The departure for New France was scheduled in a few hours, and Lyra wanted to keep her promise to Marcel Février, the co-founder of the Starling Network, to meet him and deliver her decision. So, she left the ship early after the short night, accompanied by Will and their dæmons.
She had a long, serious discussion with Will and Pan during the night. The Frenchman with the elegant mustache wanted to make Lyra the figurehead of his movement. He wanted her to get involved, to travel with him to mobilize the troops and launch special operations. He needed her face, her story, and her intelligence. Lyra was torn. She was uncomfortable with his insistence but, on the other hand, she was eager to help this movement that she considered important. This night discussion they had among the three of them provided her with the guidance she needed. However, during the night, Will and Kirjava had witnessed, astonished, a heated verbal exchange between the young woman and the pine marten, each throwing accusations and jabs at each other. Lyra had finally left the room, annoyed, to take a shower, while Pan curled up on the soft bench grumbling. Eventually, as they were about to depart, the dæmon found his place on Lyra's shoulder, as if nothing had happened. Although disturbed by the situation, neither Will nor the cat dared to bring up the subject, sensing that it was a sensitive point.
The four of them stepped out and made their way towards Reykjavík's main square. The sky had become overcast with clouds, as if nature had understood the signal of the previous night and was preparing humans for less radiant days. As agreed, Marcel Février was sitting at a café terrace with Louise and Tomas. The two French were engaged in conversation while the German scribbled in a notebook, with Anke resting her head on his thigh.
"Have you thought it over?" Martin asked as the couple settled in, and Will ordered two coffees without making eye contact with Tomas, who remained embarrassed by the events of the previous night..
"Yes," Lyra replied, "but I'm sorry I can't fulfill your request."
Martin couldn't hide his disappointment.
"Despite all the symbolism behind it, it's a heavy and personal story," she continued. "We don't want it to be used carelessly. We remain your supporters and want to help you, but without being in the spotlight. You can mention the prophecy, recount certain events, but without ever mentioning my name or Will's. It's something difficult and tricky to bear, and we would appreciate it if you respected this decision. Can we count on you?"
Février remained silent. He took a pipe out of his pocket, filled it with tobacco, and lit it. A plume of spicy smoke escaped from the corner of his lips as he frowned. Louise reached out and placed her hand on Lyra's, giving her a friendly smile.
"Of course, you can count on us. You have my word. We will respect your lives," she said.
"I need your word as well, Mr. Février," Lyra replied, her face stern.
He looked at the two women who stared at him intently, then nodded.
"Very well. It's understood. We need this story to expose the world to the web of lies and bring down that damn Magisterium. But it will be used appropriately and always with respect for your anonymity and privacy. You can trust me. I must admit, I am somewhat disappointed, Mademoisselle Silvertongue, I won't deny it. But I am still glad to have you by our side. Where are you heading next?"
"To New France. The ship we're aboard is making a delivery, and we have something very important to do in Montroyal."
"Then let me give you the list of our most prominent members there. If you have the time and opportunity to visit them, to talk with them, it would be wonderful."
"The stubbornness is perhaps a very cultural trait among the French," Lyra thought to herself as she accepted with a polite smile. They stayed at the café terrace, which was slowly filling up, for about an hour. Lyra discussed international politics with Louise and Marcel while Will listened silently and Tomas continued to draw in his corner. As the departure time approached, they bid farewell to each other.
"Aren't you ever worried about your safety?" Lyra asked, shaking Marcel's hand.
"I'm used to it, you know. In my country, we have a good organization to resist, I know how to slip through the cracks. But you, on the other hand, be careful. Something tells me that the agents from yesterday noticed you and are not pleased with your presence by our side."
"Stay safe," added Louise, hugging her friend tightly. "Write to us when you arrive. And don't worry, I'll make sure Marcel keeps his promise."
Then it was Tomas' turn to embrace her, and when he stood in front of Will, the german had a sheepish smile.
"I'm really sorry about last night," he apologized.
"It's okay," replied the young man, without a hint of resentment in his voice. "I had to find out at sooner or later. I think you just rushed things a bit."
Tomas then handed him a sheet of paper torn from his notebook.
"Take this as a token of apology."
Will unfolded the paper and was surprised to see that, during the meeting, Tomas had drawn them, him and Lyra. It was a portrait of the two of them side by side, in the exact posture they had that morning: their faces turned towards an invisible interlocutor, she smiling as she spoke, he with his chin resting in his hand with the missing fingers, absorbed. And on their shoulders, he had added Pan and Kirjava, sniffing each other. He was impressed by the quality of the light and realistic strokes that had been made in such a short time.
"You two really are soulmates, don't you?" Tomas added nonchalantly putting his hands in his pockets. "Take care of yourselves."
Will gave a slight smile and bid farewell to the blond man before joining Lyra, who was waiting a little further ahead. They made it back to the ship in time, dropping off their belongings in the cabin, and Will placed Tomas' drawing next to his mother's picture. The ground began to tremble once again, and both of them, with a knowing smile on their faces, rushed to the roof of the central building to admire the radiant city of Reykjavík fading away in the distance. Mette's voice echoed once more:
"Here we go, kids, heading to New France. This time, we estimate the journey to be around two weeks, maybe a little less if the weather is pleasant. We'll proceed slowly to avoid damaging our cargo. Safe travels and thank you."
The Havets Perle resumed its cruising rhythm, like a cargo ship slicing through the ocean at medium speed, where activity never ceased. During the day, each sailor was busy with their tasks, from the helm to the engines, and maintenance of the premises. In the evenings, the crew gathered for lively meals that often concluded by a drink and with harmonious sea shanties, recounting stories of the sea, love waiting on the shore, and legends of old. Sometimes, Lyra would let herself be carried away and tell stories, whether invented or real. She narrated tales of witches, armoured bears, children running on rooftops, and brought Roger and Lee back to life. She embroidered around the lives she had encountered, transforming stories of parallel worlds, Subtle Knife, and wars of angels into unreal legends. Will let her to recount their adventures because he saw a childlike wonder in the sailors' eyes and, above all, because they believed these stories were entirely invented. An accustomed audience had formed around her, eagerly awaiting her tales. Tongues loosened in resonance of her stories, and some shared fragments of their past lives. Lyra quickly understood what Will meant by "singular sailors". Here, an escape from an abusive home, there, a history of torture for acts of heresy, and yet again, rejection from a home due to a sexual orientation that did not conform to societal expectations. There were happy and funny stories, of course, but most were tinged with sadness. Lyra's presence and eloquence brought some solace to their troubles.
Will was pleasantly surprised by how natural everything seemed. Lyra had effortlessly adapted to the crew. While he struggled to open up and form connections, she had gained the sailors' trust in the blink of an eye. Between them two, everything was fluid and evident. Words and gestures were instinctive, as if they had never been apart for seven years, while still discovering each other a little more every day. For Lyra, the discussion they had in the alley in Reykjavík had been neatly tucked away within her. She no longer broached the subject, although Will had a burning desire to speak about it, but he respected her choice. Sometimes, when he caught his own reflection in the mirror, he would mock himself, saying, "Hello, Will Parry, doctor on a ship and God slayer as a hobby," before letting out a weary sigh. It was all so imposing that he preferred to laugh about it rather than let it crush him.
Lyra got used to the ship's swaying, thanks to Will. He prepared herbal teas for her to prevent seasickness, teas with a horribly bitter taste but that were effective. When the ship ventured into open sea, she quickly realized that the swell could be unpleasant and thanked him every day for being so considerate. Sometimes, she would lock herself in Mette Rasmussen's office for several hours. The captain summoned her so that she could consult the alethiometer. At first, she asked complex questions, to which only she knew the answers, to test the young woman's reliability. When she saw, with satisfaction and amazement, that Lyra was telling the truth, she questioned her about routes to follow, people to contact, and rumors to confirm. The captain was the only one impervious to Lyra's persuasive gab, never opening up or revealing anything about her personal life, much to the young woman's dismay. Secretly, she desired to gain the captain's trust and learn the basics of navigation from her. But deep down, it didn't matter. Lyra had Will by her sides and a place where she now felt safe.
They had been away from the Icelandic lands for a little over a week when the first crisis struck Will.
He was finishing suturing a wound on a mechanic's forearm when his hand was seized by violent tremors, causing him to drop his tools and utter a curse.
"Are you alright, Doc?" the sailor asked him.
"I'm fine, just give me a minute..." Will replied, holding his hand.
He waited for a few moments until the trembling subsided. He managed to bandage the mechanic's arm and give him advice. However, the tremor returned several times in the following days. Gradually, it intensified. While it initially affected only his right hand, it progressively spread to his arm and then to his other hand. His muscle contractions were starting to cause him pain, not to mention the increasing fatigue that was taking up more and more space, tugging at his body and mind.
"We should talk to Lyra about this," Kirjava eventually advised him on the day he dropped a jar of calendula oil that shattered on the floor.
"Why? It will only worry her, and she doesn't need that."
"She will sense it, and besides, she needs to know. We don't know what will happen, Will. You know as well as I do that it started much earlier than we had anticipated."
As he didn't respond, the dæmon retorted: "She will find out eventually, you know her. I'm not sure she'll be pleased that you're keeping it from her."
"I'm not lying to her! I'm just concealing a tiny bit of reality to spare her worry."
"That's a lie, in other words..."
The same afternoon, Lyra arrived on the rooftop of the main building where he was resting, leaning against the railing, letting the wind caress his face. They had turned this place into a little haven of tranquility, meeting there when the weather allowed, to read, talk, kiss, or watch the dance of the marine mammals playing a race with the ship. Lately, they had been able to observe a pod of five whales in the distance and had been amazed to see these graceful animals spout water from their blowholes and extend their fins out of the water. Will heard Lyra's footsteps approaching and didn't dare to meet her gaze, which he guessed was stern. She sat down in front of him and took his hand. He finally opened his eyelids to find, with a bit of relief, that she wasn't annoyed. She was worried.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Everything's fine. I'm just a little tired."
"Will... not with me... I can see that it's an unusual tiredness. I've noticed that sometimes your hands tremble and that you take more frequent naps."
He looked at the young woman's fingers intertwining with his own. She had already understood.
"What's going to happen? Tell me..." she said.
"I don't know," he sighed. "I've had bouts of fatigue before, but we've always made it through the window before it progressed. I don't know what the next stage will be... Last time, we didn't stay in my world for very long. We were afraid of missing you, you see. We thought we would have the opportunity to go through the window again later, with all of you. So we stayed for about an hour or less, but I don't think it's enough... But I don't want you to worry about me. It'll be fine."
"You don't know that. I'll worry until we find the window to New France."
She was right, Will knew it wouldn't be okay. It couldn't get better.
"How do you feel now?" she asked.
"Tired mostly. I feel like I'm always sleeping and never feel rested. And my arms tremble without warning. I can't control them, it's frustrating..."
"So there's nothing to relieve your symptoms?"
"Do you want me to ask the alethiometer ? Maybe it has something to say about it ..."
He shook his head. He feared as much as she did that the alethiometer would provide more bad news than guidance. She settled down next to him, her forehead creased with worry, her hand still tightly holding his. He rested his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes once again.
Lyra stared at the kitchen credenza, her gaze unfocused and her jaw clenched. She absentmindedly let water flow into a large pot, unaware that the liquid had overflowed and was spilling vigorously. She was snapped out of her anxious reverie by Morten's hand reaching out to shut off the faucet. He gave her a questioning look.
"I'm really worried," she said, her face serious.
"Me too," he replied. "Is it because Will's been away from his world for too long?"
Lyra flinched. A small smile appeared beneath the sailor's immaculate mustache.
"Since when do you know?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, since Alexandretta."
Lyra stared at him eagerly, wanting to hear more. Alexandretta... that was where the ship had docked before Will and Kirjava found them the first time. But Morten immersed himself in making his pie crust. It was a habit of his, announcing things and then falling silent as if it were enough.
"And so?" pressed Pan, sharing her frustration.
"And so when we returned to Alexandretta, he was sad and upset," Morten recounted. "He became more withdrawn, carrying his gloom like an old ball and chain. It became a bit heavy to get along with, so I made him drink."
Lyra's eyes widened in surprise.
"It's not something he usually does, right? He was already a bit taciturn by nature, but I noticed that when he had a bit of beer, he opened up a little more. So one evening, I took him aside and poured him more beer than he needed. And he let it all out."
"Everything?"
"Absolutely everything. As if it overflowed from within him and was suffocating him, you know? He talked about his mother, the men who were spying on them, how he killed one! I knew he was introverted, but not a murderer."
"It was self-defense," Lyra retorted.
"I'm not judging. He told me that he fled through a window to another world, a city, Cita..."
"Cittàgazze."
"There. And how you two met, how you had a wild look about you and how he found you annoying at first."
He burst into laughter at Lyra's crestfallen expression.
"He told me everything you've experienced together. The worlds you've crossed, the Land of the Dead and your friends there. It was a bit jumbled, you know how drunk people are... He couldn't stop praising your courage and boldness. He talked about how he realized he was in love with you but that you had to live your lives separated forever, and how much it pained him. And finally, how he managed to find you again, and then he had to wait even more. We had only known each other for a few weeks, but we had already formed some kind of friendship. I had never seen him like that. He looked devastated. You're lucky to have found each other. I know the captain asks for discretion, but believe me, Will seems happier, more relaxed since you came aboard. And everyone tryly appreciates both of you."
Lyra lowered her eyes, moved and speechless. Suddenly, a shrill siren blared throughout the ship, followed by Mette's voice over the loudspeaker.
"This is the captain. A storm is heading straight for us, and it won't be gentle. Take your positions, take care of yourselves and your companions."
Morten cursed and began to tidy up. His dæmon, who usually stayed outside the building, swiftly entered the kitchen.
"Okay," the Dane said gravely, "we need to tidy everything up carefully. Nothing should stick out, nothing should be left lying around, the cupboards should be securely locked, got it?"
Lyra nodded, feeling panicked. Beneath her feet, she could sense the swell of the waves growing stronger, making her balance precarious. They hurried to clean, organize, and secure everything that was scattered about. Will burst into the kitchen, looking serious and exhausted.
"Is everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm al... ouch, damn it!"
A wave larger than the others had once again rocked the boat, causing Lyra to stumble onto the corner of the countertop. As Will rushed towards her, she interrupted him with a smile, rubbing her sore side.
"I'll be fine, don't worry! What do you have to do?"
"I need to go down to the engine room to help a mechanic who just split his head open."
"Well, go on then! What are you waiting for?" the young woman scolded him.
He kissed her one last time then left and Lyra resumed her organizing.. The boat was now rocking violently. The sky had darkened, casting an ominous darkness in the room, pierced only by lightning strikes that illuminated the foam. The rain pounded fiercely against the portholes, and the wind whistled against the building's walls. In the kitchen, nobody spoke, too busy putting everything back in its place. Once they were finished, Morten invited Lyra to sit on the floor.
"Can't we go help somewhere else?" she asked.
"We won't be of much use, trust me. These sailors know what they're doing, whether it's in the cabins, the engine room, or with the cargo. They've seen worse. If they need us, they'll call us. For now, we need to stay here."
Even while seated, Lyra couldn't maintain her balance, feeling the ship plunge into a trough and then climb a massive wave. She had never experienced a storm, let alone at sea, and her curiosity outweighed her fear. She wanted to see, she needed to see what was happening outside. Disregarding the risks she was about to take, she stood up and rushed down the corridor, ignoring the cries of Pantalaimon, Morten, and his dæmon, urging her to come back. When she reached the door leading to the deck, she stopped, terrified. Through the porthole, she saw the furled sails swaying dangerously against the masts. Torrents of rain lashed the ground violently as the raging ocean assaulted the ship. The flashes of lightning that dotted the seething turmoil provided only a nightmarish glimpse. The ship plunged dangerously against a wave that rose so high it obscured the sky. The impact with the bow was terrible and threw Lyra against the door, which gave way. The deluge pelted her, scratching her face and tangling her hair, and she felt herself being sucked in by the tempestuous wind. Morten's hand grabbed her shoulder to pull her back inside, and he let go of her in the corridor, where she collapsed on the floor, and he locked the opening tightly. He then grabbed her by the collar, his face red with fury, and pushed her into the kitchen.
"Do you want to die drowned, you idiot?!"
Lyra didn't say anything, terrified. Her head throbbed; she must have hit it during her fall. The pulsations of the engines had intensified and were vibrating throughout the cargo ship.
"The captain must be changing course to no longer face the waves and align with their direction," Morten shouted. "It's going to shake a bit more until the ship gets back into position. Hold on tight!"
But they didn't have time to settle as an even larger, more intense wave struck the side of the boat, causing it to tilt further. The force of the collision caused one of the portholes to give way, and torrents of water rushed into the room, flooding the furniture, the floor, and Lyra, who was trying to close the window. Morten came to her aid, holding the porthole shut and ordering her to fetch boards and tools from a nearby storage area. As Lyra went back and forth with the materials, stumbling and clinging to the walls and doors as best she could, she saw only chaos spreading both outside and inside. Together with Morten, they nailed the boards over the broken window to create a makeshift barrier. When they finished, the Danish man made her sit down and applied a towel filled with ice to the lump that had formed on her forehead, and he took a seat beside her. The wind still howled outside, and and the powerful and disordered swell continued to batter the hull. However, the vibrations had slightly subsided: Mette Rasmussen had managed to stabilize her ship. Lyra shivered from the cold and fear, so Morten wrapped his broad arms around her shoulders to warm and comfort her, and Pan nestled against her chest.
"Sorry for calling you an idiot," the cook said.
"I deserved it," Lyra replied with a trembling voice.
She folded her legs against her chest and rested her head on the sailor's forearm. Her hair dripped with icy water against her temples, and her clothes uncomfortably clung to her skin. The cook's arm, still encircling her shoulders, helped her calm her trembling. She closed her eyes and listened attentively to the wind, which continued to howl like a pack of enraged harpies. She tense her body to keep herself upright, and prayed for a lull to come. For long, endless minutes, the storm raged on, before slowly receded. Lyra opened her eyes. Through the surviving porthole, she caught sight of a welcoming ray of sunlight. Morten straightened up and helped her to her feet. Her legs wobbled, and she had to lean on the countertop for a moment. Soon, bright sunlight flooded into the room, and the gentle, steady roll of the ocean resumed its rhythm. They waited silently for a few more minutes, and then the speakers crackled to life, and Mette Rasmussen exclaimed:
"Okay! That was intense! I hope everyone is okay. We're coming down to see you."
Lyra anxiously watched the door, and to her great relief, she finally saw Will appear. They momentarily forgot the imposed formalities and rushed into each other's arms.
"What happened?!" he asked, concerned, as he analyzed her face.
"Nothing," Lyra lied, "I just..."
"She wanted to get a closer look at what a storm looks like," Pantalaimon interjected. "It was a close call. Thankfully, Morten was there."
Will's eyes widened as the cook nodded his bald head in agreement. Lyra tried to defuse the situation.
"You narrowly escaped death, but everything is fine," the pine marten quipped.
"Curiosity killed the cat." Morten piled on.
Lyra gave them an irritated look. Will embraced her, trembling. "I'm glad you're safe and sound." he said softly.
There was a knock on the door. The captain and her second stood in the doorway, both looking exhausted. Lyra and Will stayed close together, but Mette didn't seem to notice.
"Is everything alright here?" she asked.
"We're fine," Morten replied. "Just some repairs to consider, but nothing serious. Care for a drink?"
He opened a cupboard and took out a bottle with no label or age. Hassan tapped the captain's shoulder and gestured that he was going to check the machines to make sure everything was okay. He left the kitchen and headed towards the engine room. Mette leaned against the countertop, accepting the comforting little glass that Morten offered her.
"To this damn fickle ocean," Mette declared, raising her glass.
They clinked glasses and drank in silence then Will squinted his eyes, Mette vigorously shaking her head as she exhaled, and Lyra coughed at the burning sensation caused by the beverage. Only Morten licked his lips, nodding with contentment as if he had just consumed a sweet syrup.
"What is this?" Lyra grimaced.
"Homemade aquavit," Morten answered very seriously, refilling the glasses, "Homemade by my mother, God rest her soul."
"You look awful," the captain commented, observing Lyra's disheveled appearance.
Lyra made a sarcastic pout. Beside her, Will rubbed his eyes for a long time. His body was still experiencing violent tremors and Lyra knew that they weren't caused by the fear of the storm.
"Are you okay, doc?" the captain inquired.
"Yes, don't worry," Will replied in as usual. "I stayed at the engines the whole time to keep an eye on Achilles, who cut his forehead. It was chaotic. Some guys took him back to his cabin, I'll check on him later. By the way, I need to make sure everyone is all right."
He slowly straightened up, and as he spoke, Lyra gathered the glasses to place them in one of the sinks. A great fatigue washed over her body. She longed for a long, hot shower and a good nap with Will by her side. They had certainly earned it.
"Lyra!" Pan exclaimed behind her.
She just had time to turn around and open her arms to catch Will, who silently collapsed onto her.