive sharpness to her eye that Marisa did not like. If she'd met someone like her in the elegant, spinning upstairs world, Marisa would have found some piece of information to ensure Ana never got in her way. But the girl was just the maid and she was excellent at her job. Unless she found someone better soon, Marisa could not let her go just yet. Once every now and then, she would feel a prick of guilt at the way she would move people and cast them aside. She never felt that way about Edward, about the women who were competition upstairs, about the lovers who she would send away as soon as she was done with them. The maids, however, reminded her enough of her former self to make her a little uneasy. As soon as the thought would enter her mind, though, she would cast it aside.
"Yes," Marisa replied, her frosty demeanor once more intact. Her curls were now loose on her shoulders. The monkey hopped onto her shoulder, gazing with her into the mirror. The soft light cast golden on her skin and she felt a brief satisfaction at where she was, who she was.
"You may go now," Marisa dismissed and the girl left, switching off the anbaric light as she went, leaving only a candle burning.
Marisa crawled into her bed, the monkey curling up beside her. Edward had paperwork and would not be with her for another hour.
"Can we get away with falling asleep?" the monkey asked.
"Yes, this once, I think. But he can't get bored with us," Marisa warned.
The monkey, satisfied, moved his warm body closer to Marisa. She rose for a moment, blowing out the candle.
Once the room was filled with darkness, she let her head sink onto the pillows and imagined.
He turned the rusted key in the lock, pushing the antique door open. Dust filled his lungs as he walked in, the hall barely visible with the swirling air, stirred by his entrace. When the dust clears, he saw that the hall looked untouched since he'd last been there, aging but unchanged.
10 Grancourt Place had been the home of the Belacquas for centuries, going from father to son, father to son ever since some long-forgotten Belacqua had won a battle or saved a life and had been granted the title.
One of the few remaining Belacquas stood in the hall, his eyes sharp and critical of his surroundings. The house had once intimidated him, even frightened him. When he was a child, he would dare himself to walk the darker parts of the house, his daemon shifting into constantly fiercer forms to protect him from ghasts, real or imaginary.
Now the house seemed to him merely a pathetic, broken old curio, incapable of touching him, let alone causing him harm. He hadn't been there for over ten years and never as a man, never as the master.
"So, London again," the leopard at his feet remarked, her tone disdainful.
"Don't I know it," Lord Asriel replied.
"You should go to bed," she suggested, "It's been a hard journey."
"Not just yet," Asriel cut her off, moving forward, the leopard trailing behind him.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Exploring. That's what we do, isn't it?" Asriel retorted, smiling.
The hall was like a cavern, an empty fireplace on one end. Everything was marble, cold black marble. Iron staircases twisted, up and up to a barely visible roof.
"I don't think I'll ever like this place," Stelmaria admitted.
"We'll have to get used to it. It's ours now."
Asriel stopped his walk, letting his eyes wander over the hall. Though as a child, it had terrified him, the large, cold house seemed to suit him now.
"How long do we stay?" Stelmaria curled herself round his leg.
"As long as we must. We look for an expedition as soon as we can. We do have to stay long enough to convince London masses of the new discoveries."
"And they'll cry heresy in minutes."
"Naturally. Phrased correctly, though and with the right facts behind it, it's worth a try. And don't tell me there aren't reasons to stay."
Stelmaria arched her back and gave a small growl.
"What do you think of her?" she asked.
"Interesting but not to be trusted."
"No."
They became silent for a few moments. She had been interesting, unfathomable and he'd spent most of the evening watching her speak and move, her dark eyes glittering, her smile curving and the sway of her body as she walked. She was intoxicating.
She was a danger, clever, hypnotizing and perhaps a little desperate. She was different from the witches he had known before. To a witch, he was ephemeral. It was all the same whether he left or died, whether he stayed six months or sixty years. It was a mere second to her. This woman was different.
"Where do we sleep?" Stelmaria questioned.
"Father's room."
The leopard's eyes became a little wider.
"I am master now," Asriel reminded her.
When they were children, Lord Sariol Belacqua had scared them nearly as much as the house where he lived. His tiger would hold Stelmaria in her teeth or under her claws and Asriel would wince, fighting to avoid crying out. It was a test of stength, he'd known that even then. He would always match it.
The last time he'd seen his father, he had been twelve and at boarding school. The Lord, after asking his son a few questions about his schoolwork and his behavior, had taken a long, hard look at Stelmaria.
"Is she settled?" he'd inquired, his eyes boring into his son's.
"Yes." Asriel had tilted his chin upward, defiant. Stelmaria had moved in front of him, protecting Asriel and showing off her new form at once.
Lord Sariol took in Stelmaria's new aspect, her long teeth and sharp claws, her thick fur and watchful, clever, green eyes, eyes that could see others without letting the others see them.
He gave a short, curt, approving nod.
The next Asriel heard, his father had taken a fever and died within days. The family money would go to his education and be his once he turned eighteen, along with the title of Lord Belacqua.
Asriel did not grieve.
And now, after the years at Jordan College and in the North, he was back. Now he was back and he was Lord Belacqua. Now he was back and gave orders and never took them.
And he would sleep in his father's room, the master's room.
"Come, Stelmaria," he ordered and the leopard followed him, proud as her master.