This was a favorite spot of Lyra's; it overlooked the river, and at this time of night, the lights across on the south bank were glittering brilliantly over their reflections in the black water of the high tide. A line of barges hauled by a tug moved upriver. Adele Starminster sat down and moved along the cushioned seat to make room.
“Did Professor Docker say that you had some connection with Mrs. Coulter?”
“Yes.”
“What is it? You're not her daughter, by any chance? I suppose I should know—”
“No!” said Lyra. '“Course not. I'm her personal assistant.”
“Her personal assistant? You're a bit young, aren't you? I thought you were related to her or something. What's she like?”
“She's very clever,” said Lyra. Before this evening she would have said much more, but things were changing.
“Yes, but personally,” Adele Starminster insisted. “I mean, is she friendly or impatient or what? Do you live here with her? What's she like in private?”
“She's very nice,” said Lyra stolidly.
“What sort of things do you do? How do you help her?”
“I do calculations and all that. Like for navigation.”
“Ah, I see….And where do you come from? What was your name again?”
“Lyra. I come from Oxford.”
“Why did Mrs. Coulter pick you to—”
She stopped very suddenly, because Mrs. Coulter herself had appeared close by. From the way Adele Starminster looked up at her, and the agitated way her daemon was fluttering around her head, Lyra could tell that the young woman wasn't supposed to be at the party at all.
“I don't know your name,” said Mrs. Coulter very quietly, “but I shall find it out within five minutes, and then you will never work as a journalist again. Now get up very quietly, without making a fuss, and leave. I might add that whoever brought you here will also suffer.”
Mrs. Coulter seemed to be charged with some kind of anbaric force. She even smelled different: a hot smell, like heated metal, came off her body. Lyra had felt something of it earlier, but now she was seeing it directed at someone else, and poor Adele Starminster had no force to resist. Her daemon fell limp on her shoulder and flapped his gorgeous wings once or twice before fainting, and the woman herself seemed to be unable to stand fully upright. Moving in a slight awkward crouch, she made her way through the press of loudly talking guests and out of the drawing room door. She had one hand clutched to her shoulder, holding the swooning daemon in place.
“Well?” said Mrs. Coulter to Lyra.
“I never told her anything important,” Lyra said.
“What was she asking?”
“Just about what I was doing and who I was, and stuff like that.”
As she said that, Lyra noticed that Mrs. Coulter was alone, without her daemon. How could that be? But a moment later the golden monkey appeared at her side, and, reaching down, she took his hand and swung him up lightly to her shoulder. At once she seemed at ease again.
“If you come across anyone else who obviously hasn't been invited, dear, do come and find me, won't you?”
The hot metallic smell was vanishing. Perhaps Lyra had only imagined it. She could smell Mrs. Coulter's scent again, and the roses, and the cigarillo smoke, and the scent of other women. Mrs. Coulter smiled at Lyra in a way that seemed to say, “You and I understand these things, don't we?” and moved on to greet some other guests.
Pantalaimon was whispering in Lyra's ear.
“While she was here, her daemon was coming out of our bedroom. He's been spying. He knows about the alethiometer!”
Lyra felt that that was probably true, but there was nothing she could do about it. What had that professor been saying about the Gobblers? She looked around to find him again, but no sooner had she seen him than the commissionaire (in servant's dress for the evening) and another man tapped the professor on the shoulder and spoke quietly to him, at which he turned pale and followed them out. That took no more than a couple of seconds, and it was so discreetly done that hardly anyone noticed. But it left Lyra feeling anxious and exposed.
She wandered through the two big rooms where the party was taking place, half-listening to the conversations around her, half-interested in the taste of the cocktails she wasn't allowed to try, and increasingly fretful. She wasn't aware that anyone was watching her until the commissionaire appeared at her side and bent to say:
“Miss Lyra, the gentleman by the fireplace would like to speak to you. He's Lord Boreal, if you didn't know.”
Lyra looked up across the room. The powerful-looking gray-haired man was looking directly at her, and as their eyes met, he nodded and beckoned.
Unwilling, but more interested now, she went across.
“Good evening, child,” he said. His voice was smooth and commanding. His serpent daemon's mailed head and emerald eyes glittered in the light from the cut-glass lamp on the wall nearby.
“Good evening,” said Lyra.
“How is my old friend the Master of Jordan?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“I expect they were all sorry to say goodbye to you.”
“Yes, they were.”
“And is Mrs. Coulter keeping you busy? What is she teaching you?”
Because Lyra was feeling rebellious and uneasy, she didn't answer this patronizing question with the truth, or with one of her usual flights of fancy. Instead she said, “I'm learning about Rusakov Particles, and about the Oblation Board.”
He seemed to become focused at once, in the same way that you could focus the beam of an anbaric lantern. All his attention streamed at her fiercely.