Lyra had left out the details of her first meeting with Tom. She hadn't told Roger the temperature in the orphanage library seemed to drop drastically once her revenge was complete. She, too, hadn't told him about the great effort she had to make not to turn around or run. Turning her back on that weird kid wasn't much different than turning her back on a lion.
The beast made an appearance in the draft of the novel she was writing, The dangerous and supernatural adventures of the extraordinary Adela. At some point, the lion pounced on the beautiful and intrepid Adela, who ended up leaving him out of the game with an impressive stroke of her cane. It was a short adventure, and by its episodic nature had little to do with the general plot line, which Lyra hadn't decided on yet. In the same way, she never expected to meet Tom again.
She grabbed the foil she kept from her fencing lessons and raised it defensively. Suddenly, in what seemed like a momentary response to her call to arms, the door to her room was flung open and Lyra feigned a thrust. The intruder was not such, since Roger, as a friend, enjoyed the privilege of free entry to his rooms, which had given him a scare on more than one occasion. Lyra stopped the foil a foot from his head. To her surprise, the kitchen boy didn't even flinch.
"Tom is here."
Lyra took the tray from the boy's hands, which were trembling. Roger nodded absently.
"I know. Don't worry, I'll talk to my father," she assured.
"That's what I wanted to tell you about," Roger said, taking a seat at the foot of the bed. "I don't want you to say anything."
"Why?"
Lyra lay back on her bed with the tray on her lap, picked up a chicken thigh by the bone, and sank her teeth into it, ripping away some of the brown skin. She briefly examined her friend's profile as she sucked on the fat, taking in his quivering lip. Observing people's sign language was very helpful in learning to write accurate stage directions.
"I just prefer that you don't say anything to him."
"Roger, you can't always run away from your fears."
Lyra leaned back against the headboard to eat better. In doing so, the soles of her shoes soiled the sheets. The remains of dried mud gave it an artistic touch, like an avant-garde painting, she though.
"Are you afraid of him?" Roger asked with an apologetic smile. "You've been avoiding him all day, haven't you?
"I'm not fake!" Lyra retorted, bowing so sharply that she ended up spilling some of the potato garnish. "In case you haven't noticed, fraternizing with the enemy isn't my thing. Sharing a table with the boy who used to torment my best friend? What kind of friend would I be?"
Roger scratched the back of his neck.
"I wouldn't take it the wrong way. You will always be my best friend."
"And you will always be my best friend, Roger. I am sure this situation will not last. It's just his first day here. I suppose he'll be eating with the rest of the service soon.
Roger swallowed hard. Lyra stretched noisily and rested the back of her neck on her padded headboard. She was about to discuss her recent ideas for her writing when Roger suddenly stood up.
"I'd better go," he announced, brushing potato scraps out of his pants with a frown. "I'm needed in the kitchen. I'll come later."
He could have shied away from his obligations if he wanted, as he had on other occasions when she had entertained him with her unbelievable antics. It was clear that he used any pretext to hide from Tom; the haste with which he left, neglecting to close the door on his way, and the fact that he could have taken the plate with him if he had waited another minute gave him away.
She wondered what it would be like to be in his shoes. Annoying, certainly, but she didn't understand why he should be so cautious.
Her case was different. She wasn't a recluse in her room, nor had she retreated at the approach of a threat because she didn't regard Tom as such. His arrival had been accompanied by nerves similar to those she experienced the day before going back to school. An unfounded uncertainty destined to perish, given how quickly she had earned the respect of her peers.
In addition, the current situation played in her favor. In an unexpected trick of fate, the lion, whom she had believed relegated to the role of occasional villain, had had the audacity to return, but now he found himself in an unknown habitat at the mercy of unsuspected dangers.
Lyra swung several blows into the air, taking heart in the face of an unseen foe. If she had to use the foil or something sharper, she wouldn't hesitate to skewer it between the new host's eyebrows, putting an end to his cruel machinations. The worst that could happen is that she would end up in jail, where she would undoubtedly make good friends with the most dangerous and brilliant criminals, with whom she would plan the most ingenious escape plan.
"Lyra, darling, are you presentable?"
Lyra lowered the foil.
"Yes Dad."
Old Mr. Longslade entered the room. Anyone accustomed to seeing him by day in his gray and brown suits, with no ornament or concession to modern fashion other than the regular geometric patterns that were in style, would have had difficulty recognizing the picturesque gentleman he transformed into at night. He was wearing a scarlet silk dressing gown trimmed with silver and embroidered with herons and birds of paradise, matched with green pumps.
"Tom is sleeping."
He said that as if she had missed a great opportunity. Lyra frowned. She had no intention of wishing Tom goodnight.
"He will be tired of chattering" she said with undisguised rancor.
From what she had found out from Jeremy, one of the waiters, there was an atmosphere of concord and mutual respect in the dining room. The kind of weather that precedes an assassination attempt by poison, Lyra thought.
"He is well versed in the most varied subjects, which is surprising considering his origins. I'm sure you'll like him. If you give him the opportunity, he may even become a great friend of yours."
"Roger is my friend."
"Of course," her father agreed. "Roger is your best friend and he will always be there. But like any budding teenager, I'm sure you could benefit from a few new friendships."
"I doubt it."
Lyra crossed her arms. Mr. Longslade adjusted his glasses as if he were taking a close look at his daughter for the first time.
"Is something wrong, dear?"
Lyra shook her head, her undone ringlets fluttering. She would have liked to go back to the previous instant in which she seemed to easily shake off unpleasant thoughts. Adela, her literary alter ego, would have gotten out of any mess based on her courage and sense of humor, and she was not going to be less. But it was difficult to behave like that in any situation. She used to go from crying to joy as quickly as she went from one thought to another, but now her mind was like a roulette wheel that always got stuck in anger.
Mr. Longslade approached Lyra, keeping a safe distance with the foil.
"I should have consulted you. That has not been good of me. After all, this is your home too.
Lyra gave him a sidelong glance, a pleased smile on her face. Unlike the parents of the other girls she knew, who would not admit a fault in their eagerness to maintain their authority, hers had not lost the good habit of apologizing when the moment required it.
The wheel seemed to spin more easily.
"It's okay, dad." She hooked the tip of the foil into the warp of the rug and rested both hands on the handle. Resting her chin on the back of her hand, she came up with a quick justification for her strange behavior. "I don't know what's wrong with me lately. I try to write, but nothing comes up."
It wasn't entirely a lie, she had been stuck in her writing for several days.
The watery eyes of the librarian lit up with understanding.
"Writer's block." He sounded like a doctor diagnosing a troublesome but curable disease. "Rare is one who does not suffer from this disease. And even rarer is the one who does not self-medicate to remedy it."
"Perhaps I should try drinking wine."
Lyra sighed defeatedly and shrugged. She sometimes acted as if she was a more vulnerable child than she truly was. She wasn't going to consume anything other than the obligatory dose of parental affirmation. After all, she had embarked on the hard task of writing a novel. He should be proud.
Her father laughed.
"I don't want to induce you into a bad life, to which any artist of our time appears to be condemned. He who has innate talent does not need such tricks to reach an exceptional state of mind."
Lyra nodded crestfallen.
After a moment's hesitation, Mr. Longslade slid to the edge of her bed and placed a wrinkled hand on her shoulder.
"In my humble experience, the best thing a writer can do in these situations is to let his work rest for a while. Get some fresh air, eat something delicious, drink..."
"I don't need to consume anything to produce a masterpiece," Lyra replied in a sudden burst of telltale pride.
"Some have created beautiful works after a period of sensory deprivation in the desert. Others reach an inspiration like no other after days of fasting. In my opinion, fasting combined with spirits…"
"I'm not going to drink anything! That's cheating."
"Sure, honey, I was rambling. Let's see what else you could do to invoke the muses."
In his attempt to find the best way to attract the muses, he ended up talking about his passion for interior design. The problem with not having taboos in their parent-child talks was that insufferable topics of conversation often arose. He was talking at length about his newfound fascination with a certain style of decoration popularized by the upper classes of pre-Republic China when Lyra stopped listening. As a child, she used to pretend to be asleep so that he would just shut up and tuck her in like any other girl. Now that she was aware of, it had been a long time since her father had come into her room to wish her good night. She put it down to the same reason he often took the liberty of buying her dresses she hadn't ordered or commented on how highly valued women librarians were in today's society. Perhaps he talked so much about interior design because he considered it an appropriate subject for the young woman she was doomed to be.
Obeying a childish impulse, Lyra rubbed the dirty sole of her shoe on the undone sheets.
"I can call the laundresses" he suggested. "It's going to be a shame, like your poor dress.
"No way! In fact, I've asked them not to scrub too hard with the brushes when washing the dress. The effect is interesting, don't you think?"
"Interesting of course. But to be honest it is not to my liking."
"The mud is very undervalued!"
"I have nothing in particular against mud. It is a fascinating documentary support. If we go back to antient times, cuneiform tablets made up the oldest libraries..."
Lyra ended the conversation with a long yawn that didn't have to be faked. She sent her father away, guaranteeing that he would find her in the dining room at breakfast, well dressed and in her best mood.
The next morning Lyra showed up at the dining room late and in her nightgown, but her mood was as good as promised, if better. The night before she might have been prey to the typical nerves of the last day of vacation, but today she was in a mood more akin to the start of the school term, characterized by a curious openness to novelty and its accompanying challenges.
"Lyra, dear, we're almost done," her father wailed as she entered.
"You know I eat fast," she said, sitting down casually next to Tom. "I'll keep up with you."
Tom greeted her with a politeness perfectly measured so that Mr. Longslade would miss a note of irritation in his voice. He was parted down the side of him, not a single one of his thin black hairs out of place. He was wearing a gray shirt, suspenders, and long pants that were totally inappropriate for a day as hot as this. Lyra suppressed a giggle. He looked like one of those sinister dolls from the last century.
She picked up the tray of sweets and helped herself to a keychain decorated with chocolate, a couple of cream-filled scones, and a handful of vanilla cookies. Her father reminded her of the nutritional benefits of fruit versus added sugars, which she chose to ignore as usual. Tom, for his part, filled a bowl with pomegranate.
"Sweets are my downfall," he admitted with mock guilt. "However, when such an exceptional fruit is within reach, doing without other more insoluble pleasures is easy."
Lyra gave a low giggle. It was the most pompous way she had ever heard of saying: I am a boy and I like sweets. She wondered if he had thought of it before speaking, only to instantly conclude that he had. Tom was truly a doll that only had to be wound up a little to entertain others with programmed nonsense.
He glanced at her as he wiped an invisible stain from his mouth. The napkin hanging from the collar of her shirt was immaculate.
Mr. Longslade urged Tom to taste more sweets, entertaining him with anecdotes about the origin of each recipe as if he were in a food museum.
"That is a Croatian doughnut, to which I have given my personal touch with Valencian orange marmalade. My favorite are those Portuguese puff cakes, whose recipe only a few lucky people knew, among whom I am of course."
Lyra already knew all these boring anecdotes, so she entertained herself by looking at Tom without the slightest dissimulation. He never ate or drank when her father spoke, only asking his fawning questions after making sure he was finished drinking. His food never spilled over the edge of the plate, but stayed within its concavity. He never made any noise when chewing or slurping, his bites were meager but constant, and anyone who had glanced at him would have mistakenly concluded that he ate very little. He didn't wipe off the sweat, like her or her father did at the end of every meal. In fact, his skin didn't even seem to perspire.
In a way, Tom was like Sally or Myrtle, two goofy girls in her class who pretended to be a few years older than they were. The difference was that they seemed delighted to be part of a world of falsehood and appearances. Tom's costume was more convincing, but what his seams showed was monstrous.
"It's rude to say it, but I can't wait for lunch."
"You'll be glad to know there'll be oysters, boy. Have you tasted them?"
"No sir."
"Well, the thing about oysters is you have to eat them alive. I also have to warn you about a greenish substance that some, like my daughter, confuse with faeces."
"It's poop!" Lyra exclaimed.
"Pseudofaeces," her father corrected, brushing sugar from his vest. But do not worry. Our stomach should eliminate almost all foreign pathogens.
Tom opened his mouth to reply, but Lyra cut him off:
"I don't think Tom is worried about tasting poop, dad."
Tom's hand on the knife tensed. Lyra gripped her fork tightly and laughed at him, wishing she had her writing pen close at hand.
The fear she felt was something new and exciting to her.