#where a chevalier just called her knife ear to her face

[mythalism]

the post-veilguard inquisition whiplash continues. i thought the star crossed apostate lesbian tragic sex picnic felt scandalous. then i got smacked in the face with dalish elf baby sacrificing blood cabal conspiracy theories not even a few hours later. this one conversation with josie within the first few hours of the game is more acknowledgement of the violence and prejudice against elves than veilguard has in its entirety.

[fxnrisulv]

Letter

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 2928

Warnings: Bish I cried writing + editing this. Death (mentioned), cute pre serum Steve, childbirth, shitty smut, death threats, cursing. I’m sorry if this isn’t all of it. Message me if I should add something. 

A/N: As mentioned in the warnings, I cried, but then again I cry at literally everything. 

Hello doll…

You sat alone in a booth, playing with the straw to your milkshake as you waited. A friend of yours, Daisy, had apparently found a young man that was the perfect fit for you and arranged a date at the diner two blocks away from your apartment.

“It is only convenient, Y/N, you two can either go home to yours and take a glass of wine or if he is acting like a dirt pile - you have a short way home,” she defended, looking at you with big brown eyes and you sighed, nodding as it sounded convenient, but now you sat there and the clock was way past five which were the time you both had gotten from Daisy. You sighed, taking a sip from your milkshake and looking up as a man walked in, brown cotton pants and a red nylon dress shirt. He scanned the diner with his blue eyes, landing on you and smiled relieved.

“Thank you for having patience, I ran into some trouble on the way here,” he sounded genuine as he told you why he was late, but you couldn't stop thinking about what the problem was. You saw a small bruise that started to form on his cheek and you wrinkled your nose, praying that he wasn't someone who picked fights with every man he passed. He seemed to notice your gears turning and curled his lips into a cheeky smile.

“A friend, quite the punk actually, too big of a heart and far too stubborn for his tiny body,” the man laughed, reaching for your hand and pulling it towards his lips, placing a soft kiss.

“James, but call me Bucky,” he added as you looked confused at first, but you nodded and introduced yourself back.

“Y/N.” You smiled, laughing as he shot you a compliment before ordering some fries and a milkshake for himself too, sharing as yours ran out. The two of you sat in the booth, laughing at jokes and telling stories about either yourselves or Daisy. It was clear that she became the butt of the joke in a lot of your conversations.

“She knocked on my door once, begging me to act as her man for a day only to dump me by the evening!” Bucky exclaimed and you laughed, shaking your head. You weren't surprised, Daisy was ahead of your time and you knew it, how she fantasised about phones that you would be able to carry around in your pocket - well, you couldn't blame her for having an imagination.

...You know what this means, and doll I'm sorry ‘bout it. I tried to get back to you, but it's hell here and I spent every second thinking about your touch, how you laugh whenever I make a fool out of myself and with that making me laugh too, because nothing's sweeter to my ears than your laugh. Except when you sing for me, writhing under my hands and mouth. I always loved to hear you sing, doll...

“Sweetheart, I need you on stage pronto.” The manager of the bar peeked his head into your private room - only pieces of furniture being a vanity table paired with a simple chair, clothing rack and a divan. You had been ready for a few minutes, spending the lasting few warming up your voice and touching up your simple makeup so you were glad that it’s finally showtime. Carefully strapping on your simple mask, only covering the upper half of your face - leaving you red painted lips for the audience to see.

Walking up on stage always excited you and sent a thrill through your spine, feeling slight nervousness at the thought of how many people were in the bar, but you knew Bucky would be at the front row, having been dragging Steve with him every night for the past five months now since you became his best girl.

“Now, put your hands together for our own precious songbird; Pearl!” The manager presented you, but as usual you had forgotten your alias - as you’d gotten to keep for the mystery, mind being cleared into nothing but the lyrics of the songs you were going to perform. The short and robust balding man chuckled out to the audience when the applause died out, walking across the stage to fetch you. Unable to hinder any kind of amused sound, you giggled and bowed your head down - knowing how it would entrance the men sitting in front of the stage; especially your best lad that shifted in his chair to find a comfortable position.

“Good evening everyone,” you walked up to the microphone, lowering your voice slightly and letting soft huffs of air escape while you talked - making your voice sound alluring so the audience sat on the edge of their seats. Politely everyone greeted back, a choir of voices filling the musky air of the bar. It was mostly soldiers, or men that soon would be sent over the Atlantic to fight for the country and what’s right, so you could see Bucky and how his shoulders tensed, chest heaved out as your typical “alpha male”. It made you giggle, right after Steve has rolled his eyes at his behaviour.

“Hope everyone is having a great time,-” your eyes swept over the audience before landing on what kept your nerves in check; Bucky. “-gonna sing for you this evening,” you smiled out over the audience that jeered, raising their glasses and putting them together with their mates. The band tucked away into the corner of the stage started to play, knowing that what you said were their cue. The soft melody floated through the room gracefully and you started to sing, entrancing everyone in the bar as you’re known for.  

I don't know why but I'm feeling so sad

I long to try something I never had

Never had no kissin'

Oh, what I've been missin'

Lover man, oh, where can you be?

You kept performing for another hour, Bucky firmly planted at the front row throughout the whole evening. Steve had decided to retire early though, leaving after just twenty minutes and after a big cough fit. Bucky could see the worry in your eyes when Steve walked through the doors, smiling reassuringly that it was nothing to worry about. Another singer came up on the stage, first singing a duet before prompting the audience to say goodbye before the band started to play classic Maurice Chevalier. You walked through the hallway towards your room, having to change from your gown to your usual button up shirt and skirt duo.

“Hey doll,” Bucky greeted you once you had stepped inside and closed the door, surprising you with his presence as he normally would stand outside at the back waiting for you.

“Hi Buck,” you smiled sweetly at him, leaning over the divan that he had comfortably lied down in to kiss his lips. It started out as innocent, but the way Bucky brought his hand up to wrap around your waist and pull you down, making you lay over him as the kiss grew more heated and hungrier, it ended up as a kiss that would without a doubt get you fired. Just Bucky being in here for too long could tarnish the ‘innocent, yet alluring persona Pearl was’. Bucky sensed your slight discomfort, nothing because of him, but he halted and searched your eyes.

“What’s the matter, doll?” He asked, hand covering your rogue dusted cheek and the pad of his thumb swiping over your cheekbone.

“Nothing Bucky, only that,” you cut yourself off, drawing your lower lip in between your teeth. “My reputation, Buck,” you mumble, throwing your head down and sighing.

“I understand, don’t worry,” he whispers, a small smile gracing his lips. You looked up at him, looking for any sign of disappointment in his face, but the only thing you could find was pure admiration that made your heart flutter in your chest. Leaning into his embrace, you angled your neck and nibbled gently on his earlobe before whispering.

“Take me home, Lover Man.”

Bucky was quick to help you out of your gown into the clothes you’d been wearing throughout the day, giving you his jacket to keep warm while you walked up the blocks towards his apartment. It was unusual to see such spring in his steps and you were greatly amused because of it and with your giggles you were rewarded a few mischievous smirks. Finally reaching his door, Bucky almost kicked it open as he’d forgotten the keys inside. You leaned against the wall as Bucky tried to pick it open with the small pocket knife, groaning at every failed attempt which caused you to giggle.

“Oh, Pearl, if you don’t help I’ll make love to you right here,” Bucky pinned you against the wall, body towering over yours a his eyes are filled with lust and maybe a glint of frustration. “Now that won’t be so hot on your reputation now?” His voice was husky, features growing darker as you brought your lower lip between your teeth again, looking into his eyes. Bucky grunted and snarled before crashing his lips down on yours, moulding them fiercely together and taking the breath away from you. Before you could lose yourself in the moment, you pushed him back and took a pin out from your styled hair. Curling your lips in a devilish smirk, you gave the pin to Bucky to lock up the door, succeeding after a few tries.

“What would I do without you, doll?” He pulled you into his apartment, closing the door shut and pinning you against it before attacking your lips once again.

“I don't know, sleep out in the cold?” You whispered against his lips, giggling and Bucky rested his forehead against yours, looking unamused into your eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but you leaned up to kiss him - effectively stopping his current trail of thought.

“C’mon Bucky, make love to me,” you cooed, leaning back and running your fingers through his greased down locks. Following the command, Bucky placed his hands on the back of your thighs, heaving you up and wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Your wish is my command, doll,” he whispered, one hand on you ass to hold you up while the other one caressed your cheek, the pad of his thumb caressing the tip of your nose and over your cheekbone. Hurriedly, Bucky walked towards his bedroom and laid you down on the mattress, his lips sealing onto yours as he climbed up and hovered over you. Gingerly, Bucky started to undress you. First he took of the skirt, exposing your simple cotton underwear, after he unbuttoned your shirt, exposing the loose bra you were wearing.

“You are so beautiful, doll” He whispered, leaning down to place an open mouthed kiss on your collarbone. “Absolutely gorgeous”

Looking into your eyes, Bucky searched for any kind of hesitation or hint to stop, but the nodding of your head and pure gaze of lust gave him the consent he needed to unhook your bra, tugging it off and exposing your breasts. For a moment he was mesmerized, despite of how many times he saw you naked - or half naked - he had to stop and take everything in. Slightly self-conscious, you squirmed and took a hold of his open button up, pushing it down his arms and tugging on the crewneck cotton shirt he had under. Now almost equally exposed, Bucky smiled, placing a soft kiss on the tip of your nose

“I love you,” he whispered, smiling down at you when your cheeks flushed crimson.

“Love you too, Buck.” You sucked in a sharp breath when Bucky pushed your panties down, which was quickly followed by his own pants and underwear. Now both exposed, your core throbbing with need as Bucky’s length rested against the inside of your thigh. Pleading in soft whimpers, you threw your head back when Bucky guided himself towards your entrance.

“I’ll take care of you, doll,” Bucky cooed, resting his head on you shoulder when he was seated, letting you adjust to his size. It always felt amazing, being this close to the man you’d grown to love over the span of a few months and every time it nearly sent you over the edge with just him entering.

“Please, Bucky, move,” you whimpered, wrapping your legs around Bucky’s waist, digging your heels into his lower back, making him go deeper and you to moan. Bucky started to thrust, drawing them out in an agonizing pace when the only thing you wanted was to roll over the edge of ecstasy. Soon enough Bucky sensed your desperation, quickening the pace which drew out a whimper from you every time he was seated to the hilt, hitting your sweet spot and sucked another mark on the swell of your breast where no one, but him, would be able to see it. With your whole body tightening, Bucky put his hands in between your bodies, the pad of his thumb placing delicious pressure on your swollen and sensitive clit. With a low cry, you let the wave of pleasure roll over your body, limbs trembling when Bucky kept on with stimulating you, triggering his own orgasm. Long hot bursts was released, coating your walls and filling you up.

I miss him too. I miss Stevie. Not the little big punk we know. Got your smile - that lucky bastard.

Both Bucky and Steve sat outside in the waiting room while you talked to the doctor, Mr. Claud which had been a long time family friend. Nervous of the diagnosis you would get, your palms started to sweat and you worried on your bottom lip - scared of what the man would say.

“Miss Y/N,” Mr. Claud pushed his glasses back, looking up from the pieces of paper he had in a firm grip in his hand, but cutting him off was Bucky was crashed into the doctor’s office. After him was Steve, out of breath and face flushed in exertion.

“Buck-” Steve hissed, leaning on the door post to catch his breath, hand clutching his chest.

“Mr. Claud, she won't die, right?” Bucky looked at the doctor, lower lip quivering and eyebrows tightly knit together.

“No, Mr. Barnes, I would say the opposite,” Mr. Claud smiled through his moustache, putting the papers down on his desk.

“Miss Y/N is in fact pregnant and according to the blood work, I’d say she’s just about three months along.”

Bucky couldn't contain himself, jumping up in the air just after the word ‘pregnant’ had left the doctor’s lips. He repeated ‘You're pregnant!’ and ‘I’m gon’ be a father!’ over and over, kissing every inch of your face before looking down at your stomach, that you’d thought gotten a little bit bigger because you'd gained weight.

“Stevie, you're gonna be an uncle,” you cooed, smiling at the blond man still standing by the door post who now had one of the biggest grin on his face that you'd ever seen.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, smile only growing bigger.

… It's bad that I look back at that summer night with joy, when you lied in the sofa screaming how you would kill me in over a dozen ways, but then he was born - I could not have been happier…

It was exhausting. Already two hours had passed and the child still wasn't about to come out. Bucky hoped for a girl, but you could almost feel that it was a little baby boy. Screaming out in pain, crushing every bone in Bucky’s hand, you heard the nurse cooing at you of how close it was.

“Soon doll, just hang in there,” Bucky whispered, thanking Steve as the blonde man took the cold damp cloth and cooled your forehead, trying to calm you down.

“Bucky, I will slit your throat if you don't shut up!” You growled, tugging at his hand as you let out a high pitched scream. Shortly followed after there was a gurgling scream.

“It’s a boy!” The nurse declares, cutting off the umbilical cord and cleaning your baby boy up before handing him over to you.

“I was thinking Steven Buchanan Barnes.” You looked up at you two boys, Bucky sporting a smile wide enough to reach his ears, while poor Steve was pale in the face, but even that couldn’t hinder a small smile spreading across his lips.

But don’t look at this as something tragic doll, I died for you and Stevie, to protect my family, your freedom. I want you to be happy, live a happy life with Stevie.

And I’m sorry for never asking you to marry me. You were already my girl my woman, and the drunken ceremony with Daisy was for me enough…

“I now declare you husband and wife!” Daisy screamed, knocking two empty whiskey bottles together creating a loud clang that rang through the apartment. You and Bucky laughed, unable to keep your hand to yourselves on the sofa.

“I love you, doll,” Bucky stated, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his lap. Giggling, you replied, though it tapered out in a sad tone.

“I love you too, Sergeant.”

... but I wanted you to have a ring. I made one. Posted it, so I hope you’d gotten it. But doll, smile for me now. I’ll just be here waiting on the other side for you. ‘Til the end of the line.

- Your Bucky

[dalishious]

would you maybe be able to compile all the reasons ser michel de chevin is an awful person? i love how you summarize points and i see people fawning over this asshole all the time because he's a blonde haired white dude and that excuses all his faults or w/e apparently

Sure. I’m just gong to copy and paste this from previous things, mostly:

1. This is my biggest gripe and more about his writing than his actual character, but I really did not like how his entire arc is about him finding solace in hiding his elven identity and belittling other elves, rather than what could have been an encouraging sub-plot about finding self-acceptance and pride in himself. Like. That is his whole plot.

2. In fact, belittling isn’t even a strong enough word. He does not just belittle, he betrayed his own people. He murdered them. He partook in the Academie des Chevaliers’ graduation ritual of getting drunk and riding into the slums to slaughter whatever elves they could find, the very neighbourhood he grew up in. (-pg 32 of The Masked Empire, detailed by Michel himself, who follows by saying he “never looked back.”)

Michel is a chevalier first and foremost. And Chevaliers are shit who hunt and kill and beat elves for sport, with complete authority to do that and whatever else they want, as the Right Majeste over all commoners. Commoners are expected to do and give whatever they want. And yes, that alludes to many things. (x)

4. He uses the slur “knife-ear” even in the context of promising Celene that he would “put down a few hundred knife-ears” if it’s what was best for her. (pg 73)

5. This is of course, because he adores Celene. She can do no wrong in his eyes. In that same piece, he talks about how wrong it is for anyone to rebel against her, instead of considering why the elves would do such a thing, knowing full well what the cost would be.

6. Mocked/called vallaslin “ridiculous.” (pg 112)

7. He is literally the product of an elf and a human, and yet we have this lovely passage between him and Felassan, where he calls elf/human relations offensive:

“I don’t hear Celene or Briala,” he said, to change the subject.“They may be practising something different,” Felassan said, and waggled his eyebrows.Michel glared at him. “That’s offensive.”“Love is not offensive. Awkward, doomed, or ill-timed, perhaps, but not offensive.”“If you believe your ward can lure the empress—”“With her elven wiles? Chevalier,” Felassan said without heat, “do you think Celene could be lured into something she does not desire?”Michel looked off into the darkness. “How could she desire that?”“I cannot say,” Felassan admitted. “To think she could even be tempted, after your empress burned the slums in Halamshiral…”“I meant Celene, the Empress of Orlais, sleeping with an elf!”“You meant nothing but to shout ‘knife-ear’ so that all the world would know which face you chose to wear,” Felassan snapped. “And you have enough blood on your hands to be a man. Act like it.”-pg 122

So, easy enough to say, I do not like Michel de Chevin.

[itsjulesharper]

So we have left Marchal with a knife in his chest… and of course, he pulls it out (noooo!) and yells for the guards. They take him to Claudine and she gets him on the table … business as usual, then. Will he live? “You are a very lucky man…. either your heart is not where it’s supposed to be, or you do not have one.” Marchal replies: “Let us hope it’s the former.” He tries to get up, she stops him, then he gasps to his guards to “find her”.

Stupid woman Madeleine is now running through the dark trees, and it is a very nice visual, with the two guards on horseback bearing down, Then they push her over into the ground and her time is most definitely up.

Next scene with a Bontemps/Louis walk-and-talk. Marchal is expected to make a full recovery and Louis is absolutely livid as he enters the dungeons/jail, delivers a stinging slap to Madeleine who is sat on a chair and looking dishevelled. “Do you really think-” Louis thunders out, “-that you could live in my palace and kill my minister and his wife without suffering the consequences?” (interesting Louis says ‘my palace’ and ‘my minister’ – his is king and everything is his. Is a nice touch). Madeleine is only concerned for her son: she does not want him punished. But Louis is angry: “Every day for the rest of his life, you son shall suffer the shame of knowing that his mother betrayed her king. Her country. And her family. ” Madeleine softly weeps as he goes on: “and as for you, you will be decapitated. In front of the entire court.” As he turns and strides out, Madeleine calls out ominously: “you are walking blindly towards an enemy you do not know. ” Louis pauses, slowly returns, and Madeleine is now looking a little possessed. “You have opened the door to him. And now he will destroy you.” Louis wants to know who it is, and Madeleine spit out: “have you any idea of the hell you have created here? Hundreds of nobles driven from their homes, forced to live in squalor, told how to behave, what to wear, what to eat!” She is wide-eyed and screeching now and Louis is all “give me a name” and they play the ‘come closer and I will tell you’ game, and when Louis is finally close enough, Madeleine hisses “Satan.”

CUE GLORIOUS INTRO MUSIC BY M83 – Outtro

Creeper Cassel

We are in church, for Sophie and Cassel’s wedding… an empty church except for two females. Poor, poor Sophie. Cassel kisses her on the cheek and she wants to make the best of it, putting on a brave face but we know what is to come. UGH.

The Chevalier enters Philippe’s rooms, rather tentatively and looking a bit worse for wear, as if he has actually been crying. Philippe gets dressed in front of a glorious mirror that I love and want and I squeed a bit as I noticed the porcelain in the background that could possibly have been this actual urn from the Orléans collection but enough of that because there is a scene happening and I HAVE ISSUES.

Philippe: She left at dawn. The Chevalier: (breezily) Oh dear. A disappointing wedding night. Philippe: Uneventful. The Chevalier: Good. (turns and surveys the table, takes a biscuit) I was worried you may have reached the early hours and decided some consummation was in order. Philippe: Look at the table (the chevalier does so, picks up a piece of paper) That is your clothes bill for the last month. The Chevalier: Yes, and…? Philippe: Fifteen pairs of new breeches. The Chevalier: (a bit huffy) How many times do I have to tell you, they are not clothes, they are costumes? They allow me to express my every mood and whim. Philippe: They also cost a fortune. The Chevalier: (curtly) Since when does that concern you? You’re one of the richest men in France and it’s never bothered you before. Philippe: (pauses) You are the apple of my eye but stop taking me for granted. MASSIVE KICKED PUPPY LOOK FROM THE CHEVALIER, SEEEEEE???

#Issue 1 and *historical note: Historical Chevalier was, in actual fact, in charge of Philippe’s household. Which meant he was the one doing the books. Philippe was the spendthrift, showering money on his mignons, buying clothes and jewels and dressing up in ‘costumes that expressed his every mood and whim’. I find it interesting* why the writers have completely role-reversed these two, with Philippe dark and brooding and concerned with money, and the Chevalier the light and fashion-conscious one, wanting his fancy clothing. Historically, he owned quite a bit, and gave a lot of it to his relatives – lands, abbeys, etc – and covered his niece’s dowry when she married. And the growth in these characters from Series 1 is a bit jarring, where we saw the Chevalier’s control over Philippe in Eps 1 – 3. Everything changed when Philippe returned from war.

*By ‘interesting’, I could mean annoying, frustrating, confusing and/or just plain wtf.

So now we see Liselotte walking with Sophie and it is lovely to see these two becoming friends. Sophie is so sweet and Liselotte so honest. They are good for each other. Liselotte says “in two words – total humiliation,” and we know she is talking about the non-smexytimes between her and Philippe during their bedding ceremony. “He showed no interest in me whatsoever. He said he found me unappealing to the eye, and he preferred men!” Sophie: “how awful for you. What will you do?” Liselotte replies: “A lot of horse riding.” Also…. “and I shall speak with him. I came here to bear children, not listen to my husband snoring like a schnauzer.” Sophie wishes she had her dilemma… “I hope my husband shows no interest in me. Whatsoever.”  They sail past Montespan’s little gossipy gathering, and Montespan cannot help but make a snide comment about her Highness’s frown and that she “passed a night of frustration rather than passion.” Tittering all around, as Scarron hurries over to tell Montespan to return to her rooms, that her daughter is unwell. The doctor has been summoned but Montespan still looks unimpressed: “what use will I be?” Scarron is taken aback – it is the king’s child. Montespan assures her that her ability to bear children is not what Louis loves about her, let alone look after them. Scarron pulls back and gives her a kind of ‘wat? but she is your child!’ kind of look, but Montespan just appears cool and haughty.

*historical note: We now fully see the face behind the mask that is Montespan. Her dislike of children, her single-mindedness focus on Louis, her subtle crushing of all in her way. The writers have been doing a great job of rounding out her character… but sadly, I feel they have ignored others. Scarron, for example. One of the things that drew Louis to her was her obvious respect and enjoyment of children. They bonded over that, and Scarron was allowed access to the king on the matters of his kids at all times. But we are not seeing at all how this bond is growing, how she is caring for the children and discussing them (because by now, there are ‘children’ – Montespan had two by the year 1670).  The timeline for all this is quite a bit screwed up for me, but obvs written to suit the fictional narrative.

Marchal is in the dungeons/prison and unlocks Gaston’s cell, telling him he’s free to go. Gaston limps after him, clearly not in a “I will sue! How dare you wrongfully imprison me!” mood. Yes, they found the murderer and the doors are flung open and two guards bring in Madeleine. “Mother!” Gaston gets out and for a second I was prepared for him to add “no, this is not right!” but then he says, “What have you done?” and I know he has totally got his mother’s measure. “I did it all for you, my love,” is her wide-eyed reply, but Gaston is disgusted. “You have destroyed our family. You have destroyed our reputation. You have DESTROYED ME!” And there we have it. Gaston, such a predictably self-centred creature. His mother wails as she is dragged away to a cell.

Louis is walking with Bomtemps into Montespan’s rooms. The child was showing signs of fever during the night and Claudine believes it is the pox. The baby cannot be removed from the palace as she is too weak, so Claudine will prepare a treatment for the pustules and something to lower the fever. All the windows must be closed. The palace must be fumigated. Versailles is build on swamp land and Claudine says “there is evidence that ailments such as this are transmitted through the ears and mouth.”

*historical note: nowadays we have vaccines for mostly everything. But in 17th century France, disease claimed an obscene number of lives, which is why everyone shagged like rabbits to pop out as many kids as possible. Fever, cuts, infection could develop into something more serious, for which there was no cure – syphilis, smallpox, tuberculosis, gastrointestinal problems, polio. The common cold could kill someone without immunity. Smallpox sadly wiped out much of Louis XIV’s children and grandchildren.

Montespan sweeps forward and claims that Louis is placing too much faith in “this doctor.” FFS, Claudine is standing RIGHT THERE. Louis, to his credit, comes back with, “this doctor saved my life and will save the life of our daughter.” He walks off with Bontemps and commands the palace be fumigated. It will become stifling and Louis commands Bontemps to tell Philippe he must go hunt with him.

Cue a montage of palace fumigating – fires being lit and smoke wafted through the rooms by scarf-covered servants. Smokey stairwells and nobles coughing their way through them and in salons.

You can’t sit with us.

Then we see Gaston all smartened up and limping into a salon, where Cassel cannot resist snarking: “My dear fellow, you seem lost. Is it the smoke?” Gaston, a shadow of his former self, says, “No. I’m- not lost.” Cassel goes in for the thrust: “Then if not lost, then not welcome. The door is behind you. And if you see your mother, do thank her for the gift.” As Gaston turns and shuffles off as dignified as possible, Cassel adds to his group: “Another reason to fumigate the palace,” and Gaston is f-u-r-i-o-u-s as everyone chortles and it is so VERY high school that it gives me horrible flashbacks. Gaston passes Thomas coming in and Cassel spots him, goes over to ask what he meant by his earlier comment re: his past. Thomas indicates he knows about Cassel’s plot against the king (in S1) and has enough evidence to send Cassel to the gallows. Some veiled threats follow, then Cassel finally asks what he wants, to which Thomas replies: “information…. the sort of information that only a minister to the king has access to.” He wants to know Louis’ plan of attack when he goes to war with Holland. What will Thomas do with this info? “Use it in my book, what else?” is the sarcastic reply. Uh-huh. Sure. Yeah.

He KISSED HER HAND!

Thomas then walks into the salon, kisses Sophie’s hand and everyone is all “OMGGG! Did he actually do that?” as he walks off. Cassel is furious but cannot think of what to do. Hilarious.

Bontemps goes to get Philippe, who is unimpressed with all the smoke. Her majesty’s daughter is sick. “And this is going to make her better?” Philippe asks. (I really enjoy every time Philippe opens his mouth – every word seems to be delivered with maximum dryness/sarcasm/haughtiness). Thomas lurks behind, Liselotte from the doorway. Philippe declines the hunting invite – he has an appointment with a poet. Liselotte steps into the hall – perhaps she might accompany his majesty? Whatever, Philippe is unconcerned, walking off with Thomas and stroking the man’s back in a friendly gesture. 😒

Sure enough, the next scene shows Louis and Liselotte descending stairs as she says things like “was his majesty aware that it is the female wild boar who rules the group?” and “the mating season lasts only a month and a half” (I guess it’s not mansplaining, as Louis is unaware of these things and he is actually enjoying it). #ThisIsNotMansplaining As they pass by, the nobles gasp and murmur “she has the king’s favour!” Louis oh-so-delicately segues into “talking of mating season….” and we know where this is going. But then Marchal appears, wanting to know how Louis wishes to proceed with interrogating a noblewoman. “Treat her how you would any other murderer,” is Louis’ short reply. Marchal looks stoic but I am not entirely convinced he doesn’t feel some faint distaste.

Now we are on the hunt and Liselotte looks glorious on her white horse and fetching habit, and I also WANT Louis’ gorgeous blue coat. She spots a boar, Louis says it would be “a trifle dangerous.” Pfffft Liselotte ain’t having none of that shit, and she is off. Louis swiftly follows. I love this interaction. *historical note:  Louis and Liselotte both had a love for the outdoors, riding and hunting and regularly shared that. Louis liked her candidness, which was free of the wiles and manipulations of court life.

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Back in the dungeon, with a beaten Madeleine strung up by a chain in the roof, sitting on a chair, and Marchal picks up a mallet, demanding to know where she acquired the poison. She shouts over the top of him that she wants to see her son. They both know she is condemned to die no matter what she says, and Marchal calmly says she has nothing to lose by telling him – her reply is equally calm. She has nothing to gain. If he lets her see her son, she will tell him what he wants to know.

I don’t care if you are trained and educated – I shag the king, therefore I know more than you.

And so to Montespan’s rooms, with Claudine and Scarron tending to the baby. Montespan only cares that if the baby lives, she will be blemished for life, earning her a bit of a look from both women. Of course, that means she will be put in a convent, and Claudine says, “you would deny your child a place at court because her skin is not perfect?” Well…. yes. Do they not know Montespan at all by now? “You do not know how the court works,” Montespan replies, as if explaining to an idiot. Oh, but Claudine does know: “beauty opens every door in the palace. Even the kings’.” Montespan walks over to her, gets in her face and asks slowly, “how would you know?” then goes to the window. The camera lingers on her face and she is quite emotional…. from the baby’s condition? From what Claudine has said? From the constant worry that the king’s head will be turned by another younger, prettier face? I think the latter two.

And now we have a scene where Philippe is teaching Thomas to dance and the Chevalier is creeping on them at the door, looking as sad and as worried as if he’d caught them in bed together. Then he steps in with a “oh” and Philippe says “I was just telling Thomas if he wants to dazzle the women at court, then he must learn how to dance.” And yeah, Thomas knows exactly what he is doing, being a spy and an agitator and all. “Well,” says the Chevalier. “I see I am surplus to your requirements.” and strolls through the antechamber.

Philippe: Where are you going? The Chevalier: (as he leaves) Elsewhere. Philippe: (sighs) Thomas: (innocently) did I upset your friend? Philippe: He’s just a little jealous. Thomas: Of me? Philippe: Of anyone that breathes.

So now the Chevalier stride into the salons and over to a gaming table, taking it out the only way he knows how. Five thousand on a card game. Oh, bother. He lost. Ten thousand now. Oh, dear. Lost again. “Please note that down. Ten thousand francs debited to the account of the duc d’Orléans.” The Chevalier smiles. “There is no greater pleasure than losing someone else’s money.”

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Let’s gamble….

with someone else’s money

Back with Liselotte and Louis, where Liselotte regales him with a hunting anecdote, to which Louis laughs and admits that she is “a breath of fresh air.” (OMG Louis you had sooo better not be flirting with her, I swear to God….) She smiles and replies, “Sire, my friends call me Liselotte.” But the nice moment is interrupted by the hounds, who have found something in a ditch and noooooooo we can tell by the ominous music that is it terrible. Louis rolls him over and JACQUES and I wanna hug Louis right now.

*weeps* I understand why they killed Jacques off: to slowly chip at Louis’ small circle of people he trusts. Rohan turned out to be a traitor. Henriette was poisoned. Now Jacques, to whom he went for honest, non-ass-kissing advice. To say that Louis is horrified, shocked, devastated is an understatement. And a huge turning point in his storyline. He is going to spiral downwards.

We are now back in Louis’ rooms, and he is on a chair looking melancholy, commanding a sole musician to play a moody cello piece again. Then we see Versailles and the changing of the guards, then Philippe face down in bed as the music still plays. Colbert wakes him, concerned. It’s the Chevalier de Lorraine. Is he hurt? Colbert: “Not exactly.” They walk into a deserted salon, where the Chevalier sleeps the sleep of a drunken man, face on a table. He has lost 400,000 francs and placed all of it on Philippe’s account. Philippe smiles tightly: Colbert does the same.

And now…. (deep breath, as I must get through this scene first)

Philippe’s doors fly open and the Chevalier stumbles through and slides across the floor, Philippe in a rage. Philippe: MY FUCKING MONEY! HOW DARE YOU! (points accusing finger) The Chevalier: (struggles up from the floor, says flippantly) Luck was against me. Philippe: It certainly is now. (slaps him) The Chevalier: (reels) You hit me. Philippe: Yes. And? The Chevalier: (headbutts Philippe) Philippe: (steps back, expression enraged as he clutches his cheek) The Chevalier: (suddenly gasps, realising what he’s just done, puts out his hands) I- I…. Philippe: (grabs the Chevalier by the throat and they slam into a wall) Four hundred thousand francs in two days! (wrestles him to the floor, hands still around his neck) That’s almost a third of my annual income! The Chevalier: (gasping and struggling) You’re hurting me! Philippe: Good! The Chevalier: (struggling still, chokes out) You’re killing me… Philippe: Even better!

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The Chevalier then puts up a hand to Philippe’s face to break his hold, more wrestling and gasping as Philippe gets him in a choke hold from behind, then the Chevalier bites Philippe’s arm and is free and hair and limbs are flying as the Chevalier grabs a candelabra and wields it, yelling “DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!”  They are both in a stalemate and panting, Philippe holding his bitten arm, the Chevalier brandishing the candelabra. Then Philippe stalks off and the Chevalier lowers his weapon, calls out a drunken, “HA! That’s right!” Then the unsheathing of a sword is heard and his expression drops as Philippe stalks back in with his rapier and holds it to the Chevalier’s face. Mucho panicking from the Chevalier…. and that is when the doors open and Liselotte sweeps in with a commanding, “STOP!” Philippe: This…. little shit gambled away half my fortune! The Chevalier: (distraught and practically crying, knocks away the sword with the candelabra) Is he good in bed, that little slut of yours? Did he get down on all fours like a sheep?? Philippe: YES! AND I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT! The Chevalier: (rage face) LIAR! Liselotte: (calmly with hands on hips) will you two shut up? I’ve seen turkeys with more sense.

They both look at her, then each other, then with a massive LINE FACE Philippe lowers his sword. The Chevalier can’t resist a dig: “and just when I was winning,” thrusts the candelabra at Liselotte then storms out.

#Issue 2 – OMFGGGGGG. Okay, where do I start? First, what I liked. Just like in Series 1, we see the Chevalier start off so good in the first few eps, only to have him take a massive dive. I do not know if this is deliberate. I would be surprised if it wasn’t. But the downside to that is having your character appear wildly dramatic and not true to himself. He returned triumphant and adoring in Ep2. He and Philippe were a loving couple. The Chevalier seemed to have the upper hand emotionally, because Philippe admitted he missed him. But now, with drama being… well, dramatic, Philippe pays attention to another and the Chevalier goes into meltdown. And trust me, it will get worse.

Now to the historical comparison, which I simply cannot ignore even though I have said over and over I KNOW the show is not an historical account, it is a fictional dramatisation. And with this, it really is very much a soap opera. The scorned jealous lover, the screaming matches, the brandishing of weapons, the knock-down fight and slapping and biting…. All very theatrical. And not at all what the real Chevalier de Lorraine was about. He manipulated, he controlled. He played mind games and got what he wanted by being superior than everyone else. He was also a god-damn war hero, known for his bravery in battle. He was respected by his men. He had dignity and command and a ruthless air that scared the shit out of people who crossed him. And while I ADORE Evan and love watching him dominate and command every scene, I know this is not about him. It is about the writing. The writing that is turning the two men I love most in history into some kind of Kardashian drama in breeches. The real Chevalier would have extracted his revenge in some other calculating way, that would have had Philippe being the contrite one, making the first move and practically begging him to return.

*sigh* Okay. Moving on.

Louis is burying Jacques in solemn prayer, the coffin is lowered at a spot in the gardens and Louis peers into the grave, his expression blank, even though we know he is a little broken. Bontemps steps forward to stop him from falling in, and I am taken aback by his quietly offended, “get your hands off me.”

Bontemps and Marchal are now walking through the palace, discussing the suspects to Jacques’ death. Marchal is getting his Colombo-slash-Quincy on and is beginning to suspect Madeleine de Foix is not the only murderer. Apparently the palace death records have been showing a pattern – so far, over 40 have been premature or connected to a promotion or inheritance. Bontemps is stunned.

Now we are back in Louis’ chambers and he is being prepared for a shave. Lovely visuals here, with all the tools laid out and the blade being sharpened, close ups of Bontemps, then Louis, then Louis’ face being lathered up. In between this scene are cutscenes of another, with the nobles in confessional with Father Pascal, admitting to adultery, murder by poisoning….. and the blade gets closer to Louis’ throat, the barber’s hand shakes… Then Louis commands him to stop, throws everyone out. He is mucho stressed.

We are now with Father Pascal and the Queen, the latter of whom has become quite annoying and not at all like her historical self.. or indeed, like a queen. Sure, her historical counterpart was pious and no doubt secretly outraged at all the sinning going on around her, especially when her husband didn’t include her in that. But secret plotting to force everyone to be holier? Ugh. Sounds a lot like what goes on these days from certain countries. Father Pascal appears quite delighted the nobles are confessing all to him, and I am still not sure if he is a good guy or just one of those priests getting his jollies by living vicariously through all the confessing sinners. The queen is sceptical: “the palace will not be cleansed so easily. Confession is one thing – discovering the path of purity another.” The king is the key – if he choses to ‘remain in sin’ then most of the court will remain with him.

Pascale and Bossuet do a walk-and-talk in the gardens, with Pascal saying Louis must be told that the women are confessing to murder. Yet Bossuet says he fears Louis will not listen. WTF? Of course he will and I think Bossuet is full of shit. I don’t think Louis’s stubbornness will make him deaf to this information. Right, so Bossuet says he will speak to Louis… but Pascal doesn’t think that will work. Bossuet replies – a little unsure – “I will threaten him.” OKAY THEN. That’s totally gonna work. But hey, Pascal looks a bit evangelical and creepy and pleased so there is that.

Now they are in a golden room with Louis and Bontemps and there is a weird exchange that isn’t at all about the holy men telling Louis who has confessed to poisoning or murder, but more about how much of a sinner Louis is.

Louis: If they come to confession then at least they are pricked by conscience. Bossuet: Without the truth in the soul, it is mere hypocrisy. Louis: No. Hypocrisy is part of our being, we cannot tamper with nature. My people look to the church for spiritual guidance and well being. They look to me for security and happiness. I cannot make them good people. That is your job. Pascal: (butts in) Then his majesty will be refused communion at Easter. It is the king’s duty not to merely appear devout before his people but to BE devout.

Oh, dear. Louis slowly stands with restrained tension and Bossuet looks a bit nervous, his expression all ‘shit is about the hit the fan, noooo’ which increases as Louis turns to him and says softly: “you would carry through with such a threat?” Bossuet, put on the spot, looks at Pascal then vaguely nods and says “I would, sire.” Louis is cold and calm and that is dangerous: “You would question MY faith?” And then Pascal goes there, says his child is sick because of his union, unsanctified by God, and is surrounded by sickness. The palace may gleam on the outside but on the inside it is contaminated…… Louis walks to Bontemps, places a hand on his valet’s shoulder. “Remind me, who is this man?” Bontemps replies “father Pascal, confessor to her Majesty the queen.” And Louis walks slowly to Pascal, says, “and I wish…. NEVER TO SEE HIM AGAIN!” until he is shouting in the priest’s face and Pascal and Bossuet both bow and quickly exit. Go Louis. Getting his king on.

Now we are with the powder and herb dude (whom the credits tell me is called Big Fella), his attractive mignon partner and the Chevalier de Lorraine who is…. wait for it…. proposing to be a drug dealer for them, supplying the court with the powders and potions that are now banned. LOLWAT.

“I know every noble at court,” he says. “They have deep pockets and desires without limits. It is simply a question of getting the produce into the palace without being noticed.” He sniffs, like junkies snorting drugs are want to do, and tells the suppliers that he can get the drugs in via a delivery of silk, so the nobles purchase the material and also “something extra.” And he will take a 30% cut…. and as much produce as he requires.

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This place is disgusting, let me make it quick….

Iz gonna be your dealer, lulz

Let us recap. The Chevalier’s character to date has been a controlling, abusive, vain, elegant, haughty, unfaithful, jealous, contrite, seductive, manipulative, whiny, weak, traitorous and petty drunk. Who is now going to be drug dealing.

Just so I have that right.

#Issue 3. The Chevalier de Lorraine as a drug dealer. Get me out of here.

Oh, look. Thank Christ Louis is now talking war stuff. Something light and non-stressful to wrap my brain around. The English fleet will be in sight of the Dutch shores within a month (a-ha! Finally, a mention of time so I can orient myself!) and he wants his army on that border within two weeks. Louvois talks, telling Louis his commander Turenne has split the army and is ready to strike Holland’s allies. Condé (his other commander) will cross the Rhine within a week. And Liselotte’s father has reaffirmed his support of Louis. Cassel speaks up, and I don’t know whether it is just to shit-stir or out of genuine concern because he asks how loyal Palatine is. Louis reminds him the man’s daughter is married to Philippe. Cassel claps back with ‘well, you’re married to Spain and yeah, you’re at war with THEM, aren’t you?’ Louis’ ‘UGH, FFS you’re right but… UGH’ face is classic.

Now we are outside, on horses with Louis, Cassel and Louvois and they are checking out Philippe training with his soldiers, showing off charging and other war-related manoeuvres, plus a new invention called the bayonet. Philippe trots over on his horse, looking rather happy, and Louis, ugh, Louis can’t even muster a smile. “I thought you’d be pleased to see me,” says Philippe. To which Louis says, definitely-un-pleased, “I am.” *SIGH* Seriously, no wonder Philippe is always stomping about in a mood. Louis cannot even be happy that his brother is training HIS troops for HIS war and HIS glory. All he can say is ‘yeah, enough of war talk, what’s the sitch with impregnating your wife?’ Philippe, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat: “My cannon succeeded in…. breeching the enemy’s defence. If that’s what you’re asking. Now, then, back to my point about strategy…” But Louis has what he came for, gives his brother a look, turns his horse and gallops off. Philippe just rolls his eyes and returns to his soldiers. Interesting that when he is out of earshot, Louis tells Louvois to order four times the amount of platoons with bayonets. Then Bontemps is seen galloping towards them (on a horse, otherwise that would be hilarious…. maybe they should do that. *pictures a galloping Bontemps* :D ) and Louis must come at once.

Louis is storming through Montespan’s rooms. They have to be patient and Louis enters the sick room, despite Montespan’s horror and fear of going into unclean air. Scarron and Claudine are attending the baby, with the fever greater now. Montespan says she should be bled, but Claudine says it will only weaken her. Good girl. It would shit me no end to have some rich noble mansplain my own job, one I’d spent years researching and working on. But Montespan won’t have it. She says her family doctor can be there before nightfall. Ugh. Montespan really hates anyone opposing her, doesn’t she? Louis takes Claudine aside and says firmly, “You cannot let this child die,” then leaves. Poor Claudine. How can you promise something like that? As he strides through a corridor, all angry and frustrated, the queen appears, sticks a finger in his face and hisses, “If you banish Father Pascal from court, you banish me. He stays at court or I return to Spain.” Then she sweeps off and Louis is left shocked, seething and clenching a fist, rage in every muscle as he angrily thumps the wall.

Okay, #Issue 4. The queen is being given way too much importance with everything. She has taken on the role of ‘pious savour of the court’ and this is so not what she was, historically speaking. She did not get involved in politics or demanded everyone become more God-fearing. Never would she have spoken like that to the king of France. I have a sneaking suspicion that this is done so Scarron can be put into a more favourable light. We all know from history that the queen dies, and that Scarron was the God-fearing pious one who eventually encourages Louis to put away his party boy ways.

Now we are back with William of Orange and he is having his portrait painted and talking of war. They will not lose, Amsterdam will not fall. De Witt (the dude who leads the government of Holland, not a king but a stadtholder, as the country is a republic) will be the one to fall and William will not stop the people from getting rid of the man who has been like a father to him. But his advisor says their intel from France indicates Louis has an army and is marching to war. Then De Witt walks in and is not impressed with William’s nonchalant response about war and a possible coup etc. He has William’s number, gets in his face and reminds the younger man that Holland is not a monarchy, and “you are not Louis. Do not try to be like him.” Ouch. Burn.

We’re back in a salon, where Louis is having his portrait painted, surrounded by nobles. Thomas reads some of his writings and suggests they include this enemy of which Louis has spoken. Louis educates him (and the audience) on the politics of Holland, then asks why he asks so many questions. Thomas briefly misses a beat: “man is defined by his foes, is he not, Sire?” Then we see him lurking through the dark corridors and handing over another message to a runner. But a soldier is passing by and he has to think quickly and hide before he is spotted.

Back in jail with Marchal, who brings Gaston to see his mother. She does not look well (as would no one, given her predicament). She grasps Gaston’s hand, saying she thinks about him as child, that it gets her through, and he appears to go to his knees to her. “he is a cruel man,” she hisses, indicating Marchal. “Your father died fighting in his service. And now he’s made of me a criminal and of you, an outcast.” Then Marchal stirs, paying more attention to their conversation as she frantically whispers to Gaston and touches his face, “you have to find her… she will help you… she is in the square.” Marchal opens the gate, says “That is enough,” and Madeleine pets Gaston again and he is dragged from the cell, giving her a final look and a solemn “farewell, Mother,” before he leaves. Then… eww, a bit gross as she removes a cloth-covered vial from an orifice and drinks it.

If I was your girlfriend, I’d never let you go….

We are back in the palace. The baby has died and Scarron is on her knees before the crib, praying. Montespan is at the window, looking gloomy. “I’m sorry,” Claudine says. Louis: “You promised.” No, she didn’t.  You can see all the thoughts running through Louis’ head, what the implications of the child’s death means, what he is feeling. Then he glances back to Claudine and says calmly, “you no longer work in the service of the king. I shall ensure you receive a royal stipend.” And Claudine…. she looks so sad and kind of pityingly, like she knows he has to blame someone and it must be her, but she is not God and as skilled as she is, she does not possess special powers to save this life. Her gaze drops and she quietly replies, “his majesty is generous,” packs up her kit , makes an awkward bow then leaves. Montespan tries to show sympathy, saying he did the right thing. Louis replies: “Did I? How do you know? Did our daughter die through the fault of the doctor? Through its own weakness? Or was it simply God’s will?” And for a second I think Montespan is gonna say something to ease his pain. Instead she says softly, “what does it matter, Sire? I will soon make you another one.” And he gives her such a ‘wtf woman?” look, then glances down to Scarron, who is still on her knees and praying and they exchange a look. Scarron’s face is kind of…. almost as if she is worshipful. Like she’s singing a typical angsty teenage song in her head that goes along the lines of “she is no good for you. If you were mine…..” It is a little odd, considering they have not had any screen time together that would indicate any kind of mutual interest or growing feelings. Liselotte and Louis have shared more conversation and smiles than Louis and Scarron. Louis silently walks out.

Now to the queen’s bedchamber where she reads in bed. Louis walks in and sits, and the queen is sorry for his loss. “Do you believe in divine punishment?” Louis asks. Yes, says the queen. But she also believes in divine forgiveness. He thanks her, and then she bids him a goodnight, saying his mistress will be waiting for him. “No,” he says calmly. “It is you I need tonight.” So… feeling guilt and the need to be closer to God = queen smexytimes.

*historical note. Despite Louis and his copious amount of sinning, he was a model of piety leading up to Easter, and chose not to visit his mistress/es during that time.

Ugh. You are all sinners.

We see a lovely night shot of Versailles and the Apollo fountain then Louis walks into a salon with the queen, everyone bows and is solemn, and Louis launches into one of those monologues he enjoys so much. “When you look at yourselves, what do you see? Beauty? Wit? Refinement? Intelligence? You are the cream of the French aristocracy and the envy of every court in Europe. Yet when I look at you, I see corruption. Darkness. Temptation. Greed. Murder.” He walks the room, delivering this speech, and we see the camera go to the queen and Pascal, to Philippe, Liselotte and the Chevalier. Louis turns and speaks more, as a figure covered in a black veil enters the salon. “There are two paths open to you. The path of punishment. Or the path of redemption. Redemption through light-” he smiles at the queen and walks towards her, takes her hand. “Through good. Through puri-” he pauses, spots the widow figure, and the veil slides back and we see Montespan in her theatrical glory, wearing a crucifix and looking outwardly repentant with tears in her eyes. Louis is stunned, and the queen angrily rips her hand from his and storms off (*historical note: NO. The real Marie-Thérèse would never have done this. If she could suffer her duty in silent dignity, when Louis forced her to share a carriage with his two mistresses, when everyone pointed and said ‘there go the three queens of France!’ then she could most certainly live through THIS.)

We are with Marchal and entering Claudine’s home, where she is drunk and asleep by the fire. He takes the bottle from her hands and picks her up. “Am I under arrest.” she mumbles. “I am putting you to bed,” is his reply and I haz the heart eyes for this sweet moment for them when she sighs softly, eyes still closed, and murmurs, “how can those hands, which have killed so many times, be so gentle?” He says nothing, just tucks her in and I got a little melty because FINALLY Marchal is getting to have a woman who matches him in intellect and strength and integrity. (Oh, don’t you dare get happy. ~ Future Self)

Now we are in Sophie’s bedchamber, she in a nightgown and looking so nervous and Cassel calls “are you ready?” AND NO I AM NOT because Sophie is so sweet and the writers are going all Game of Thrones, making the characters we love suffer the most awful things. Needless to say, Cassel slithers in, fully dressed, and creepily says “I could eat you up,” then ties her hands and there is a struggle and of course, he thinks it’s awesome and arousing and she knees him in the groin, he slaps her, throws her on the bed and rapes her. This is horrid but unsurprising because, you know, 17th century France. The next moment, we see Sophie’s feet, bloody and filthy, shuffling into Liselotte’s rooms and her nightdress is torn and she is bleeding and looking so lost and tiny and crying and so am I. She deserves SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS. First her horrible mother, then the builder dumped her, then Montespan introduced her to this creep, THEN this shit. Not to mention she is getting closer to Thomas which can only end in tragedy…. UGGGGH. Liselotte embraces her, comforts her but dammit I NEED A HUG TOO.

Next scene. Louis alone in a salon with the horse portrait, brooding in an armchair by the fire. Philippe enters. Philippe: Do you know what day it is today? (glances at an uninterested Louis) ’tis the anniversary of the day you took over as king. Do you remember what you said to me that night? Louis: (looking ‘meh’) Remind me. Philippe: You said, the secret is not just to be king. It is to be SEEN to be king. And that, my dear brother, is what you have forgotten. (walks slowly behind the chair as Louis appears to think) You have taken off your clothes and shown us your frailty. (places his hands on Louis’ shoulders) I suggest you put them back on. Louis: (long pause as he stands, carefully weighing the words) Thank you.

A brilliant scene, short and straight to the point, showing us a wealth of hidden depth in the brothers’ relationship. It tells us Philippe indeed has Louis’ back (was Philippe standing behind Louis’ chair a reference to Season 1’s “do you have my back?”) and is not afraid of speaking his mind, to give Louis a metaphorical kick in the breeches.

Next day, and Father Pascal slowly enters Montespan’s rooms to offer his condolences, pausing at the dead baby’s crib. He is startled by Montespan at the window and she goes off on a bit of a rant: “You think you can destroy the bond between the king and me, but we are stronger than any of your sermons.” He gently replies that she is a sinner, driven by the desires of the flesh, but Montespan is all ‘yeah, and so is everyone else and btw I see the way you go all heart eyes for the queen.’ Nup, the queen only shares his faith but Montespan will not be hearing that shit: “Your devotion is just a mask. Behind it, you are just like any other man.” And then she strides over and grabs his crotch, getting in his face and adding, “I wonder how the queen would react if I told her you placed a hand on me.” Pascal is keeping quite a straight face when Montespan says the queen is stupid and the king would believe her. “For now,” Pascal says quietly. “You continue to seduce him with your wit and wiles but the day will come when he sees you for who you really are. An empty husk of vanity and manipulation.” Montespan is quite a bit irritated with that assessment (the truth hurts, eh?) and storms off.

We follow Gaston into the village and into Agathe’s house. He hesitantly takes her hand when she offers it, and she says he came here for her help, to avenge his mother’s death. He says his mother’s not dead, tries to pull away, but she holds him fast and we see a shot of Madeleine dead and bleeding in her cell. Agathe: (forcefully) Yes. She is. (Gaston is silent, shocked, possibly a little creeped out) You want my help taking revenge on the man that killed her and ruined your life. (whispers) You want to destroy Versailles? (does no one see it was HIS MOTHER who ruined his life by poisoning Reynard??? Ugh. Idiots always blame someone else for their mistakes) Gaston: That’s not possible. Agathe: Everything is possible if you want it enough. Gaston: Why would you help me? Agathe: Because I want the same thing. Gaston: What do I have to do? Agathe: First of all convince the king to let you return to court. You will stop at nothing – bribery, corruption, murder, extortion. The king floods the palace with light. You will engulf it in darkness. Do you agree?

Gaston looks creepily happy and Agathe leans in for a slow brief kiss, then whispers,”Now. You belong to me.”

The scene fades. End of episode. Merci for reading!

Versailles Series 2 – Episode 4 – the one where Claudine gets canned So we have left Marchal with a knife in his chest... and of course, he pulls it out (noooo!) and yells for the guards.

[readbookywooks]

Tialys And Salmakia

Holding the heavy gun, Will swept his hand sideways and knocked the golden monkey off his perch, stunning him so that Mrs. Coulter groaned aloud and the monkey's paw relaxed enough to let the tiny woman struggle free. In a moment she leapt up to the rocks, and the man sprang away from Mrs. Coulter, both of them moving as quickly as grasshoppers. The three children had no time to be astonished. The man was concerned: he felt his companion's shoulder and arm tenderly, and embraced her swiftly before calling to Will. "You! Boy!" he said, and although his voice was small in volume, it was as deep as a grown man's. "Have you got the knife?" "Of course I have," said Will. If they didn't know it was broken, he wasn't going to tell them. "You and the girl will have to follow us. Who is the other child?" "Ama, from the village," said Will. "Tell her to return there. Move now, before the Swiss come." Will didn't hesitate. Whatever these two intended, he and Lyra could still get away through the window he'd opened behind the bush on the path below. So he helped her up and watched curiously as the two small figures leapt on - what? Birds? No, dragonflies, as large as seagulls, which had been waiting in the darkness. Then they darted forward to the cave mouth, where Mrs. Coulter lay. She was half-stunned with pain and drowsy from the Chevalier's sting, but she reached up as they went past her, and cried: "Lyra! Lyra, my daughter, my dear one! Lyra, don't go! Don't go!" Lyra looked down at her, anguished; but then she stepped over her mother's body and loosened Mrs. Coulter's feeble clutch from her ankle. The woman was sobbing now; Will saw the tears glistening on her cheeks. Crouching just beside the cave mouth, the three children waited until there was a brief pause in the shooting, and then followed the dragonflies as they darted down the path. The light had changed: as well as the cold anbaric gleam from the zeppelins' floodlights, there was the leaping orange of flames. Will looked back once. In the glare Mrs. Coulter's face was a mask of tragic passion, and her daemon clung piteously to her as she knelt and held out her arms, crying: "Lyra! Lyra, my love! My heart's treasure, my little child, my only one! Oh, Lyra, Lyra, don't go, don't leave me! My darling daughter - you're tearing my heart - " And a great and furious sob shook Lyra herself, for, after all, Mrs. Coulter was the only mother she would ever have, and Will saw a cascade of tears run down the girl's cheeks. But he had to be ruthless. He pulled at Lyra's hand, and as the dragonfly rider darted close to his head, urging them to hurry, he led her at a crouching run down the path and away from the cave. In Will's left hand, bleeding again from the blow he'd landed on the monkey, was Mrs. Coulter's pistol. "Make for the top of the cliff," said the dragonfly rider, "and give yourself up to the Africans. They're your best hope." Mindful of those sharp spurs, Will said nothing, though he hadn't the least intention of obeying. There was only one place he was making for, and that was the window behind the bush; so he kept his head low and ran fast, and Lyra and Ama ran behind him. "Halt!" There was a man, three men, blocking the path ahead - uniformed - white men with crossbows and snarling wolf-dog daemons - the Swiss Guard. "Iorek!" cried Will at once. "Iorek Byrnison!" He could hear the bear crashing and snarling not far away, and hear the screams and cries of the soldiers unlucky enough to meet him. But someone else came from nowhere to help them: Balthamos, in a blur of desperation, hurled himself between the children and the soldiers. The men fell back, amazed, as this apparition shimmered into being in front of them. But they were trained warriors, and a moment later their daemons leapt at the angel, savage teeth flashing white in the gloom - and Balthamos flinched: he cried out in fear and shame, and shrank back. Then he sprang upward, beating his wings hard. Will watched in dismay as the figure of his guide and friend soared up to vanish out of sight among the treetops. Lyra was following it all with still-dazed eyes. It had taken no more than two or three seconds, but it was enough for the Swiss to regroup, and now their leader was raising his crossbow, and Will had no choice: he swung up the pistol and clamped his right hand to the butt and pulled the trigger, and the blast shook his bones, but the bullet found the man's heart. The soldier fell back as if he'd been kicked by a horse. Simultaneously the two little spies launched themselves at the other two, leaping from the dragonflies at their victims before Will could blink. The woman found a neck, the man a wrist, and each made a quick backward stab with a heel. A choking, anguished gasp, and the two Swiss died, their daemons vanishing in mid-howl. Will leapt over the bodies, and Lyra went with him, running hard and fast with Pantalaimon racing wildcat-formed at their heels. Where's Ama? Will thought, and he saw her in the same moment dodging down a different path. Now she'll be safe, he thought, and a second later he saw the pale gleam of the window deep behind the bushes. He seized Lyra's arm and pulled her toward it. Their faces were scratched, their clothes were snagged, their ankles twisted on roots and rocks, but they found the window and tumbled through, into the other world, onto the bone-white rocks under the glaring moon, where only the scraping of the insects broke the immense silence. And the first thing Will did was to hold his stomach and retch, heaving and heaving with a mortal horror. That was two men now that he'd killed, not to mention the youth in the Tower of the Angels... Will did not want this. His body revolted at what his instinct had made him do, and the result was a dry, sour, agonizing spell of kneeling and vomiting until his stomach and his heart were empty. Lyra watched helpless nearby, nursing Pan, rocking him against her breast. Will finally recovered a little and looked around. And at once he saw that they weren't alone in this world, because the little spies were there, too, with their packs laid on the ground nearby. Their dragonflies were skimming over the rocks, snapping up moths. The man was massaging the shoulder of the woman, and both of them looked at the children sternly. Their eyes were so bright and their features so distinct that there was no doubt about their feelings, and Will knew they were a formidable pair, whoever they were. He said to Lyra, "The alethiometer's in my rucksack, there." "Oh, Will - I did so hope you'd find it - whatever happened. Did you find your father? And my dream, Will - it's too much to believe, what we got to do, oh, I daren't even think of it... And it's safe! You brung it all this way safe for me..." The words tumbled out of her so urgently that even she didn't expect answers. She turned the alethiometer over and over, her fingers stroking the heavy gold and the smooth crystal and the knurled wheels they knew so well. Will thought: It'll tell us how to mend the knife! But he said first, "Are you all right? Are you hungry or thirsty?" "I dunno... yeah. But not too much. Anyway - " "We should move away from this window," Will said, "just in case they find it and come through." "Yes, that's true," she said, and they moved up the slope, Will carrying his rucksack and Lyra happily carrying the little bag she kept the alethiometer in. Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw the two small spies following, but they kept their distance and made no threat. Over the brow of the rise there was a ledge of rock that offered a narrow shelter, and they sat beneath it, having carefully checked it for snakes, and shared some dried fruit and some water from Will's bottle. Will said quietly, "The knife's broken. I don't know how it happened. Mrs. Coulter did something, or said something, and I thought of my mother and that made the knife twist, or catch, or - I don't know what happened. But we're stuck till we can get it mended. I didn't want those two little people to know, because while they think I can still use it, I've got the upper hand. I thought you could ask the alethiometer, maybe, and - " "Yeah!" she said at once. "Yeah, I will." She had the golden instrument out in a moment and moved into the moonlight so she could see the dial clearly. Looping back the hair behind her ears, just as Will had seen her mother do, she began to turn the wheels in the old familiar way, and Pantalaimon, mouse-formed now, sat on her knee. She had hardly started before she gave a little gasp of excitement, and she looked up at Will with shining eyes as the needle swung. But it hadn't finished yet, and she looked back, frowning, until the instrument fell still. She put it away, saying, "Iorek? Is he nearby, Will? I thought I heard you call him, but then I thought I was just wishing. Is he really?" "Yes. Could he mend the knife? Is that what the alethiometer said?" "Oh, he can do anything with metal, Will! Not only armor - he can make little delicate things as well..." She told him about the small tin box Iorek had made for her to shut the spy-fly in. "But where is he?" "Close by. He would have come when I called, but obviously he was fighting... And Balthamos! Oh, he must have been so frightened..." "Who?" He explained briefly, feeling his cheeks warm with the shame that the angel must be feeling. "But I'll tell you more about him later," he said. "It's so strange... He told me so many things, and I think I understand them, too..." He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. "You got to tell me everything," she said firmly. "Everything you did since she caught me. Oh, Will, you en't still bleeding? Your poor hand..." "No. My father cured it. I just opened it up when I hit the golden monkey, but it's better now. He gave me some ointment that he'd made - " "You found your father?" "That's right, on the mountain, that night..." He let her clean his wound and put on some fresh ointment from the little horn box while he told her some of what had happened: the fight with the stranger, the revelation that came to them both a second before the witch's arrow struck home, his meeting with the angels, his journey to the cave, and his meeting with Iorek. "All that happening, and I was asleep," she marveled. "D'you know, I think she was kind to me, Will - I think she was, I don't think she ever wanted to hurt me... She did such bad things, but..." She rubbed her eyes. "Oh, but my dream, Will, I can't tell you how strange it was! It was like when I read the alethiometer, all that clearness and understanding going so deep you can't see the bottom, but clear all the way down. "It was... Remember I told you about my friend Roger, and how the Gobblers caught him and I tried to rescue him, and it went wrong and Lord Asriel killed him? "Well, I saw him. In my dream I saw him again, only he was dead, he was a ghost, and he was, like, beckoning to me, calling to me, only I couldn't hear. He didn't want me to be dead, it wasn't that. He wanted to speak to me. "And... It was me that took him there, to Svalbard, where he got killed, it was my fault he was dead. And I thought back to when we used to play in Jordan College, Roger and me, on the roof, all through the town, in the markets and by the river and down the Claybeds... Me and Roger and all the others... And I went to Bolvangar to fetch him safe home, only I made it worse, and if I don't say sorry, it'll all be no good, just a huge waste of time. I got to do that, you see, Will. I got to go down into the land of the dead and find him, and... and say sorry. I don't care what happens after that. Then we can... I can... It doesn't matter after that." Will said, "This place where the dead are. Is it a world like this one, like mine or yours or any of the others? Is it a world I could get to with the knife?" She looked at him, struck by the idea. "You could ask," he went on. "Do it now. Ask where it is, and how we get there." She bent over the alethiometer and her fingers moved swiftly. A minute later she had the answer. "Yes," she said, "but it's a strange place, Will... So strange... Could we really do that? Could we really go to the land of the dead? But - what part of us does that? Because daemons fade away when we die - I've seen them - and our bodies, well, they just stay in the grave and decay, don't they?" "Then there must be a third part. A different part." "You know," she said, full of excitement, "I think that must be true! Because I can think about my body and I can think about my daemon - so there must be another part, to do the thinking!" "Yes. And that's the ghost." Lyra's eyes blazed. She said, "Maybe we could get Roger's ghost out. Maybe we could rescue him." "Maybe. We could try." "Yeah, we'll do it!" she said at once. "We'll go together! That's exactly what we'll do!" But if they didn't get the knife mended, Will thought, they'd be able to do nothing at all. As soon as his head cleared and his stomach felt calmer, he sat up and called to the little spies. They were busy with some minute apparatus nearby. "Who are you?" he said. "And whose side are you on?" The man finished what he was doing and shut a wooden box, like a violin case no longer than a walnut. The woman spoke first. "We are Gallivespian," she said. "I am the Lady Salmakia, and my companion is the Chevalier Tialys. We are spies for Lord Asriel." She was standing on a rock three or four paces away from Will and Lyra, distinct and brilliant in the moonlight. Her little voice was perfectly clear and low, her expression confident. She wore a loose skirt of some silver material and a sleeveless top of green, and her spurred feet were bare, like the man's. His costume was similarly colored, but his sleeves were long and his wide trousers reached to midcalf. Both of them looked strong, capable, ruthless, and proud. "What world do you come from?" said Lyra. "I never seen people like you before." "Our world has the same problems as yours," said Tialys. "We are outlaws. Our leader, Lord Roke, heard of Lord Asriel's revolt and pledged our support." "And what did you want to do with me?" "To take you to your father," said the Lady Salmakia. "Lord Asriel sent a force under King Ogunwe to rescue you and the boy and bring you both to his fortress. We are here to help." "Ah, but suppose I don't want to go to my father? Suppose I don't trust him?" "I'm sorry to hear that," she said, "but those are our orders: to take you to him." Lyra couldn't help it: she laughed out loud at the notion of these tiny people making her do anything. But it was a mistake. Moving suddenly, the woman seized Pantalaimon, and holding his mouse body in a fierce grip, she touched the tip of a spur to his leg. Lyra gasped: it was like the shock when the men at Bolvangar had seized him. No one should touch someone else's daemon - it was a violation. But then she saw that Will had swept up the man in his right hand, holding him tightly around the legs so he couldn't use his spurs, and was holding him high. "Stalemate again," said the Lady calmly. "Put the Chevalier down, boy." "Let go of Lyra's daemon first," said Will. "I'm not in the mood to argue." Lyra saw with a cold thrill that Will was perfectly ready to dash the Gallivespian's head against the rock. And both little people knew it. Salmakia lifted her foot away from Pantalaimon's leg, and at once he fought free of her grasp and changed into a wildcat, hissing ferociously, fur on end, tail lashing. His bared teeth were a hand's breadth from the Lady's face, and she gazed at him with perfect composure. After a moment he turned and fled to Lyra's breast, ermine-shaped, and Will carefully placed Tialys back on the rock beside his partner. "You should show some respect," the Chevalier said to Lyra. "You are a thoughtless, insolent child, and several brave men have died this evening in order to make you safe. You'd do better to act politely." "Yes," she said humbly, "I'm sorry, I will. Honest." "As for you - " he went on, turning to Will. But Will interrupted: "As for me, I'm not going to be spoken to like that, so don't try. Respect goes two ways. Now listen carefully. You are not in charge here; we are. If you want to stay and help, then you do as we say. Otherwise, go back to Lord Asriel now. There's no arguing about it." Lyra could see the pair of them bristling, but Tialys was looking at Will's hand, which was on the sheath at his belt, and she knew he was thinking that while Will had the knife, he was stronger than they were. At all costs they mustn't know it was broken, then. "Very well," said the Chevalier. "We shall help you, because that's the task we've been given. But you must let us know what you intend to do." "That's fair," said Will. "I'll tell you. We're going back into Lyra's world as soon as we've rested, and we're going to find a friend of ours, a bear. He's not far away." "The bear with the armor? Very well," said Salmakia. "We saw him fight. We'll help you do that. But then you must come with us to Lord Asriel." "Yes," said Lyra, lying earnestly, "oh yes, we'll do that then all right." Pantalaimon was calmer now, and curious, so she let him climb to her shoulder and change. He became a dragonfly, as big as the two that were skimming through the air as they spoke, and darted up to join them. "That poison," Lyra said, turning back to the Gallivespians, "in your spurs, I mean, is it deadly? Because you stung my mother, Mrs. Coulter, didn't you? Will she die?" "It was only a light sting," said Tialys. "A full dose would have killed her, yes, but a small scratch will make her weak and drowsy for half a day or so." And full of maddening pain, he knew, but he didn't tell her that. "I need to talk to Lyra in private," said Will. "We're just going to move away for a minute." "With that knife," said the Chevalier, "you can cut through from one world to another, isn't that so?" "Don't you trust me?" "No." "All right, I'll leave it here, then. If I haven't got it, I can't use it." He unbuckled the sheath and laid it on the rock, and then he and Lyra walked away and sat where they could see the Gallivespians. Tialys was looking closely at the knife handle, but he wasn't touching it. "We'll just have to put up with them," Will said. "As soon as the knife's mended, we'll escape." "They're so quick, Will," she said. "And they wouldn't care, they'd kill you." "I just hope Iorek can mend it. I hadn't realized how much we need it." "He will," she said confidently. She was watching Pantalaimon as he skimmed and darted through the air, snapping up tiny moths like the other dragonflies. He couldn't go as far as they could, but he was just as fast, and even more brightly patterned. She raised her hand and he settled on it, his long, transparent wings vibrating. "Do you think we can trust them while we sleep?" Will said. "Yes. They're fierce, but I think they're honest." They went back to the rock, and Will said to the Gallivespians, "I'm going to sleep now. We'll move on in the morning." The Chevalier nodded, and Will curled up at once and fell asleep. Lyra sat down beside him, with Pantalaimon cat-formed and warm in her lap. How lucky Will was that she was awake now to look after him! He was truly fearless, and she admired that beyond measure; but he wasn't good at lying and betraying and cheating, which all came to her as naturally as breathing. When she thought of that, she felt warm and virtuous, because she did it for Will, never for herself. She had intended to look at the alethiometer again, but to her deep surprise she found herself as weary as if she'd been awake all that time instead of unconscious, and she lay down close by and closed her eyes, just for a brief nap, as she assured herself before she fell asleep.

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Know What It Is

Will and Lyra slept through the night and woke up when the sun struck their eyelids. They actually awoke within seconds of each other, with the same thought; but when they looked around, the Chevalier Tialys was calmly on guard close by. "The force of the Consistorial Court has retreated," he told them. "Mrs. Coulter is in the hands of King Ogunwe, and on her way to Lord Asriel." "How do you know?" said Will, sitting up stiffly. "Have you been back through the window?" "No. We talk through the lodestone resonator. I reported our conversation," Tialys said to Lyra, "to my commander, Lord Roke, and he has agreed that we should go with you to the bear, and that once you have seen him, you will come with us. So we are allies, and we shall help you as much as we can." "Good," said Will. "Then let's eat together. Do you eat our food?" "Thank you, yes," said the Lady. Will took out his last few dried peaches and the stale flat loaf of rye bread, which was all he had left, and shared it among them, though of course the spies did not take much. "As for water, there doesn't seem to be any around here on this world," Will said. "We'll have to wait till we go back through before we can have a drink." "Then we better do that soon," said Lyra. First, though, she took out the alethiometer and asked if there was still any danger in the valley. No, came the answer, all the soldiers have gone, and the villagers are in their homes; so they prepared to leave. The window looked strange in the dazzling air of the desert, giving onto the deep-shaded bush, a square of thick green vegetation hanging in the air like a painting. The Gallivespians wanted to look at it, and were astounded to see how it was just not there from the back, and how it only sprang into being when you came round from the side. "I'll have to close it once we're through," Will said. Lyra tried to pinch the edges together after they went through, but her fingers couldn't find it at all; nor could the spies, despite the fineness of their hands. Only Will could feel exactly where the edges were, and he did it cleanly and quickly. "How many worlds can you enter with the knife?" said Tialys. "As many as there are," said Will. "No one would ever have time to find out." He swung his rucksack up and led the way along the forest path. The dragonflies relished the fresh, moist air and darted like needles through the shafts of sunlight. The movement of the trees above was less violent, and the air was cool and tranquil; so it was all the more shocking to see the twisted wreckage of a gyropter suspended among the branches, with the body of its African pilot, tangled in his seat belt, half out of the door, and to find the charred remains of the zeppelin a little farther up - soot-black strips of cloth, blackened struts and pipe work, broken glass, and then the bodies: three men burned to cinders, their limbs contorted and drawn up as if they were still threatening to fight. And they were only the ones who had fallen near the path. There were other bodies and more wreckage on the cliff above and among the trees farther down. Shocked and silenced, the two children moved through the carnage, while the spies on their dragonflies looked around more coolly, accustomed to battle, noting how it had gone and who had lost most. When they reached the top of the valley, where the trees thinned out and the rainbow-waterfalls began, they stopped to drink deeply of the ice-cold water. "I hope that little girl's all right," said Will. "We'd never have got you away if she hadn't woken you up. She went to a holy man to get that powder specially." "She is all right," said Lyra, " 'cause I asked the alethiometer, last night. She thinks we're devils, though. She's afraid of us. She probably wishes she'd never got mixed up in it, but she's safe all right." They climbed up beside the waterfalls and refilled Will's canteen before striking off across the plateau toward the ridge where the alethiometer told Lyra that Iorek had gone. And then there came a day of long, hard walking: no trouble for Will, but a torment to Lyra, whose limbs were weakened and softened after her long sleep. But she would sooner have her tongue torn out than confess how bad she felt; limping, tight-lipped, trembling, she kept pace with Will and said nothing. Only when they sat down at noon did she allow herself so much as a whimper, and then only when Will had gone apart to relieve himself. The Lady Salmakia said, "Rest. There is no disgrace in being weary." "But I don't want to let Will down! I don't want him to think I'm weak and holding him back." "That's the last thing he thinks." "You don't know," said Lyra rudely. "You don't know him any more than you know me." "I know impertinence when I hear it," said the Lady calmly. "Do as I tell you now and rest. Save your energy for the walking." Lyra felt mutinous, but the Lady's glittering spurs were very clear in the sunlight, so she said nothing. The Lady's companion, the Chevalier, was opening the case of the lodestone resonator, and, curiosity overcoming resentment, Lyra watched to see what he did. The instrument looked like a short length of pencil made of dull gray-black stone, resting on a stand of wood, and the Chevalier swept a tiny bow like a violinist's across the end while he pressed his fingers at various points along the surface. The places weren't marked, so he seemed to be touching it at random, but from the intensity of his expression and the certain fluency of his movements, Lyra knew it was as skillful and demanding a process as her own reading of the alethiometer. After several minutes the spy put the bow away and took up a pair of headphones, the earpieces no larger than Lyra's little fingernail, and wrapped one end of the wire tightly around a peg in the end of the stone, leading the rest along to another peg at the other end and wrapping it around that. By manipulating the two pegs and the tension on the wire between them, he could obviously hear a response to his own message. "How does that work?" she said when he'd finished. Tialys looked at her as if to judge whether she was genuinely interested, and then said, "Your scientists, what do you call them, experimental theologians, would know of something called quantum entanglement. It means that two particles can exist that only have properties in common, so that whatever happens to one happens to the other at the same moment, no matter how far apart they are. Well, in our world there is a way of taking a common lodestone and entangling all its particles, and then splitting it in two so that both parts resonate together. The counterpart to this is with Lord Roke, our commander. When I play on this one with my bow, the other one reproduces the sounds exactly, and so we communicate." He put everything away and said something to the Lady. She joined him and they went a little apart, talking too quietly for Lyra to hear, though Pantalaimon became an owl and turned his great ears in their direction. Presently Will came back and then they moved on, more slowly as the day went by and the track got steeper and the snow line nearer. They rested once more at the head of a rocky valley, because even Will could tell that Lyra was nearly finished: she was limping badly and her face was gray. "Let me see your feet," he said to her, "because if they're blistered, I'll put some ointment on." They were, badly, and she let him rub in the bloodmoss salve, closing her eyes and gritting her teeth. Meanwhile, the Chevalier was busy, and after a few minutes he put his lodestone away and said, "I have told Lord Roke of our position, and they are sending a gyropter to bring us away as soon as you have spoken to your friend." Will nodded. Lyra took no notice. Presently she sat up wearily and pulled on her socks and shoes, and they set off once more. Another hour, and most of the valley was in shadow, and Will was wondering whether they would find any shelter before night fell; but then Lyra gave a cry of relief and joy. "Iorek! Iorek!" She had seen him before Will had. The bear-king was some way off still, his white coat indistinct against a patch of snow, but when Lyra's voice echoed out he turned his head, raised it to sniff, and bounded down the mountainside toward them. Ignoring Will, he let Lyra clasp his neck and bury her face in his fur, growling so deep that Will felt it through his feet; but Lyra felt it as pleasure and forgot her blisters and her weariness in a moment. "Oh, Iorek, my dear, I'm so glad to see you! I never thought I'd ever see you again - after that time on Svalbard - and all the things that've happened, is Mr. Scoresby safe? How's your kingdom? Are you all alone here?" The little spies had vanished; at all events, there seemed to be only the three of them now on the darkening mountainside, the boy and the girl and the great white bear. As if she had never wanted to be anywhere else, Lyra climbed up as Iorek offered his back and rode proud and happy as her dear friend carried her up the last stretch of the way to his cave. Will, preoccupied, didn't listen as Lyra talked to Iorek, though he did hear a cry of dismay at one point, and heard her say: "Mr. Scoresby - oh no! Oh, it's too cruel! Really dead? You're sure, Iorek?" "The witch told me he set out to find the man called Grumman," said the bear. Will listened more closely now, for Baruch and Balthamos had told him some of this. "What happened? Who killed him?" said Lyra, her voice shaky. "He died fighting. He kept a whole company of Muscovites at bay while the man escaped. I found his body. He died bravely. I shall avenge him." Lyra was weeping freely, and Will didn't know what to say, for it was his father whom this unknown man had died to save; and Lyra and the bear had both known and loved Lee Scoresby, and he had not. Soon Iorek turned aside and made for the entrance to a cave, very dark against the snow. Will didn't know where the spies were, but he was perfectly sure they were nearby. He wanted to speak quietly to Lyra, but not till he could see the Gallivespians and know he wasn't being overheard. He laid his rucksack in the cave mouth and sat down wearily. Behind him the bear was kindling a fire, and Lyra watched, curious despite her sorrow. Iorek held a small rock of some sort of ironstone in his left forepaw and struck it no more than three or four times on a similar one on the floor. Each time a scatter of sparks burst out and went exactly where Iorek directed them: into a heap of shredded twigs and dried grass. Very soon that was ablaze, and Iorek calmly placed one log and then another and another until the fire was burning strongly. The children welcomed it, because the air was very cold now, and then came something even better: a haunch of something that might have been goat. Iorek ate his meat raw, of course, but he spitted its joint on a sharp stick and laid it to roast across the fire for the two of them. "Is it easy, hunting up in these mountains, Iorek?" she said. "No. My people can't live here. I was wrong, but luckily so, since I found you. What are your plans now?" Will looked around the cave. They were sitting close to the fire, and the firelight threw warm yellows and oranges on the bear-king's fur. Will could see no sign of the spies, but there was nothing for it: he had to ask. "King Iorek," he began, "my knife is broken - " Then he looked past the bear and said, "No, wait." He was pointing at the wall. "If you're listening," he went on more loudly, "come out and do it honestly. Don't spy on us." Lyra and Iorek Byrnison turned to see who he was talking to. The little man came out of the shadow and stood calmly in the light, on a ledge higher than the children's heads, Iorek growled. "You haven't asked Iorek Byrnison for permission to enter his cave," Will said. "And he is a king, and you're just a spy. You should show more respect." Lyra loved hearing that. She looked at Will with pleasure, and saw him fierce and contemptuous. But the Chevalier's expression, as he looked at Will, was displeased. "We have been truthful with you," he said. "It was dishonorable to deceive us." Will stood up. His daemon, Lyra thought, would have the form of a tigress, and she shrank back from the anger she imagined the great animal to show. "If we deceived you, it was necessary," he said. "Would you have agreed to come here if you knew the knife was broken? Of course you wouldn't. You'd have used your venom to make us unconscious, and then you'd have called for help and had us kidnapped and taken to Lord Asriel. So we had to trick you, Tialys, and you'll just have to put up with it." Iorek Byrnison said, "Who is this?" "Spies," said Will. "Sent by Lord Asriel. They helped us escape yesterday, but if they're on our side, they shouldn't hide and eavesdrop on us. And if they do, they're the last people who should talk about dishonor." The spy's glare was so ferocious that he looked ready to take on Iorek himself, never mind the unarmed Will; but Tialys was in the wrong, and he knew it. All he could do was bow and apologize. "Your Majesty," he said to Iorek, who growled at once. The Chevalier's eyes flashed hatred at Will, and defiance and warning at Lyra, and a cold and wary respect at Iorek. The clarity of his features made all these expressions vivid and bright, as if a light shone on him. Beside him the Lady Salmakia was emerging from the shadow, and, ignoring the children completely, she made a curtsy to the bear. "Forgive us," she said to Iorek. "The habit of concealment is hard to break, and my companion, the Chevalier Tialys, And I, the Lady Salmakia, have been among our enemies for so long that out of pure habit we neglected to pay you the proper courtesy. We're accompanying this boy and girl to make sure they arrive safely in the care of Lord Asriel. We have no other aim, and certainly no harmful intention toward you, King Iorek Byrnison." If Iorek wondered how any such tiny beings could cause him harm, he didn't show it; not only was his expression naturally hard to read, but he had his courtesy, too, and the Lady had spoken graciously enough. "Come down by the fire," he said. "There is food enough and plenty if you are hungry. Will, you began to speak about the knife." "Yes," said Will, "and I thought it could never happen, but it's broken. And the alethiometer told Lyra that you'd be able to mend it. I was going to ask more politely, but there it is: can you mend it, Iorek?" "Show me." Will shook all the pieces out of the sheath and laid them on the rocky floor, pushing them about carefully until they were in their right places and he could see that they were all there. Lyra held a burning branch up, and in its light Iorek bent low to look closely at each piece, touching it delicately with his massive claws and lifting it up to turn it this way and that and examine the break. Will marveled at the deftness in those huge black hooks. Then Iorek sat up again, his head rearing high into the shadow. "Yes," he said, answering exactly the question and no more. Lyra said, knowing what he meant, "Ah, but will you, Iorek? You couldn't believe how important this is - if we can't get it mended then we're in desperate trouble, and not only us - " "I don't like that knife," Iorek said. "I fear what it can do. I have never known anything so dangerous. The most deadly fighting machines are little toys compared to that knife; the harm it can do is unlimited. It would have been infinitely better if it had never been made." "But with it - " began Will. Iorek didn't let him finish, but went on, "With it you can do strange things. What you don't know is what the knife does on its own. Your intentions may be good. The knife has intentions, too." "How can that be?" said Will. "The intentions of a tool are what it does. A hammer intends to strike, a vise intends to hold fast, a lever intends to lift. They are what it is made for. But sometimes a tool may have other uses that you don't know. Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends, without knowing. Can you see the sharpest edge of that knife?" "No," said Will, for it was true: the edge diminished to a thinness so fine that the eye could not reach it. "Then how can you know everything it does?" "I can't. But I must still use it, and do what I can to help good things come about. If I did nothing, I'd be worse than useless. I'd be guilty." Lyra was following this closely, and seeing Iorek still unwilling, she said: "Iorek, you know how wicked those Bolvangar people were. If we can't win, then they're going to be able to carry on doing those kind of things forever. And besides, if we don't have the knife, then they might get hold of it themselves. We never knew about it when I first met you, Iorek, and nor did anyone, but now that we do, we got to use it ourselves, we can't just not. That'd be feeble, and it'd be wrong, too, it'd be just like handing it over to 'em and saying, 'Go on, use it, we won't stop you.' All right, we don't know what it does, but I can ask the alethiometer, can't I? Then we'd know. And we could think about it properly, instead of just guessing and being afraid." Will didn't want to mention his own most pressing reason: if the knife was not repaired, he might never get home, never see his mother again; she would never know what had happened; she'd think he'd abandoned her as his father had done. The knife would have been directly responsible for both their desertions. He must use it to return to her, or never forgive himself. Iorek Byrnison said nothing for a long time, but turned his head to look out at the darkness. Then he slowly got to his feet and stalked to the cave mouth, and looked up at the stars: some the same as those he knew, from the north, and some that were strange to him. Behind him, Lyra turned the meat over on the fire, and Will looked at his wounds, to see how they were healing. Tialys and Salmakia sat silent on their ledge. Then Iorek turned around. "Very well, I shall do it on one condition," he said. "Though I feel it is a mistake. My people have no gods, no ghosts or daemons. We live and die and that is that. Human affairs bring us nothing but sorrow and trouble, but we have language and we make war and we use tools; maybe we should take sides. But full knowledge is better than half-knowledge. Lyra, read your instrument. Know what it is that you're asking. If you still want it then, I shall mend the knife." At once Lyra took out the alethiometer and edged nearer to the fire so that she could see the face. The reading took her longer than usual, and when she blinked and sighed and came out of the trance, her face was troubled. "I never known it so confused," she said. "There was lots of things it said. I think I got it clear. I think so. It said about balance first. It said the knife could be harmful or it could do good, but it was so slight, such a delicate kind of a balance, that the faintest thought or wish could tip it one way or the other... And it meant you, Will, it meant what you wished or thought, only it didn't say what would be a good thought or a bad one. "Then... it said yes," she said, her eyes flashing at the spies. "It said yes, do it, repair the knife." Iorek looked at her steadily and then nodded once. Tialys and Salmakia climbed down to watch more closely, and Lyra said, "D'you need more fuel, Iorek? Me and Will could go and fetch some, I'm sure." Will understood what she meant: away from the spies they could talk. Iorek said, "Below the first spur on the track, there is a bush with resinous wood. Bring as much of that as you can." She jumped up at once, and Will went with her. The moon was brilliant, the path a track of scumbled footprints in the snow, the air cutting and cold. Both of them felt brisk and hopeful and alive. They didn't talk till they were well away from the cave. "What else did it say?" Will said. "It said some things I didn't understand then and I still don't understand now. It said the knife would be the death of Dust, but then it said it was the only way to keep Dust alive. I didn't understand it, Will. But it said again it was dangerous, it kept saying that. It said if we - you know - what I thought - " "If we go to the world of the dead - " "Yeah - if we do that - it said that we might never come back, Will. We might not survive." He said nothing, and they walked along more soberly now, watching out for the bush that Iorek had mentioned, and silenced by the thought of what they might be taking on. "We've got to, though," he said, "haven't we?" "I don't know." "Now we know, I mean. You have to speak to Roger, and I want to speak to my father. We have to, now." "I'm frightened," she said. And he knew she'd never admit that to anyone else. "Did it say what would happen if we didn't?" he asked. "Just emptiness, just blankness. I really didn't understand it, Will. But I think it meant that even if it is that dangerous, we should still try and rescue Roger. But it won't be like when I rescued him from Bolvangar; I didn't know what I was doing then, really, I just set off, and I was lucky. I mean there was all kinds of other people to help, like the gyptians and the witches. There won't be any help where we'd have to go. And I can see... In my dream I saw... The place was... It was worse than Bolvangar. That's why I'm afraid." "What I'm afraid of," said Will after a minute, not looking at her at all, "is getting stuck somewhere and never seeing my mother again." From nowhere a memory came to him: he was very young, and it was before her troubles began, and he was ill. All night long, it seemed, his mother had sat on his bed in the dark, singing nursery rhymes, telling him stories, and as long as her dear voice was there, he knew he was safe. He couldn't abandon her now. He couldn't! He'd look after her all his life long if she needed it. And as if Lyra had known what he was thinking, she said warmly: "Yeah, that's true, that would be awful... You know, with my mother, I never realized... I just grew up on my own, really; I don't remember anyone ever holding me or cuddling me, it was just me and Pan as far back as I can go... I can't remember Mrs. Lonsdale being like that to me; she was the housekeeper at Jordan College, all she did was make sure I was clean, that's all she thought about... oh, and manners... But in the cave, Will, I really felt - oh, it's strange, I know she's done terrible things, but I really felt she was loving me and looking after me... She must have thought I was going to die, being asleep all that time - I suppose I must've caught some disease - but she never stopped looking after me. And I remember waking up once or twice and she was holding me in her arms... I do remember that, I'm sure...That's what I'd do in her place, if I had a child." So she didn't know why she'd been asleep all that time. Should he tell her, and betray that memory, even if it was false? No, of course he shouldn't. "Is that the bush?" Lyra said. The moonlight was brilliant enough to show every leaf. Will snapped off a twig, and the piney resinous smell stayed strongly on his fingers. "And we en't going to say anything to those little spies," she added. They gathered armfuls of the bush and carried them back up toward the cave.

[readbookywooks]

The Suburbs Of The Dead

Lyra was awake before dawn, with Pantalaimon shivering at her breast, and she got up to walk about and warm herself up as the gray light seeped into the sky. She had never known such silence, not even in the snow-blanketed Arctic; there was not a stir of wind, and the sea was so still that not the tiniest ripple broke on the sand; the world seemed suspended between breathing in and breathing out. Will lay curled up fast asleep, with his head on the rucksack to protect the knife. The cloak had fallen off his shoulder, and she tucked it around him, pretending that she was taking care to avoid his daemon, and that she had the form of a cat, curled up just as he was. She must be here somewhere, Lyra thought. Carrying the still sleepy Pantalaimon, she walked away from Will and sat down on the slope of a sand dune a little way off, so their voices wouldn't wake him. "Those little people," Pantalaimon said. "I don't like 'em," said Lyra decisively. "I think we should get away from 'em as soon as we can. I reckon if we trap 'em in a net or something, Will can cut through and close up and that's it, we'll be free." "We haven't got a net," he said, "or something. Anyway, I bet they're cleverer than that. He's watching us now." Pantalaimon was a hawk as he said that, and his eyes were keener than hers. The darkness of the sky was turning minute by minute into the palest ethereal blue, and as she looked across the sand, the first edge of the sun just cleared the rim of the sea, dazzling her. Because she was on the slope of the dune, the light reached her a few seconds before it touched the beach, and she watched it flow around her and along toward Will; and then she saw the hand-high figure of the Chevalier Tialys, standing by Will's head, clear and wide awake and watching them. "The thing is," said Lyra, "they can't make us do what they want. They got to follow us. I bet they're fed up." "If they got hold of us," said Pantalaimon, meaning him and Lyra, "and got their stings ready to stick in us, Will'd have to do what they said." Lyra thought about it. She remembered vividly the horrible scream of pain from Mrs. Coulter, the eye-rolling convulsions, the ghastly, lolling drool of the golden monkey as the poison entered her bloodstream... And that was only a scratch, as her mother had recently been reminded elsewhere. Will would have to give in and do what they wanted. "Suppose they thought he wouldn't, though," she said, "suppose they thought he was so coldhearted he'd just watch us die. Maybe he better make 'em think that, if he can." She had brought the alethiometer with her, and now that it was light enough to see, she took the beloved instrument out and laid it on its black velvet cloth in her lap. Little by little, Lyra drifted into that trance in which the many layers of meaning were clear to her, and where she could sense intricate webs of connectedness between them all. As her fingers found the symbols, her mind found the words: How can we get rid of the spies? Then the needle began to dart this way and that, almost too fast to see, and some part of Lyra's awareness counted the swings and the stops and saw at once the meaning of what the movement said. It told her: Do not try, because your lives depend on them. That was a surprise, and not a happy one. But she went on and asked: How can we get to the land of the dead? The answer came: Go down. Follow the knife. Go onward. Follow the knife. And finally she asked hesitantly, half-ashamed: Is this the right thing to do? Yes, said the alethiometer instantly. Yes. She sighed, coming out of her trance, and tucked the hair behind her ears, feeling the first warmth of the sun on her face and shoulders. There were sounds in the world now, too: insects were stirring, and a very slight breeze was rustling the dry grass stems growing higher up the dune. She put the alethiometer away and wandered back to Will, with Pantalaimon as large as he could make himself and lion-shaped, in the hope of daunting the Gallivespians. The man was using his lodestone apparatus, and when he'd finished, Lyra said: "You been talking to Lord Asriel?" "To his representative," said Tialys. "We en't going." "That's what I told him." "What did he say?" "That was for my ears, not yours." "Suit yourself," she said. "Are you married to that lady?" "No. We are colleagues." "Have you got any children?" "No." Tialys continued to pack the lodestone resonator away, and as he did so, the Lady Salmakia woke up nearby, sitting up graceful and slow from the little hollow she'd made in the soft sand. The dragonflies were still asleep, tethered with cobweb-thin cord, their wings damp with dew. "Are there big people on your world, or are they all small like you?" Lyra said. "We know how to deal with big people," Tialys replied, not very helpfully, and went to talk quietly to the Lady. They spoke too softly for Lyra to hear, but she enjoyed watching them sip dewdrops from the marram grass to refresh themselves. Water must be different for them, she thought to Pantalaimon: imagine drops the size of your fist! They'd be hard to get into; they'd have a sort of elastic rind, like a balloon. By this time Will was waking, too, wearily. The first thing he did was to look for the Gallivespians, who looked back at once, fully focused on him. He looked away and found Lyra. "I want to tell you something," she said. "Come over here, away from - " "If you go away from us," said Tialys's clear voice, "you must leave the knife. If you won't leave the knife, you must talk to each other here." "Can't we be private?" Lyra said indignantly. "We don't want you listening to what we say!" "Then go away, but leave the knife." There was no one else nearby, after all, and certainly the Gallivespians wouldn't be able to use it. Will rummaged in the rucksack for the water bottle and a couple of biscuits, and handing one to Lyra, he went with her up the slope of the dune. "I asked the alethiometer," she told him, "and it said we shouldn't try and escape from the little people, because they were going to save our lives. So maybe we're stuck with 'em." "Have you told them what we're going to do?" "No! And I won't, either. 'Cause they'll only tell Lord Asriel on that speaking-fiddle and he'd go there and stop us - so we got to just go, and not talk about it in front of them." "They are spies, though," Will pointed out. "They must be good at listening and hiding. So maybe we better not mention it at all. We know where we're going. So we'll just go and not talk about it, and they'll have to put up with it and come along." "They can't hear us now. They're too far off. Will, I asked how we get there, too. It said to follow the knife, just that." "Sounds easy," he said. "But I bet it isn't. D'you know what Iorek told me?" "No. He said - when I went to say good-bye - he said it would be very difficult for you, but he thought you could do it. But he never told me why..." "The knife broke because I thought of my mother," he explained. "So I've got to put her out of my mind. But... it's like when someone says don't think about a crocodile, you do, you can't help it..." "Well, you cut through last night all right," she said. "Yeah, because I was tired, I think. Well, we'll see. Just follow the knife?" "That's all it said." "Might as well go now, then. Except there's not much food left. We ought to find something to take with us, bread and fruit or something. So first I'll find a world where we can get food, and then we'll start looking properly." "All right," said Lyra, quite happy to be moving again, with Pan and Will, alive and awake. They made their way back to the spies, who were sitting alertly by the knife, packs on their backs. "We should like to know what you intend," said Salmakia. "Well, we're not coming to Lord Asriel anyway," said Will. "We've got something else to do first." "And will you tell us what that is, since it's clear we can't stop you from doing it?" "No," said Lyra, "because you'd just go and tell them. You'll have to come along without knowing where we're going. Of course you could always give up and go back to them." "Certainly not," said Tialys. "We want some kind of guarantee," said Will. "You're spies, so you're bound to be dishonest, that's your trade. We need to know we can trust you. Last night we were all too tired and we couldn't think about it, but there'd be nothing to stop you waiting till we were asleep and then stinging us to make us helpless and calling up Lord Asriel on that lodestone thing. You could do that easily. So we need to have a proper guarantee that you won't. A promise isn't enough." The two Gallivespians trembled with anger at this slur on their honor. Tialys, controlling himself, said, "We don't accept one-sided demands. You must give something in exchange. You must tell us what your intentions are, and then I shall give the lodestone resonator into your care. You must let me have it when I want to send a message, but you will always know when that happens, and we shall not be able to use it without your agreement. That will be our guarantee. And now you tell us where you are going, and why." Will and Lyra exchanged a glance to confirm it. "All right," Lyra said, "that's fair. So here's where we're going: we're going to the world of the dead. We don't know where it is, but the knife'll find it. That's what we're going to do." The two spies were looking at her with openmouthed incredulity. Then Salmakia blinked and said, "What you say doesn't make sense. The dead are dead, that's all. There is no world of the dead." "I thought that was true, as well," said Will. "But now I'm not sure. At least with the knife we can find out." "But why?" Lyra looked at Will and saw him nod. "Well," she said, "before I met Will, long before I was asleep, I led this friend into danger, and he was killed. I thought I was rescuing him, only I was making things worse. And while I was asleep I dreamed of him and I thought maybe I could make amends if I went where he's gone and said I was sorry. And Will wants to find his father, who died just when he found him before. See, Lord Asriel wouldn't think of that. Nor would Mrs. Coulter. If we went to him we'd have to do what he wants, and he wouldn't think of Roger at all - that's my friend who died - it wouldn't matter to him. But it matters to me. To us. So that's what we want to do." "Child," said Tialys, "when we die, everything is over. There is no other life. You have seen death. You've seen dead bodies, and you've seen what happens to a daemon when death comes. It vanishes. What else can there be to live on after that?" "We're going to go and find out," said Lyra. "And now we've told you, I'll take your resonator lodestone." She held out her hand, and leopard-Pantalaimon stood, tail swinging slowly, to reinforce her demand. Tialys unslung the pack from his back and laid it in her palm. It was surprisingly heavy - no burden for her, of course, but she marveled at his strength. "And how long do you think this expedition will take?" said the Chevalier. "We don't know," Lyra told him. "We don't know anything about it, any more than you do. We'll just go there and see." "First thing," Will said, "we've got to get some water and some more food, something easy to carry. So I'm going to find a world where we can do that, and then we'll set off." Tialys and Salmakia mounted their dragonflies and held them quivering on the ground. The great insects were eager for flight, but the command of their riders was absolute, and Lyra, watching them in daylight for the first time, saw the extraordinary fineness of the gray silk reins, the silvery stirrups, the tiny saddles. Will took the knife, and a powerful temptation made him feel for the touch of his own world: he had the credit card still; he could buy familiar food; he could even telephone Mrs. Cooper and ask for news of his mother - The knife jarred with a sound like a nail being drawn along rough stone, and his heart nearly stopped. If he broke the blade again, it would be the end. After a few moments he tried again. Instead of trying not to think of his mother, he said to himself: Yes, I know she's there, but I'm just going to look away while I do this... And that time it worked. He found a new world and slid the knife along to make an opening, and a few moments later all of them were standing in what looked like a neat and prosperous farmyard in some northern country like Holland or Denmark, where the stone-flagged yard was swept and clean and a row of stable doors stood open. The sun shone down through a hazy sky, and there was the smell of burning in the air, as well as something less pleasant. There was no sound of human life, though a loud buzzing, so active and vigorous that it sounded like a machine, came from the stables. Lyra went and looked, and came back at once, looking pale. "There's four"¨C she gulped, hand to her throat, and recovered - "four dead horses in there. And millions of flies..." "Look," said Will, swallowing, "or maybe better not." He was pointing at the raspberry canes that edged the kitchen garden. He'd just seen a man's legs, one with a shoe on and one without, protruding from the thickest part of the bushes. Lyra didn't want to look, but Will went to see if the man was still alive and needed help. He came back shaking his head, looking uneasy. The two spies were already at the farmhouse door, which was ajar. Tialys darted back and said, "It smells sweeter in there," and then he flew back over the threshold while Salmakia scouted further around the outbuildings. Will followed the Chevalier. He found himself in a big square kitchen, an old-fashioned place with white china on a wooden dresser, and a scrubbed pine table, and a hearth where a black kettle stood cold. Next door there was a pantry, with two shelves full of apples that filled the whole room with fragrance. The silence was oppressive. Lyra said quietly, "Will, is this the world of the dead?" The same thought had occurred to him. But he said, "No, I don't think so. It's one we haven't been in before. Look, we'll load up with as much as we can carry. There's sort of rye bread, that'll be good - it's light - and here's some cheese..." When they had taken what they could carry, Will dropped a gold coin into the drawer in the big pine table. "Well?" said Lyra, seeing Tialys raise his eyebrows. "You should always pay for what you take." At that moment Salmakia came in through the back door, landing her dragonfly on the table in a shimmer of electric blue. "There are men coming," she said, "on foot, with weapons. They're only a few minutes' walk away. And there is a village burning beyond the fields." And as she spoke, they could hear the sound of boots on gravel, and a voice issuing orders, and the jingle of metal. "Then we should go," said Will. He felt in the air with the knifepoint. And at once he was aware of a new kind of sensation. The blade seemed to be sliding along a very smooth surface, like a mirror, and then it sank through slowly until he was able to cut. But it was resistant, like heavy cloth, and when he made an opening, he blinked with surprise and alarm: because the world he was opening into was the same in every detail as the one they were already standing in. "What's happening?" said Lyra. The spies were looking through, puzzled. But it was more than puzzlement they felt. Just as the air had resisted the knife, so something in this opening resisted their going through. Will had to push against something invisible and then pull Lyra after him, and the Gallivespians could hardly make any headway at all. They had to perch the dragonflies on the children's hands, and even then it was like pulling them against a pressure in the air; their filmy wings bent and twisted, and the little riders had to stroke their mounts' heads and whisper to calm their fears. But after a few seconds of struggle, they were all through, and Will found the edge of the window (though it was impossible to see) and closed it, shutting the sound of the soldiers away in their own world. "Will," said Lyra, and he turned to see that there was another figure in the kitchen with them. His heart jolted. It was the man he'd seen not ten minutes before, stark dead in the bushes with his throat cut. He was middle-aged, lean, with the look of a man who spent most of the time in the open air. But now he was looking almost crazed, or paralyzed, with shock. His eyes were so wide that the white showed all around the iris, and he was clutching the edge of the table with a trembling hand. His throat, Will was glad to see, was intact. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. All he could do was point at Will and Lyra. Lyra said, "Excuse us for being in your house, but we had to escape from the men who were coming. I'm sorry if we startled you. I'm Lyra, and this is Will, and these are our friends, the Chevalier Tialys and the Lady Salmakia. Could you tell us your name and where we are?" This normal-sounding request seemed to bring the man to his senses, and a shudder passed over him, as if he were waking from a dream. "I'm dead," he said. "I'm lying out there, dead. I know I am. You ain't dead. What's happening? God help me, they cut my throat. What's happening?" Lyra stepped closer to Will when the man said I'm dead, and Pantalaimon fled to her breast as a mouse. As for the Gallivespians, they were trying to control their dragonflies, because the great insects seemed to have an aversion for the man and darted here and there in the kitchen, looking for a way out. But the man didn't notice them. He was still trying to understand what had happened. "Are you a ghost?" Will said cautiously. The man reached out his hand, and Will tried to take it, but his fingers closed on the air. A tingle of cold was all he felt. When he saw it happen, the man looked at his own hand, appalled. The numbness was beginning to wear off, and he could feel the pity of his state. "Truly," he said, "I am dead...I'm dead, and I'm going to Hell..." "Hush," said Lyra, "we'll go together. What's your name?" "Dirk Jansen I was," he said, "but already I... I don't know what to do...Don't know where to go..." Will opened the door. The barnyard looked the same, the kitchen garden was unchanged, the same hazy sun shone down. And there was the man's body, untouched. A little groan broke from Dirk Jansen's throat, as if there were no denying it anymore. The dragonflies darted out of the door and skimmed over the ground and then shot up high, faster than birds. The man was looking around helplessly, raising his hands, lowering them again, uttering little cries. "I can't stay here...Can't stay," he was saying. "But this ain't the farm I knew. This is wrong. I got to go..." "Where are you going, Mr. Jansen?" said Lyra. "Down the road. Dunno. Got to go. Can't stay here..." Salmakia flew down to perch on Lyra's hand. The dragonfly's little claws pricked as the Lady said, "There are people walking from the village - people like this man - all walking in the same direction." "Then we'll go with them," said Will, and swung his rucksack over his shoulder. Dirk Jansen was already passing his own body, averting his eyes. He looked almost as if he were drunk, stopping, moving on, wandering to left and right, stumbling over little ruts and stones on the path his living feet had known so well. Lyra came after Will, and Pantalaimon became a kestrel and flew up as high as he could, making Lyra gasp. "They're right," he said when he came down. "There's lines of people all coming from the village. Dead people..." And soon they saw them, too: twenty or so men, women, and children, all moving as Dirk Jansen had done, uncertain and shocked. The village was half a mile away, and the people were coming toward them, close together in the middle of the road. When Dirk Jansen saw the other ghosts, he broke into a stumbling run, and they held out their hands to greet him. "Even if they don't know where they're going, they're all going there together," Lyra said. "We better just go with them." "D'you think they had daemons in this world?" said Will. "Can't tell. If you saw one of em in your world, would you know he was a ghost?" "It's hard to say. They don't look normal, exactly... There was a man I used to see in my town, and he used to walk about outside the shops always holding the same old plastic bag, and he never spoke to anyone or went inside. And no one ever looked at him. I used to pretend he was a ghost. They look a bit like him. Maybe my world's full of ghosts and I never knew." "I don't think mine is," said Lyra doubtfully. "Anyway, this must be the world of the dead. These people have just been killed - those soldiers must've done it - and here they are, and it's just like the world they were alive in. I thought it'd be a lot different..." "Will, it's fading," she said. "Look!" She was clutching his arm. He stopped and looked around, and she was right. Not long before he had found the window in Oxford and stepped through into the other world of Citt¨¤gazze, there had been an eclipse of the sun, and like millions of others Will had stood outside at midday and watched as the bright daylight faded and dimmed until a sort of eerie twilight covered the houses, the trees, the park. Everything was just as clear as in full daylight, but there was less light to see it by, as if all the strength were draining out of a dying sun. What was happening now was like that, but odder, because the edges of things were losing their definition as well and becoming blurred. "It's not like going blind, even," said Lyra, frightened, "because it's not that we can't see things, it's like the things themselves are fading..." The color was slowly seeping out of the world. A dim green gray for the bright green of the trees and the grass, a dim sand gray for the vivid yellow of a field of corn, a dim blood gray for the red bricks of a neat farmhouse... The people themselves, closer now, had begun to notice, too, and were pointing and holding one another's arms for reassurance. The only bright things in the whole landscape were the brilliant red-and-yellow and electric blue of the dragonflies, and their little riders, and Will and Lyra, and Pantalaimon, who was hovering kestrel-shaped close above. They were close to the first of the people now, and it was clear: they were all ghosts. Will and Lyra took a step toward each other, but there was nothing to fear, for the ghosts were far more afraid of them and were hanging back, unwilling to approach. Will called out, "Don't be afraid. We're not going to hurt you. Where are you going?" " They looked at the oldest man among them, as if he were their guide. "We're going where all the others go," he said. "Seems as if I know, but I can't remember learning it. Seems as if it's along the road. We'll know it when we get there." "Mama," said a child, "why's it getting dark in the daytime?" "Hush, dear, don't fret," the mother said. "Can't make anything better by fretting. We're dead, I expect." "But where are we going?" the child said. "I don't want to be dead, Mama!" "We're going to see Grandpa," the mother said desperately. But the child wouldn't be consoled and wept bitterly. Others in the group looked at the mother with sympathy or annoyance, but there was nothing they could do to help, and they all walked on disconsolately through the fading landscape as the child's thin cries went on, and on, and on. The Chevalier Tialys had spoken to Salmakia before skimming ahead, and Will and Lyra watched the dragonfly with eyes greedy for its brightness and vigor as it got smaller and smaller. The Lady flew down and perched her insect on Will's hand. "The Chevalier has gone to see what's ahead," she said. "We think the landscape is fading because these people are forgetting it. The farther they go away from their homes, the darker it will get." "But why d'you think they're moving?" Lyra said. "If I was a ghost I'd want to stay in the places I knew, not wander along and get lost." "They feel unhappy there," Will said, guessing. "It's where they've just died. They're afraid of it." "No, they're pulled onward by something," said the Lady. "Some instinct is drawing them down the road." And indeed the ghosts were moving more purposefully now that they were out of sight of their own village. The sky was as dark as if a mighty storm were threatening, but there was none of the electric tension that comes ahead of a storm. The ghosts walked on steadily, and the road ran straight ahead across a landscape that was almost featureless. From time to time one of them would glance at Will or Lyra, or at the brilliant dragonfly and its rider, as if they were curious. Finally the oldest man said: "You, you boy and girl. You ain't dead. You ain't ghosts. What you coming along here for?" "We came through by accident," Lyra told him before Will could speak. "I don't know how it happened. We were trying to escape from those men, and we just seemed to find ourselves here." "How will you know when you've got to the place where you've got to go?" said Will. "I expect we'll be told," said the ghost confidently. "They'll separate out the sinners and the righteous, I dare say. It's no good praying now. It's too late for that. You should have done that when you were alive. No use now." It was quite clear which group he expected to be in, and quite clear, too, that he thought it wouldn't be a big one. The other ghosts heard him uneasily, but he was all the guidance they had, so they followed without arguing. And on they walked, trudging in silence under a sky that had finally darkened to a dull iron gray and remained there without getting any darker. The living ones found themselves looking to their left and right, above and below, for anything that was bright or lively or joyful, and they were always disappointed until a little spark appeared ahead and raced toward them through the air. It was the Chevalier, and Salmakia urged her dragonfly ahead to meet him, with a cry of pleasure. They conferred and sped back to the children. "There's a town ahead," said Tialys. "It looks like a refugee camp, but it's obviously been there for centuries or more. And I think there's a sea or a lake beyond it, but that's covered in mist. I could hear the cries of birds. And there are hundreds of people arriving every minute, from every direction, people like these - ghosts..." The ghosts themselves listened as he spoke, though without much curiosity. They seemed to have settled into a dull trance, and Lyra wanted to shake them, to urge them to struggle and wake up and look around for a way out. "How are we going to help these people, Will?" she said. He couldn't even guess. As they moved on, they could see a movement on the horizon to the left and right, and ahead of them a dirty-colored smoke was rising slowly to add its darkness to the dismal air. The movement was people, or ghosts: in lines or pairs or groups or alone, but all empty-handed, hundreds and thousands of men and women and children were drifting over the plain toward the source of the smoke. The ground was sloping downward now, and becoming more and more like a rubbish dump. The air was heavy and full of smoke, and of other smells besides: acrid chemicals, decaying vegetable matter, sewage. And the farther down they went, the worse it got. There was not a patch of clean soil in sight, and the only plants growing anywhere were rank weeds and coarse grayish grass. Ahead of them, above the water, was the mist. It rose like a cliff to merge with the gloomy sky, and from somewhere inside it came those bird cries that Tialys had referred to. Between the waste heaps and the mist, there lay the first town of the dead.

[readbookywooks]

Morning

The wide golden prairie that Lee Scoresby's ghost had seen briefly through the window was lying quiet under the first sun of morning. Golden, but also yellow, brown, green, and every one of the million shades between them; and black, in places, in lines and streaks of bright pitch; and silvery, too, where the sun caught the tops of a particular kind of grass just coming into flower; and blue, where a wide lake some way off and a small pond closer by reflected back the wide blue of the sky. And quiet, but not silent, for a soft breeze rustled the billions of little stems, and a billion insects and other small creatures scraped and hummed and chirruped in the grass, and a bird too high in the blue to be seen sang little looping falls of bell notes now close by, now far off, and never twice the same. In all that wide landscape the only living things that were silent and still were the boy and the girl lying asleep, back to back, under the shade of an outcrop of rock at the top of a little bluff. They were so still, so pale, that they might have been dead. Hunger had drawn the skin over their faces, pain had left lines around their eyes, and they were covered in dust and mud and not a little blood. And from the absolute passivity of their limbs, they seemed in the last stages of exhaustion. Lyra was the first to wake. As the sun moved up the sky, it came past the rock above and touched her hair, and she began to stir, and when the sunlight reached her eyelids, she found herself pulled up from the depths of sleep like a fish, slow and heavy and resistant. But there was no arguing with the sun, and presently she moved her head and threw her arm across her eyes and murmured: "Pan - Pan..." Under the shadow of her arm, she opened her eyes and came properly awake. She didn't move for some time, because her arms and legs were so sore, and every part of her body felt limp with weariness; but still she was awake, and she felt the little breeze and the sun's warmth, and she heard the little insect scrapings and the bell song of that bird high above. It was all good. She had forgotten how good the world was. Presently she rolled over and saw Will, still fast asleep. His hand had bled a lot, his shirt was ripped and filthy, his hair was stiff with dust and sweat. She looked at him for a long time, at the little pulse in his throat, at his chest rising and falling slowly, at the delicate shadows his eyelashes made when the sun finally reached them. He murmured something and stirred. Not wanting to be caught looking at him, she looked the other way at the little grave they'd dug the night before, just a couple of hand spans wide, where the bodies of the Chevalier Tialys and the Lady Salmakia now lay at rest. There was a flat stone nearby; she got up and prized it loose from the soil, and set it upright at the head of the grave, and then sat up and shaded her eyes to gaze across the plain. It seemed to stretch forever and ever. It was nowhere entirely flat; gentle undulations and little ridges and gullies varied the surface wherever she looked, and here and there she saw a stand of trees so tall they seemed to be constructed rather than grown. Their straight trunks and dark green canopy seemed to defy distance, being so clearly visible at what must have been many miles away. Closer, though - in fact, at the foot of the bluff, not more than a hundred yards away - there was a little pond fed by a spring coming out of the rock, and Lyra realized how thirsty she was. She got up on shaky legs and walked slowly down toward it. The spring gurgled and trickled through mossy rocks, and she dipped her hands in it again and again, washing them clear of the mud and grime before lifting the water to her mouth. It was teeth-achingly cold, and she swallowed it with delight. The pond was fringed with reeds, where a frog was croaking. It was shallow and warmer than the spring, as she discovered when she took off her shoes and waded into it. She stood for a long time with the sun on her head and her body, relishing the cool mud under her feet and the cold flow of springwater around her calves. She bent down to dip her face under the water and wet her hair thoroughly, letting it trail out and flicking it back again, stirring it with her fingers to lift all the dust and grime out. When she felt a little cleaner and her thirst was satisfied, she looked up the slope again, to see that Will was awake. He was sitting with his knees drawn up and his arms across them, looking out across the plain as she'd done, and marveling at the extent of it. And at the light, and at the warmth, and at the quiet. She climbed slowly back to join him and found him cutting the names of the Gallivespians on the little headstone, and setting it more firmly in the soil. "Are they..." he said, and she knew he meant the daemons. "Don't know. I haven't seen Pan. I got the feeling he's not far away, but I don't know. D'you remember what happened?" He rubbed his eyes and yawned so deeply she heard little cracking noises in his jaw. Then he blinked and shook his head. "Not much," he said. "I picked up Pantalaimon and you picked up - the other one and we came through, and it was moonlight everywhere, and I put him down to close the window." "And your - the other daemon just jumped out of my arms," she said. "And I was trying to see Mr. Scoresby through the window, and Iorek, and to see where Pan had gone, and when I looked around, they just weren't there." "It doesn't feel like when we went into the world of the dead, though. Like when we were really separated." "No," she agreed. "They're somewhere near all right. I remember when we were young we used to try and play hide-and-seek, except it never really worked, because I was too big to hide from him and I always used to know exactly where he was, even if he was camouflaged as a moth or something. But this is strange," she said, passing her hands over her head involuntarily as if she were trying to dispel some enchantment. "He en't here, but I don't feel torn apart, I feel safe, and I know he is." "They're together, I think," Will said. "Yeah. They must be." He stood up suddenly. "Look," he said, "over there..." He was shading his eyes and pointing. She followed his gaze and saw a distant tremor of movement, quite different from the shimmer of the heat haze. "Animals?" she said doubtfully. "And listen," he said, putting his hand behind his ear. Now he'd pointed it out, she could hear a low, persistent rumble, almost like thunder, a very long way off. "They've disappeared," Will said, pointing. The little patch of moving shadows had vanished, but the rumble went on for a few moments. Then it became suddenly quieter, though it had been very quiet already. The two of them were still gazing in the same direction, and shortly afterward they saw the movement start up again. And a few moments later came the sound. "They went behind a ridge or something," said Will. "Are they closer?" "Can't really see. Yes, they're turning, look, they're coming this way." "Well, if we have to fight them, I want a drink first," said Will, and he took the rucksack down to the stream, where he drank deep and washed off most of the dirt. His wound had bled a lot. He was a mess; he longed for a hot shower with plenty of soap, and for some clean clothes. Lyra was watching the... whatever they were; they were very strange. "Will," she called, "they're riding on wheels..." But she said it uncertainly. He climbed back a little way up the slope and shaded his eyes to look. It was possible to see individuals now. The group, or herd, or gang, was about a dozen strong, and they were moving, as Lyra said, on wheels. They looked like a cross between antelopes and motorcycles, but they were stranger than that, even: they had trunks like small elephants. And they were making for Will and Lyra, with an air of intention. Will took out the knife, but Lyra, sitting on the grass beside him, was already turning the hands of the alethiometer. It responded quickly, while the creatures were still a few hundred yards away. The needle darted swiftly left and right, and left and left, and Lyra felt her mind dart to the meanings and land on them as lightly as a bird. "They're friendly," she said, "it's all right, Will, they're looking for us, they knew we were here... And it's odd, I can't quite make it out... Dr. Malone?" She said the name half to herself, because she couldn't believe Dr. Malone would be in this world. Still, the alethiometer indicated her clearly, although of course it couldn't give her name. Lyra put it away and stood up slowly beside Will. "I think we should go down to them," she said. "They en't going to hurt us." Some of them had stopped, waiting. The leader moved ahead a little, trunk raised, and they could see how he propelled himself with powerful backward strokes of his lateral limbs. Some of the creatures had gone to the pond to drink; the others waited, but not with the mild, passive curiosity of cows gathering at a gate. These were individuals, lively with intelligence and purpose. They were people. Will and Lyra moved down the slope until they were close enough to speak to them. In spite of what Lyra had said, Will kept his hand on the knife. "I don't know if you understand me," Lyra said cautiously, "but I know you're friendly. I think we should - " The leader moved his trunk and said, "Come see Mary. You ride. We carry. Come see Mary." "Oh!" she said, and turned to Will, smiling with delight. Two of the creatures were fitted with bridles and stirrups of braided cord. Not saddles; their diamond-shaped backs turned out to be comfortable enough without them. Lyra had ridden a bear, and Will had ridden a bicycle, but neither had ridden a horse, which was the closest comparison. However, riders of horses are usually in control, and the children soon found that they were not: the reins and the stirrups were there simply to give them something to hold on to and balance with. The creatures themselves made all the decisions. "Where are - " Will began to say, but had to stop and regain his balance as the creature moved under him. The group swung around and moved down the slight slope, going slowly through the grass. The movement was humpy, but not uncomfortable, because the creatures had no spine; Will and Lyra felt that they were sitting on chairs with a well-sprung seat. Soon they came to what they hadn't seen clearly from the bluff: one of those patches of black or dark brown ground. And they were as surprised to find roads of smooth rock lacing through the prairie as Mary Malone had been sometime before. The creatures rolled onto the surface and set off, soon picking up speed. The road was more like a watercourse than a highway. In places it broadened into wide areas like small lakes; and at others it split into narrow channels, only to combine again unpredictably. It was quite unlike the brutal, rational way roads in Will's world sliced through hillsides and leapt across valleys on bridges of concrete. This was part of the landscape, not an imposition on it. They were going faster and faster. It took Will and Lyra a while to get used to the living impulse of the muscles and the shuddering thunder of the hard wheels on the hard stone. Lyra found it more difficult than Will at first, because she had never ridden a bicycle, and she didn't know the trick of leaning into the corner; but she saw how he was doing it, and soon she was finding the speed exhilarating. The wheels made too much noise for them to speak. Instead, they had to point: at the trees, in amazement at their size and splendor; at a flock of birds, the strangest they had ever seen, their fore and aft wings giving them a twisting, screwing motion through the air; at a fat blue lizard as long as a horse basking in the very middle of the road (the wheeled creatures divided to ride on either side of it, and it took no notice at all). The sun was high in the sky when they began to slow down. And in the air, unmistakable, was the salt smell of the sea. The road was rising toward a bluff, and presently they were moving no faster than a walk. Lyra, stiff and sore, said, "Can you stop? I want to get off and walk." Her creature felt the tug at the bridle, and whether or not he understood her words, he came to a halt. Will's did, too, and both children climbed down, finding themselves stiff and shaken after the continued jolting and tensing. The creatures wheeled around to talk together, their trunks moving elegantly in time with the sounds they made. After a minute they moved on, and Will and Lyra were happy to walk among the hay-scented, grass-warm creatures who trundled beside them. One or two had gone on ahead to the top of the rise, and the children, now that they no longer had to concentrate on hanging on, were able to watch how they moved, and admire the grace and power with which they propelled themselves forward and leaned and turned. As they came to the top of the rise, they stopped, and Will and Lyra heard the leader say, "Mary close. Mary there." They looked down. On the horizon there was the blue gleam of the sea. A broad, slow-moving river wound through rich grassland in the middle distance, and at the foot of the long slope, among copses of small trees and rows of vegetables, stood a village of thatched houses. More creatures like these moved about among the houses, or tended crops, or worked among the trees. "Now ride again," said the leader. There wasn't far to go. Will and Lyra climbed up once more, and the other creatures looked closely at their balance and checked the stirrups with their trunks, as if to make sure they were safe. Then they set off, beating the road with their lateral limbs, and urging themselves forward down the slope until they were moving at a terrific pace. Will and Lyra clung tight with hands and knees. They felt the air whip past their faces, flinging their hair back and pressing on their eyeballs. The thundering of the wheels, the rush of the grassland on either side, the sure and powerful lean into the broad curve ahead, the clearheaded rapture of speed - the creatures loved this, and Will and Lyra felt their joy and laughed in happy response. They stopped in the center of the village, and the others, who had seen them coming, gathered around raising their trunks and speaking words of welcome. And then Lyra cried, "Dr. Malone!" Mary had come out of one of the huts, her faded blue shirt, her stocky figure, her warm, ruddy cheeks both strange and familiar. Lyra ran and embraced her, and the woman hugged her tight, and Will stood back, careful and doubtful. Mary kissed Lyra warmly and then came forward to welcome Will. And then came a curious little mental dance of sympathy and awkwardness, which took place in a second or less. Moved by compassion for the state they were in, Mary first meant to embrace him as well as Lyra. But Mary was grown up, and Will was nearly grown, and she could see that that kind of response would have made a child of him, because while she might have embraced a child, she would never have done that to a man she didn't know; so she drew back mentally, wanting above all to honor this friend of Lyra's and not cause him to lose face. So instead she held out her hand and he shook it, and a current of understanding and respect passed between them, so powerful that it became liking at once and each of them felt that they had made a lifelong friend, as indeed they had. "This is Will," said Lyra, "he's from your world - remember, I told you about him - " "I'm Mary Malone," she said, "and you're hungry, the pair of you, you look half-starved." She turned to the creature by her side and spoke some of those singing, hooting sounds, moving her arm as she did so. At once the creatures moved away, and some of them brought cushions and rugs from the nearest house and laid them on the firm soil under a tree nearby, whose dense leaves and low-hanging branches gave a cool and fragrant shade. And as soon as they were comfortable, their hosts brought smooth wooden bowls brimming with milk, which had a faint lemony astringency and was wonderfully refreshing; and small nuts like hazels, but with a richer buttery taste; and salad plucked fresh from the soil, sharp, peppery leaves mingled with soft, thick ones that oozed a creamy sap, and little cherry-sized roots tasting like sweet carrots. But they couldn't eat much. It was too rich. Will wanted to do justice to their generosity, but the only thing he could easily swallow, apart from the drink, was some flat, slightly scorched floury bread like chapatis or tortillas. It was plain and nourishing, and that was all Will could cope with. Lyra tried some of everything, but like Will she soon found that a little was quite enough. Mary managed to avoid asking any questions. These two had passed through an experience that had marked them deeply; they didn't want to talk about it yet. So she answered their questions about the mulefa, and told them briefly how she had arrived in this world; and then she left them under the shade of the tree, because she could see their eyelids drooping and their heads nodding. "You don't have to do anything now but sleep," she said. The afternoon air was warm and still, and the shade of the tree was drowsy and murmurous with crickets. Less than five minutes after they'd swallowed the last of the drink, both Will and Lyra were fast asleep. They are of two sexes? said Atal, surprised. But how can you tell? It's easy, said Mary. Their bodies are different shapes. They move differently. They are not much smaller than you. But they have less sraf. When will that come to them? I don't know, Mary said. I suppose sometime soon. I don't know when it happens to us. No wheels, said Atal sympathetically. They were weeding the vegetable garden. Mary had made a hoe to save having to bend down; Atal used her trunk, so their conversation was intermittent. But you knew they were coming, said Atal. Yes. Was it the sticks that told you? No, said Mary, blushing. She was a scientist; it was bad enough to have to admit to consulting the I Ching, but this was even more embarrassing. It was a night picture, she confessed. The mulefa had no single word for dream. They dreamed vividly, though, and took their dreams very seriously. You don't like night pictures, Atal said. Yes, I do. But I didn't believe them until now. I saw the boy and the girl so clearly, and a voice told me to prepare for them. What sort of voice? How did it speak if you couldn't see it? It was hard for Atal to imagine speech without the trunk movements that clarified and defined it. She'd stopped in the middle of a row of beans and faced Mary with fascinated curiosity. Well, I did see it, said Mary. It was a woman, or a female wise one, like us, like my people. But very old and yet not old at all. Wise one was what the mulefa called their leaders. She saw that Atal was looking intensely interested. How could she be old and also not old? said Atal. It is a make-like, said Mary. Atal swung her trunk, reassured. Mary went on as best she could: She told me that I should expect the children, and when they would appear, and where. But not why. I must just look after them. They are hurt and tired, said Atal. Will they stop the sraf leaving? Mary looked up uneasily. She knew without having to check through the spyglass that the shadow particles were streaming away faster than ever. I hope so, she said. But I don't know how. In the early evening, when the cooking fires were lit and the first stars were coming out, a group of strangers arrived. Mary was washing; she heard the thunder of their wheels and the agitated murmur of their talk, and hurried out of her house, drying herself. Will and Lyra had been asleep all afternoon, and they were just stirring now, hearing the noise. Lyra sat up groggily to see Mary talking to five or six of the mulefa, who were surrounding her, clearly excited; but whether they were angry or joyful, she couldn't tell. Mary saw her and broke away. "Lyra," she said, "something's happened - they've found something they can't explain and it's... I don't know what it is...I've got to go and look. It's an hour or so away. I'll come back as soon as I can. Help yourself to anything you need from my house - I can't stop, they're too anxious - " "All right," said Lyra, still dazed from her long sleep. Mary looked under the tree. Will was rubbing his eyes. "I really won't be too long," she said. "Atal will stay with you." The leader was impatient. Mary swiftly threw her bridle and stirrups over his back, excusing herself for being clumsy, and mounted at once. They wheeled and turned and drove away into the dusk. They set off in a new direction, along the ridge above the coast to the north. Mary had never ridden in the dark before, and she found the speed even more alarming than by day. As they climbed, she could see the glitter of the moon on the sea far off to the left, and its silver-sepia light seemed to envelop her in a cool, skeptical wonder. The wonder was in her, and the skepticism was in the world, and the coolness was in both. She looked up from time to time and touched the spyglass in her pocket, but she couldn't use it till they'd stopped moving. And these mulefa were moving urgently, with the air of not wanting to stop for anything. After an hour's hard riding they swung inland, leaving the stone road and moving slowly along a trail of beaten earth that ran between knee-high grass past a stand of wheel trees and up toward a ridge. The landscape glowed under the moon: wide, bare hills with occasional little gullies, where streams trickled down among the trees that clustered there. It was toward one of these gullies that they led her. She had dismounted when they left the road, and she walked steadily at their pace over the brow of the hill and down into the gully. She heard the trickling of the spring, and the night wind in the grass. She heard the quiet sound of the wheels crunching over the hard-packed earth, and she heard the mulefa ahead of her murmuring to one another, and then they stopped. In the side of the hill, just a few yards away, was one of those openings made by the subtle knife. It was like the mouth of a cave, because the moonlight shone into it a little way, just as if inside the opening there were the inside of the hill; but it wasn't. And out of it was coming a procession of ghosts. Mary felt as if the ground had given way beneath her mind. She caught herself with a start, seizing the nearest branch for reassurance that there still was a physical world, and she was still part of it. She moved closer. Old men and women, children, babes in arms, humans and other beings, too, more and more thickly they came out of the dark into the world of solid moonlight - and vanished. That was the strangest thing. They took a few steps in the world of grass and air and silver light, and looked around, their faces transformed with joy - Mary had never seen such joy - and held out their arms as if they were embracing the whole universe; and then, as if they were made of mist or smoke, they simply drifted away, becoming part of the earth and the dew and the night breeze. Some of them came toward Mary as if they wanted to tell her something, and reached out their hands, and she felt their touch like little shocks of cold. One of the ghosts - an old woman - beckoned, urging her to come close. Then she spoke, and Mary heard her say: "Tell them stories. They need the truth. You must tell them true stories, and everything will be well, just tell them stories." That was all, and then she was gone. It was one of those moments when we suddenly recall a dream that we've unaccountably forgotten, and back in a flood comes all the emotion we felt in our sleep. It was the dream she'd tried to describe to Atal, the night picture; but as Mary tried to find it again, it dissolved and drifted apart, just as these presences did in the open air. The dream was gone. All that was left was the sweetness of that feeling, and the injunction to tell them stories. She looked into the darkness. As far as she could see into that endless silence, more of these ghosts were coming, thousands upon thousands, like refugees returning to their homeland. "Tell them stories," she said to herself.