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Chapter Text

Thorold woke at 5:00 AM and lit his naphtha lamp. It was a lonely little light. There were no streetlamps out here in the country, so the dark’s blanket was heavier, and for now, he was the only one awake in the large manor house.

After performing his ablutions and dressing, he left the servants’ quarters in the basement, his footsteps echoing in the empty rooms he passed. They wouldn’t be empty for much longer. He had been instructed to hire a full retinue of household staff and would interview the first candidates today.

Ordinarily, the hiring of new staff would be the duty of the most senior staff member – the steward, or the butler in the absence of a steward. Thorold was a valet, a personal attendant. As such, he wasn’t responsible for the management of the household, strictly speaking, and ought to exist outside the staff hierarchy, a man apart. But he was currently the only staff member at the manor, and the young lord often overlooked protocol.

He stepped outside and headed down the long drive to collect the morning paper, his breath ghosting in front of him and Anfang, his pinscher dæmon, trotting at his side. He could feel the early morning chill in his own toes, and Anfang was stepping fast so her bare paws wouldn’t make contact with the frosty ground for too long.

Back inside, he went to press the newspaper, mentally reviewing his to-do list for the day while he waited for the flat iron to heat up. The previous Lord Belacqua had always appreciated a nice, pressed paper, the ink dried and set so his fingers wouldn’t be stained. Young Lord Asriel hardly cared, but Thorold took pride in his work, and unless instructed otherwise, he would do things the proper way, the way he was taught when he trained as a valet many moons ago.

Once the paper was prepared, he went to ready the breakfast tray. He frowned when he saw light spilling out of the kitchen door. Anfang cocked her head to the side, bemused. Since he started serving the young lord, Thorold was often met by curiosities and anomalies, so he was much better equipped than he would’ve been some years ago. He stepped into the kitchen, confident that he could deal with whatever he found in there, and paused, knocked for a six.

The young woman making breakfast was very beautiful – it said something that Thorold was struck by her beauty before he was taken aback by the sight of a lady appearing below stairs, and to get her hands dirty no less!

“Oh, hello,” she said, glancing up from the stove, slotted spoon in hand. Her golden monkey dæmon paused, impossibly black eyes fixed on Thorold. He was holding a plate at the ready.

Thorold collected himself. “Let me do that, Miss,” he said, hurrying closer.

“It’s alright –”

“Please, Miss. I insist.” He couldn’t possibly stand by while a lady did servant’s work! It just wasn’t done.

For a moment, it seemed as if the monkey dæmon’s hands had tightened on the plate, and something about his expression made Thorold think he might want to fling the piece of crockery at his head, but surely that had to be his imagination?

The young woman reached out to take the plate from her dæmon and pass it to Thorold. The little fellow gave it over in an amiable manner before allowing himself to be gently picked up and carried away from the stove, looking perfectly sweet as he sat in his other half’s arms.

Yes, just his imagination, Thorold thought.

The poached eggs he scooped out of the pot and onto the plate looked very neat, and the texture seemed smooth and soft rather than rubbery.

“These are perfect, Miss,” he couldn’t help saying. He was impressed.

When he turned around, she was sitting at the table, her dæmon in her lap. She favoured Thorold with another lovely, warm smile. Anfang wagged her tail, entirely charmed.

“You must forgive me ….” She paused in question, and he knew she was asking for his name.

“It’s Thorold, Miss. Amos Thorold and Anfang,” he said, setting the plate down on the table.

“Marisa Coulter,” she introduced herself in reply. “I didn’t mean to invade your kitchen, Mr Thorold,” she continued, tone affable. “I was famished, and I didn’t think there were any staff about – Lord Asriel has just moved in, and the house is rather ….”

“Empty?” he asked. Most of the rooms were still unfurnished.

She nodded, smiling again. Behind him the kettle started whistling.

“Would you like some tea, Miss Coulter?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Thorold went to pour the tea, and to make toast, and then somehow, he found himself bustling about getting the rest of breakfast ready while his lord’s paramour sat at the table, eating and chatting with him.

Socialising with those he served wasn’t the way of things, nor should a lady be taking breakfast in the kitchen. But Miss Coulter was so genial that this state of affairs didn’t seem awkward in the least, and he didn’t want to disappoint her evidently sweet, well-meaning nature. So he answered her questions, providing more details than he would ordinarily divulge to his betters, and even offered up some anecdotes of his own accord.

“Anfang – beginning. Are you of German origin, Mr Thorold?” she asked, taking a sip of her tea.

Anfang looked up at him, pleasantly surprised that she’d been remembered. Guests weren’t expected to bother with remembering servants’ names, never mind their dæmons’ names.

“Just Thorold will suffice, Miss. It’s what Lord Asriel calls me, as did his late father before him. No, I’ve no German heritage, not that I’m aware of. My old dad saw the word on the first page of a German Bible and took a liking to it. He didn’t rightly know what it meant, or how to pronounce it properly,” he chuckled.

“You worked for Asriel’s father too?”

“Yes, Miss. I’ve been working for the Belacqua family for nigh on thirty years now.”

So you’ve known Asriel since he was a child?”

“I have.”

“What was he like? I can just imagine – you must have quite a story or two to tell.” The golden monkey’s large eyes were glinting, intrigued.

Having such a captivated audience was intoxicating, especially to one who rarely had an audience. Lord Asriel’s breakfast would get cold, but Thorold didn’t think of that at all.

He’d just finished telling Miss Coulter about the gunpowder experiment Lord Asriel had conducted when he was ten, and she was laughing merrily, when a snow leopard dæmon stalked in the door, shortly followed by the lord of the manor and the subject of the conversation himself.

“This is where you got to,” Lord Asriel said, smiling at Miss Coulter. It was an uncharacteristically soft smile, the sort of smile that appeared without the wearer realising they were smiling.

Thorold shifted uncomfortably when confronted by the fact that he’d been negligent in his duties. He hadn’t delivered breakfast, the newspaper or the ewer of hot water for the lord’s morning shave – as evidenced by his unshaven face!

Lord Asriel seemed unconcerned by the inconvenience. In fact, he seemed entirely unaware of Thorold’s presence, all his attention focussed on the young woman seated at the table. But Thorold’s failure to provide the highest standard of service was certainly concerning to himself, and he set about rectifying the matter immediately.

Lord Asriel was already helping himself to breakfast from the tray, crunching toast and spilling crumbs all over the floor, so Thorold hastened to go tidy the master bedroom and fetch the laundry. He hurried around the kitchen table and out of the room, studiously averting his eyes when Lord Asriel bent down to kiss Miss Coulter and murmur something that made her laugh.

He heard more happy laughter as he headed down the hallway, and a monkey chitter followed by an exclamation of: “You’re getting crumbs all over me!” It sounded more like an expression of amusement than a protest, and in reply Lord Asriel said something that made Thorold blush for a second before he pretended that he hadn’t heard it.

He exchanged a look with Anfang as they climbed the stairs, thinking the same thing she was. He didn’t usually have an opinion on matters such as these. It wasn’t his place. But today, he found himself feeling hopeful that Miss Coulter might stick around longer than the others, and that his lord might finally settle down and tie the knot. She seemed a caring person who possessed enough of a take-charge, confident spirit to be a match for Lord Asriel. It would certainly be a good thing if the manor had a mistress to take charge of all that needed taking charge of. Lord Asriel seemed quite taken with her, and taking a wife to wed could only be good for him. The lord could do with a bit of taming.

The next time Thorold saw the charming young woman with the golden monkey dæmon, she would be wearing her wedding ring, he would realise the error she hadn’t corrected, and the hopes he might have had for the future of the house and family he was devoted to would be dashed.

But on that winter’s day, he threw open the curtains to let in the morning light and hummed a pleasant tune to himself as he stripped the sheets off the bed. The winter sun was weak but valiantly fighting off the dark and the cold, spring was not that far away, and he felt a bracing change on the air, something that lifted the spirit.

***

It was close to midnight when Thorold finished tidying up the workroom and put out the lamps. A housemaid or footman would usually do this sort of thing, but he was the only servant allowed in the workroom. He trudged back to the main house, Anfang yawning next to him. He didn’t head to his little room, not yet. His dæmon was ready to nod off, eyes half-closed as she walked along, but he still had to tidy the study, another room only he was permitted to take responsibility for.

He heard two angry, raised voices as he approached the study and paused, staring at the closed door. The irate back-and-forth continued, accompanied by other sounds of malcontent, like a drawer being slammed shut and a chair being shoved backwards.

There was mention of a child. Anfang snapped her head up, directing a shocked look at him. Thorold quickly turned around and went to find something else that needed doing. This wasn’t a conversation meant for his hearing.

He was absently inspecting the contents of a hall closet, Anfang leaning her shoulder against the wall, eyes about to slip shut, and thinking that he might break with custom and take care of the study first thing in the morning instead, before his lord rose and had any need of the room again, when he was stilled by the slam of a door. It was followed by rapid footsteps and what sounded like a sob.

The footsteps – unmistakably those of a woman – were clicking towards the entrance hall. Thorold hurriedly closed the closet and headed in that direction himself.

There should always be a servant waiting in attendance when a guest departs, and he was the only one still present above stairs – likely the only one still awake at this hour. The rest were dismissed early when Mrs Coulter came to visit. That didn’t stop them from knowing about her and the nature of Lord Asriel’s association with her, of course. Servants would always learn things soon enough, but they were well compensated for their silence, and their reluctance to cross Lord Asriel did the rest to ensure their discretion. The lord did not treat his staff cruelly, but he was an intimidating man with an unusually large dæmon, and everything about him said he would not suffer those who dared cross him.

Thorold found the front door open. The sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel drive drifted in on the still night air. When he looked outside, he saw Mrs Coulter rushing away from the house, her dæmon running after her with his tail raised.

Thorold hesitated a moment, hand on the doorhandle, Anfang hesitating along with him. Naturally, Mrs Coulter often left the house at unusual hours, and it wasn’t his business to do anything other than turn a blind eye. But she was clearly in a state of distress, and the fresh gravel was liable to make one’s feet slide, which might lead to an unfortunate tumble in the dark, and with her possibly in a delicate condition …. All in all, it just didn’t feel right to stand by while a lady ran off into the night. At the very least, he should be seeing her to the front gates.

Anfang hurried out the door and down the front steps a moment before he did. Thorold grabbed a naphtha lantern from the table near the door – there was no time to light it – and hurried after his dæmon.

“Mrs Coulter! Wait, please!” he called.

The golden monkey glanced over his shoulder, teeth bared, but Mrs Coulter didn’t stop, nor did she acknowledge him. She continued making for the gates, head down, her unfastened coat billowing behind her.

The calamity he’d anticipated happened when she was rounding the bend in the drive. She slipped, gravel crunching harshly under her heels, but managed to catch herself before she fell.

“Are you alright, Madam?” Thorold asked in concern, finally catching up to her.

She glared at him, her face pale and drawn in the moonlight. There were tears glinting on her cheeks.

He’d meant possible injury from the near fall, which didn’t seem to be an issue now that she’d straightened up. She wasn’t wincing or having trouble standing. But, well, clearly, she wasn’t alright, anything but. And suddenly he felt an inconsiderate fool for having asked if she was. The monkey gave him a scathing look that said his assessment of himself was correct.

Thorold looked at the heartbroken, indignant woman in front of him, feeling at a loss. He’d never seen Mrs Coulter lose her composure, and he rarely encountered crying women at all. He didn’t rightly know what he ought to say or do now, other than offer to light the lamp and escort her to the gate.

Anfang thought he should offer some sympathy or a supportive word. He didn’t rightly know how to do that either, not for someone he served, but she might be in a delicate condition … and, well, he would try.

“Has he … has Lord Asriel been unkind?” he asked gently. The words he’d heard through the study door had sounded less than kind, and Mrs Coulter wouldn’t be running out of the house in the dead of night, inconsolable, if grave offence hadn’t been given.

At that, she laughed, an abrupt, discordant response that made Anfang’s eyes widen in surprise. It was a short, wry laugh with no true humour to it. “More unkind than usual, do you mean?” she asked, a hint of scorn in her voice.

It was an ugly thing for one so beautiful, that trace of dark venom in her expression. It discomfited Thorold, making Anfang squirm. It made him think of the possible-child again. If there was to be a child, his lord would take responsibility. Lord Asriel may not always pay heed to propriety, but he wouldn’t have done anything as indecent as disavow his child and the child’s mother, surely?

“And what would you do, Thorold, if he had been unkind? If he had done me wrong?” Mrs Coulter asked. The golden monkey was showing the tips of his fangs. “Would you intervene? Would you speak in my defence? Would you do anything at all? Anything you hadn’t been told to do?” she challenged.

He had nothing to say to the dark words cutting through the night. Anfang pulled her tail down and avoided looking at the monkey.

Nothing was said for a few beats. The night filled the silence, the breeze rustling through the trees and an owl hooting somewhere nearby.

The glittering, dark eyes fixed on him made him feel strangely like a damned man. She seemed to see too much, finding an answer he hadn’t provided, and then she was done with him.

“Good night, Thorold,” Mrs Coulter said curtly before turning away and continuing down the drive.

He recovered himself, fumbling for the lighter in his pocket. “Let me walk you, Madam – there’s no light. I should –”

“You should go back inside, Thorold,” she said over her shoulder. “That’s where your lord is and where your duties lie.”

He lingered for a few moments more, staring after her retreating back, Anfang fretting next to him because nothing was as it should be, not at all, and there was nothing for it. Then he sighed and turned back to the house.

Much unhappiness, tragedy, scandal and disaster followed that night, and Thorold could only shake his head. He’d known nothing good would come of it when he found out Lord Asriel was involved with a married woman, but he hadn’t anticipated that it would all escalate to such a degree.

Maybe he should’ve known. After all, his lord had always been a man unlike other men, limitless, and uncontained. And hadn’t the world always made a fuss where he was concerned? Extraordinary, peculiar and dangerous things would find Lord Asriel of their own accord, as if the greater forces at work could never be content to just leave him be and move along.

But Thorold was not a man made to contemplate greater matters, so he sighed once more, stood up straight, and got on with the day.

He was called to testify and did his duty. He caught sight of Mrs Coulter’s pale, half-veiled face as he told the court how he’d seen Lord Asriel point the pistol and fire the shot that killed her husband. He knew that Lord Asriel had done what was just; he’d acted in defence of his child and his home. He knew it had not been for him to interfere in the matter.

But there was pain and silent accusation in Mrs Coulter’s expression; he remembered tears sparkling like dewdrops in the moonlight, and for a moment, Anfang hung her head, wondering if he had the wrong of it and there had been something to be done; something he’d missed.

***

Anfang perked her ears up a few seconds before there was a knock on the door. Thorold shared a surprised look with her. His modest little flat hadn’t received any visitors in the few weeks he’d been here, and he hadn’t expected today to be any different.

He crossed the threadbare carpet, pulled the door open, and stilled. This was certainly surprising; he could say that. He hadn’t thought he’d ever see her again, much less here, on his own doorstep, of all places.

Mrs Coulter was exquisitely dressed, ashen-faced and dejected. She looked a ghost of herself, and the monkey dæmon was trembling, his fur appearing dull instead of gleaming with its usual golden lustre. She was clearly unwell, more so than she’d been during the trial, unwell enough to alarm him.

“Hello, Thorold. May I come in?” Her voice sounded slightly hoarse, from illness or crying, he couldn’t say.

He could only nod and stand aside.

She paused in the middle of the small, shabby living space, looking entirely out of place. Thorold closed the door and hurried to gather up the dailies he’d been perusing for job advertisements, clearing a space for her at the small table. He offered her some tea, feeling vaguely embarrassed at what must seem a rather poor showing to one accustomed to only the very best.

After serving the tea, he stood there awkwardly – a servant never sat down in the company of those they served, and habits ingrained over a lifetime became second nature difficult to act against.

“Have some tea with me, Thorold.”

That was awkward too – being offered hospitality in his own home.

“How have you been, Thorold?” she asked after he sat down across from her. She was cupping her hands around the tea mug for warmth, and the golden monkey perched on the backrest of her chair was staring into the middle distance, a defeated slump to his shoulders.

“I’m doing alright,” he said. He supposed he had been doing alright, all things considered, and this was not the time or place to make mention of any personal struggles he might have.

“Has he dismissed you? Asriel?”

She was going straight for the elephants in the room, then.

“Not as such, no. I’m free to take up other employment until he returns to England and has need of my services again.”

The expanded truth was that Lord Asriel couldn’t afford to pay servants’ wages anymore and there was no longer a house to attend to, but it would be uncouth to say so out loud.

She nodded sympathetically, knowingly. “I have friends who may be in need of a capable valet. I could make a recommendation,” she offered.

“Thank you, Madam. That would be generous.”

Lord Asriel might skin him alive if he found out he was working for someone affiliated with Mrs Coulter, and he had hope yet that his lord would return from the North, much restored. But it would be ungracious of him to wave off the courtesy.

She offered him the pale ghost of a smile and said no more. She took small, careful sips of her tea, and the silence stretched, until he felt compelled to ask, tone careful and deferential: “Pardon me, Madam, but may I ask why you’re here?”

She paused. The golden monkey placed a little hand on her shoulder, and she took a deep breath, as if to gather her strength before replying.

“I expect you know about everything that’s happened, about … about the attempt to abduct Lyra, and about the man who pursued her after she went missing from the priory?”

Anfang whined quietly, sad – and surprised – that she was bringing up the child.

Thorold had grown attached to the baby without even realising it before Child Services took her away and a grey cloud scudded in front of the sun. It had troubled and perplexed him to hear what had befallen little Lyra during the Great Flood. He still didn’t know what had possessed the French experimental theologian, the Bonneville man, to chase after her or what he’d wanted with her. But people said he was mad, and Thorold supposed he didn’t need more reason than that.

He nodded.

“Do you know anything else about him? About Gerard Bonneville?”

“He was a scholar of experimental theology. He’d not been long out of prison.”

She looked at him for a few moments longer, as if she thought he might know more. He didn’t.

“I used to know him, a long time ago,” she said then. “He was an unstable man prone to violence and unnatural ideas, and ….” She glanced down at her tea. The monkey squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. “Well, in the end, there was a trial and I testified against him. You may have read about it in the papers. It was a high-profile case. But my name wasn’t mentioned. I was a minor at the time, so my identity wasn’t released to the public.”

Thorold listened to this unhappy narrative, Anfang sitting by his ankles, keeping very still and blinking up at Mrs Coulter’s strained face.

“He was found guilty and sent to prison, and that was the last I ever thought or hoped to see of him. But after his release, he started sending me letters, horrible letters, threats … he blamed me, you see, for his imprisonment and for the loss of his life’s work, the research he was obsessed with. He’d brought it all on himself, and he got no less than he deserved, but he blamed me, and he wanted revenge.

“And then he sent a new threat. He wrote that he knew about my … about Lyra. He said he knew where she was, and that he was going to take her …. He was going to take Lyra as payback for what he believed I took from him, an eye for an eye.

“You never met him, Thorold. You don’t know what he was like. He was fanatical and cruel; part of him was more animal than man. When he wanted something, he would stop at nothing to have it, no matter the cost. He’d do anything to anyone. He wouldn’t have thought anything of harming a child, a baby.

“The fear I felt when I found out he was after Lyra, the danger she was in … you couldn’t possibly imagine it.”

Her voice trembled for the first time since she’d started speaking, and her brilliant eyes filled with emotion.

“I knew I had to find her before he could get to her, to keep her safe. I searched everywhere. I tried any possible avenue of investigation, used all the resources I possibly could …. But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get to her in time. I failed.”

The monkey whimpered softly, head hung, as if deeply ashamed of himself.

“I heard about the flood, about the priory collapsing. Nearly all the Sisters were killed in the disaster, and there was no sign of her, and …. I thought she was dead, Thorold! Drowned, or crushed when the building collapsed.”

She muffled a despairing sob, and couldn’t speak again for several moments.

By all accounts, Mrs Coulter had turned her back on her child and had never wanted anything to do with being a mother. People had called her cold and uncaring for it, but to see her now, so affected, Thorold couldn’t doubt that she must have a mother’s heart after all.

“Then I heard that she'd survived, but she was out there, lost in the flood, and he was still after her. She was only six months old. She was so little. How could she stand any chance? I gave her away, but I thought she would be safe and cared for where she went. I thought it would be for the best, for the both of us. I never wanted … I never imagined ….”

She forced the emotion away with a shuddering breath.

“When I found out that she’d been saved, it seemed like a miracle. I was so relieved, so grateful. And I wanted to see her, desperately so. I went to Jordan College, only to be told I wouldn’t be allowed near her.”

Her expression darkened with indignation and chagrin, and for the briefest moment, the monkey curled his lip, revealing the tips of his vicious little fangs.

“Asriel banned me from seeing her. Did you know that? He said I was an unfit mother. He left her there, taking no more than five minutes to dump her on the Master’s doorstep before running off to the North, and he hasn’t been back to see her since. Not once in half a year. But he would call me an unfit mother!”

When all was said and done, Lord Asriel was left with nothing but anger and resentment, too much to keep to himself; Thorold knew that.

“He said I would be a danger to her when I’d been working ceaselessly to keep her safe, when all I wanted ….”

She gave another shuddering sigh, glancing out the small window. The indignation drifted away. When she spoke again, she sounded nothing but wistful. “She’s almost a year old, and I have no idea what she looks like.”

Anfang shifted against his leg. He couldn’t imagine it, having a child and not even being able to picture their face, but it seemed an unbearable thing, heavy and empty at the same time.

“I have no idea how she’s doing. Jordan is a men’s college, hardly a place for a little girl. Are they taking proper care of her? Is she happy? Has she recovered from her ordeal? I haven’t been allowed to check on her well-being, not once. To reassure myself that ….”

She fell quiet again and Thorold could only look at her. The first time he’d seen her sitting at a kitchen table came to mind, the day he’d met her, when she’d been vibrant and happy instead of the world-weary, resentful woman he saw now. It had only been three years or so since that first day, but a lifetime of suffering, regrets and loss had passed, and she was still so young, he realised. Barely older than his niece, who would always seem a child to him.

She turned back to him, returning from wherever she’d been. “Perhaps you think this is what I deserve; punishment for my sins,” she said wryly.

Thorold had never wished Mrs Coulter ill, not even when he saw the ruin she’d left in her wake. He was not a malicious man, and it wasn’t his place to think on something like that, besides. And when he did find himself thinking on the whole matter and Mrs Coulter’s part in it, his mind straying in that direction during quiet, unoccupied moments, he would catch glimmers of sympathy, like dewdrops in the moonlight.

Unlike his lord, Thorold could imagine why she did it, why she turned away from the baby. It was an unfortunate thing, and it pained him that little Lyra would never know a mother, but he could glimpse the reasoning behind the decision. He’d been in domestic service since he was twelve years old; he knew what it was like to live at the mercy of another. If her husband had found out she’d borne a child he hadn’t fathered … well, Mr Coulter had found out about the child eventually, and if his response was any indication to go by ….

“That is not for me to say, Madam. Only the Authority can judge,” he said quietly.

She gave another sad little smile and took a sip of the tea that would be cold by now.

She left it there. He’d received no true explanation for why she’d come here, and he wouldn’t ask again; that would be improper. And then the monkey was gathering up her purse for her, she was thanking him for the tea and standing to leave.

Perhaps she’d just wanted or needed someone to talk to, and the thought that he might be her only option sent sadness drifting through the dæmon-bond.

“If there’s anything I can do, Madam,” Thorold said by the door. It was the polite thing to say in situations such as these; the only thing he could say in response to the sympathy he held. And she’d offered him assistance, so it was only right that he respond in kind.

She paused and he saw something like hope flicker in her eyes. The monkey peeked up at him, an even brighter glint in his dark eyes, as bright as triumph.

“There is one thing you might do for me, Thorold,” she said.

Chapter Text

“Look at that. Isn’t that pretty?” Thorold said, stooping down to show Lyra the flowers on display outside a florist’s shop.

She cooed happily and pointed at the flowers in imitation of him, her dæmon fluttering on her shoulder as a large monarch butterfly. “Bahbah!” she said, which was one of her go-to words for everything she didn’t have a proper word for yet.

He was Bahbah too, but there was bright-eyed recognition behind the word when she exclaimed it as he walked into the room. He’d been to visit a few times now. She’d started remembering him and seemed to like him – or the soft candies he always brought her.

He smiled fondly as Lyra took a toddling step closer to the display and her dæmon became a wide-eyed lemur, eager to inspect the freesias with her. She was a very sweet baby, happy and curious, and most who met her became fond of her.

He stilled her hand when she made a grab for the delicate white petals of a carnation – sometimes she was a little too curious for her own good.

Anfang wagged her tail in slow bemusement. Seeing Lyra walking and babbling words and almost-words was still half a marvel to him. She’d been a much smaller baby when she was taken away from the manor, capable of little more than gurgling and cooing, and all Asriel in appearance, unmistakably her father’s daughter. Now she almost seemed a different child, and for the first time, he could catch glimpses of Mrs Coulter in her face: the nose, the profile, something about her eyes.

It was hardly unusual; Mrs Coulter was Lyra’s mother, after all. But still, the resemblance had taken him by surprise the first time he noticed it – and he hadn’t been able to stop noticing it since – and he was left perturbed when he thought of what Lord Asriel might make of it.

He could only guess, but he knew Lord Asriel better than most, so it was quite the educated guess. Thorold suspected that when the lord finally returned to Brytish shores and called on Jordan College to see his daughter, it would not be a particularly long or involved visit.

A gaggle of young female scholars walked by and smiled indulgently at him and Lyra, charmed by the sweet pair they made. They probably thought him a doting grandfather out with his little granddaughter. The truth was very different, of course, and heading towards him in a large, black towncar.

The car pulled up to the kerb, right on schedule. Thorold lifted Lyra onto his arm and stepped closer to pull the rear door open, the smile slipping from his face. This didn’t exactly sit well with him, neither side of it. Go behind Lord Asriel’s back and defy his orders. Or keep a desperate mother away from her child. He was damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. And all he could do now was carry on because he’d got himself into this, somehow, and it was too late to reconsider.

The uniformed driver gave him an assessing look in the rear-view mirror as he settled into the backseat, Lyra in his lap and Anfang next to him. “Did anyone else come with you when you left the college?” the man asked.

“No,” Thorold replied. He’d been instructed to make sure that wasn’t the case. He complied with instructions – almost always.

“The child’s nanny?” the driver questioned. The shrew dæmon on his shoulder was turned around to stare directly at Thorold, beady little eyes unblinking.

“She’s not in Oxford at present.”

That had been a stroke of sheer luck, the sort of highly convenient happenstance that reminded him of that uncanny way things would fall into place around Lord Asriel to the lord’s benefit. (Well, things hadn’t been going the lord’s way lately, so maybe his strange luck had left him.)

Lyra’s nanny, Alice, was newly married and on her honeymoon, leaving Lyra without a regular caregiver. For the past few days, she’d been handed off between Jordan maids and washerwomen, but they all had other duties to attend to and were only too happy when he offered to take Lyra off their hands for a while, waving him off with little concern when he mentioned a walk to the covered market.

The driver studied him for a few moments longer before deciding he’d done well enough and looking ahead to pull away from the kerb.

Thorold and Lyra were driven to Florence Park, a lovely green space in East Oxford. “Mrs Coulter is waiting near the children’s playground,” the driver said when he stopped the engine.

Thorold nodded and folded himself out of the car, relieved to be free of its sleek confines and that scrutinizing presence that made him feel more guilty than he was.

Lyra glanced all around as he carried her through the park. Her dæmon became a butterfly again, excitedly fluttering all around them. Outings were a rare occurrence and there was so much to take in here, all bright summer colours and the sounds of carefree merriment and boisterous games.

“Ball!” she exclaimed, pointing at a group of boys playing football on the grass. Pantalaimon darted down to the ground and became a fox terrier puppy, tail wagging furiously, eager to go join in the fun.

“No, no. We’re headed this way,” Thorold said. Anfang headed the puppy off before he could scamper very far.

Toddlers quickly learned the limits of the dæmon-bond, but sometimes a moment of excitement would make them forget. The discomfort caused by the bond stretching would remind them – and bring on a crying spell, something Thorold wanted to avoid.

He spotted Mrs Coulter by the bright gold of her dæmon. And the monkey was the first to spot their approach, nudging Mrs Coulter to draw her attention. She looked up and stared for a moment, her eyes flitting to Lyra, then she stood, smiling brightly.

“Afternoon, Madam,” Thorold greeted when he reached the white picnic blanket spread out under a tree.

“Hello, Thorold,” she replied.

She looked as she usually did, perfectly composed and politely interested. The golden monkey looked unlike himself; he was goggling at fox kit Pantalaimon, his black eyes wide and unblinking. Lyra had stopped her babbling and watched the stranger inquisitively.

It was an unusual sort of moment. Thorold cleared his throat. “Would you like to hold her?” he offered.

Mrs Coulter nodded. The golden monkey glanced up at her, his fierce demeanour faltering to uncertainty, making him a more vulnerable-looking creature. But his other half remained smiling serenely, and when Thorold passed Lyra into her arms, she shifted the baby onto her hip as if she’d done so many times before, seemingly completely at ease.

“Hello, Lyra,” she said gently.

Lyra stared up at Mrs Coulter’s face, entranced by the sound of her name said in such a sweet, melodious voice, or by the vibrant sapphire eyes smiling on her. Lyra’s usual caregivers were nothing like this, not half so gentle – and not nearly as sparkly. Lyra reached for the small diamond pendant around Mrs Coulter’s neck; it was glittering in the sun and much too shiny to resist.

“Look at you,” Mrs Coulter smiled at Lyra as she turned around and walked back to the picnic blanket. Pantalaimon fluttered after them as an energetic yellow siskin. The golden monkey followed more slowly.

“Oh, what do they have you wearing?”

Thorold couldn’t see anything wrong with the little yellow dress Mrs Coulter was fussing with, but he supposed Lyra would be wearing a much finer dress if her mother was in charge of her wardrobe.

“Come sit,” Mrs Coulter invited, remembering Thorold for a moment before returning her attention to Lyra.

She settled down on the picnic blanket with Lyra next to her, her every movement graceful and elegant. They made a picture-perfect little scene, like something out of a glossy magazine: a lovely young mother and her darling baby enjoying a summer’s picnic.

Thorold sat down next to the small picnic basket, not quite so gracefully, and feeling out of place. He must be spoiling the picture a bit.

There was a present wrapped in delicate blue paper and a colourful stacking toy between them; intriguing items that might delight any baby. But now that they were at eye level, Lyra couldn't look away from the golden monkey, a rare and bewitching dæmon form she’d never seen before. And his coat looked so soft, and the colour was so luxurious, like that of the gold trophies, plaques and trays in the display cases at Jordan College!

“Bahbah,” Lyra said in fascination. She crawled closer to the golden monkey, her dæmon padding next to her as a kitten, and reached out a little hand.

“No, darling.” Lyra’s hand was gently pulled away before she could touch the monkey.

“No!” Lyra repeated to kitten Pantalaimon. “No!” he meowed in turn, copying her.

Lyra had been corrected for venturing too close to other dæmons before, so this rang familiar to her. And no was a generally familiar word; she heard it often for all sorts of reasons.

The golden monkey chittered, bemused. “That’s right. Aren’t you clever?” Mrs Coulter praised.

Lyra looked pleased with herself.

“When did she start speaking?” Mrs Coulter asked Thorold

“I don’t rightly know, Madam. She was already at it when I first went to see her.”

“Do you know what her first word was?”

It was Als, her word for Alice, he’d been told. The nanny was the person Lyra was most attached to. But considering the circumstances, that might be a sensitive topic.

“Pan. Her name for her dæmon,” he said. That had been Lyra’s second word.

The golden monkey looked pleased with that.

“Pan?” Mrs Coulter considered the nickname. It didn’t seem to be her cup of tea, but she smiled when she looked back down at Lyra. “Well, Pantalaimon is still a bit much for now,” she allowed.

The monkey pulled the stacking toy closer and handed it to Mrs Coulter.

“Lyra! Look here, darling.”

Pine marten Pantalaimon had been making for the grass at speed, but he looked back when Lyra was spoken to, and came slinking closer when he spied what looked like the beginnings of a game.

Thorold watched quietly as Lyra was handed a number of large, rainbow-coloured rings, one by one, and prompted to stack them on the toy’s base. Mrs Coulter named the colours for her, and lavished praise on her every time a ring fell into place. It appeared to be nothing but a game, a child’s amusement, but he could see that Mrs Coulter and her dæmon were both studying Lyra very closely, paying particular attention to the way she took hold of the rings.

There was more praise and handclapping when Lyra had finished stacking the toy. Lyra grinned, and Pantalaimon ran in a giddy circle. Her smile was closely studied too, Mrs Coulter placing a finger under her chin to take a better look at her three baby teeth.

“Is she walking by herself yet?”

Thorold nodded. “I’m assured that she’s perfectly hale and on track, no cause for concern,” he offered, having ascertained that this was an assessment of sorts.

“Well, she might not have been.” The monkey gave him a look, and Thorold couldn’t help feeling that he was being reprimanded for saying more than he’d been asked to, for creating the impression that he knew better.

“She was born prematurely, and it took more than five minutes for her dæmon to appear. You caused quite the fright, didn’t you?” Mrs Coulter said lightly, brushing Lyra’s hair off her forehead – it was almost long enough for a cut.

Anfang shifted uncomfortably, and Thorold decided he should probably go back to keeping quiet and acting like he wasn’t here unless spoken to.

The present was pulled closer next, the monkey’s nimble little hands taking hold of it. “Look, darling, this is for you.”

Lyra was more interested in the large bow adorning the box than in the contents, kitten Pan batting at it with a paw, but the monkey gently moved the smaller dæmon aside so Mrs Coulter could open the lid.

A night lamp was lifted out of the box. Thorold could see how it worked. When switched on, it would spin slowly, projecting a whimsical scene: forest trees, flowers, woodland creatures, the crescent moon and twinkly stars. It was a pretty, delicate thing, likely custom-made and expensive, but not terribly exciting for a baby, not as it was. Lyra blinked at the lamp, then quickly lost interest, but she would likely be charmed by it when she saw it in motion lighting the dark.

“Will you see that it’s installed in her room?” Mrs Coulter asked, glancing at Thorold as she placed the lamp back in the box and moved it towards him.

He nodded.

“It’s a gift from you, of course, for her first birthday.”

He nodded again. Anfang was thinking that his taste in presents had become much more refined of late. Her cheeky amusement in the bond made his lip quirk up in an almost-smile.

The monkey had diligently started unpacking the picnic basket, producing confectionary treats: prettily decorated cupcakes and pastel-coloured macarons.

Lyra was presented with a little cake that had a candle shaped like the number one atop it, and was suitably impressed when the candle was lit, her wide eyes glinting at the sight of the bright little flame. She didn’t understand the concept of blowing out her candle or making a wish, but was delighted nonetheless, giggling in amusement when it was done for her and she saw the flame disappear, like magic. Pantalaimon transformed to a goldfinch, hopping in place and fluttering his wings.

Lyra conceded to being fed a few small, neat bites of cake – “Cakes and sweets aren’t good for babies, but since it’s a special day, we’ll make an exception” – and was most happy when she was allowed to eat a macaron by herself, chomping on it with messy gusto and forgetting the rest of the world, eyes only for the rose pink treat clutched in her chubby fingers.

Thorold was passed a cupcake too. It was very good. If he didn’t know that it likely came from a fancy confectionary shop, he might’ve have asked for the recipe.

Pantalaimon looked put out: eating wasn’t meant for dæmons, and that was a disappointment when he was surrounded by delicious-looking sweets. The golden monkey drew his attention and whispered something that cheered him up; he transformed from a dejected wolf pup to a chittering lorikeet.

Thorold was surprised; he’d never heard Mrs Coulter’s dæmon speaking before. Anfang became nosy and inched a bit closer – she knew her manners, but he wasn’t here in his capacity as a servant, not strictly speaking, so it wouldn’t be that improper if he turned an ear, especially to a conversation that could hardly be about anything important.

His dæmon couldn’t discern anything being said: the golden monkey was using French. Pantalaimon had never heard French before and looked intrigued, fox ears perked up, clever little eyes fixed on the monkey’s face, and the treats that wouldn’t be his entirely forgotten. Soon, he was trying to copy the monkey’s form, becoming a kitten that was gold instead of ginger, then a lion cub, then a lemur, then a squirrel monkey – he wasn’t that good at consciously choosing his form yet, and an unusual form proved even trickier.

When the eating was done, Lyra’s hands and face were carefully wiped clean with a napkin and the crumbs were brushed off her dress. Mrs Coulter fussed with her hair again too; a bobby pin was produced from her purse and used to clip Lyra’s fringe in place after it had been swept to the side.

“There. A baby bow or barrette would’ve looked adorable, but it’s something of an improvement,” she smiled.

Now it was time for Lyra to show off her walking skills and toddle across the grass, Mrs Coulter holding her hand and directing her to look at the flowers, the lily pond and the fountain. Lyra pointed and babbled earnestly, as if trying to explain something. Mrs Coulter listened attentively and replied softly, all approving smiles and gentle, patient corrections when Lyra tried to march into a flowerbed or stick her hands in the pond. The golden monkey watched Pantalaimon, steering him back when he started wandering off and quickly pulling him away when he became a small otter giving the pond a likely look.

When they reached the playground, Lyra was scooped onto the horse rocker. Sounds of dissatisfaction quickly ensued because the ride wasn’t nearly thrilling enough for her liking. She was lifted onto the swing next and liked that much better, kicking her feet as she was pushed back and forth and chittering along with sparrow Pantalaimon.

She liked the slide best of all, squealing gleefully as she went down it – only a quarter of the way with Mrs Coulter keeping a hold on her the whole time. At the bottom, Lyra exclaimed in a way that could only be interpreted as: “Again, again!” She went five more times before all the excitement started taking its toll and merriment turned to tired tears.

“She seems good with Lyra,” Anfang said from her position by Thorold’s feet. They’d exchanged the picnic blanket for a nearby park bench.

“It would seem so,” he replied, watching as Mrs Coulter soothed Lyra while carrying her away from the playground.

She’d been nothing but gentle and kind, a contrast to Alice’s highly efficient and less than indulgent caregiving – from what he’d seen. But though he couldn’t put his finger on it, he couldn’t help feeling that something was … amiss.

Maybe that feeling was just him fretting about the repercussions again, should Lord Asriel find out what he’d been up to. Maybe it had something to do with the memory that had suddenly come to him, something he’d overheard during the trial.

Mrs Coulter had walked into the courtroom, a portrait of grief and regret, and all heads had turned to look at her. Lord Asriel had turned to his lawyer and said: “Don’t be fooled by the façade. Marisa Coulter lies with every fibre of her being – and every atom of the very air around her. In another life, her dæmon was a viper.”

Thorold had brushed the words aside, as he usually did with words not meant for his ears. But now they’d resurfaced to make him think, to make him wonder if he’d been fooled, if he was being fooled even as he sat here.

But he supposed that was neither here nor there. Lyra was due back at Jordan for an afternoon nap, and Mrs Coulter would go back to London, no more or no less Lyra’s mother than she’d been before today, as if this stolen hour had never happened.

Thorold stood as she reached the bench. “I should take Lyra back now, before she’s missed,” he said.

Lyra yawned, giving him a sleepy look. By their feet, the golden monkey nudged Pantalaimon’s red panda-shoulder to keep his eyes from drooping shut.

“Yes, I suppose you should,” Mrs Coulter replied. If she felt any disappointment, it was carefully concealed under a perfectly self-possessed mask.

“Goodbye, darling. Goodbye for now. I’ll come get you one day soon, and then we’ll have the grandest time,” she murmured to Lyra, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. The monkey brushed his hand across panda Pantalaimon’s head.

At that, Anfang stilled, tail raised. Was it just a sweet, soothing platitude or an intended course of action? And would he have a part in it, if it was the latter? That was an uneasy thought, but there was nothing for it now, and he’d just have to cross that bridge if he got to it.

Lyra was gently placed back in his arms. “Thank you, Thorold,” Mrs Coulter said. Her gratitude seemed so sincere that it almost made him feel guilty for questioning her intentions.

He bid Mrs Coulter good day, and turned to leave, hurrying along before someone was sent to the covered market to see where he’d got to.

Mrs Coulter watched him and Lyra go, the wide-eyed golden monkey crouched next to her. He waved goodbye, a regretful slump to his shoulders.

“Buh bye,” Lyra said sleepily, lifting a little hand to return the wave. By the time they got back to the car, she’d nodded off, her head resting against Thorold’s shoulder, her hand resting on the present box, and her pine marten dæmon curled in the crook of her neck.

Lord Asriel returned three weeks later, two and a half weeks after Lyra’s first birthday. He didn’t bring a present and left for the North again within the week. Thorold was summoned to accompany him. Modest funds had been secured, enough to pay a manservant’s wage, not enough to pay the full party of research assistants, navigators, technicians, local guides, dog handler and cook who would normally join the lord on an expedition.

Thorold had never been to the North before and had no experience with sledging, celestial navigating or wilderness survival, but he did his best and learned well enough. His skill set improved and expanded on the next expedition, and the next, until he was an old hand at taming the North.

They returned to Oxford once a year or so. Mrs Coulter didn’t approach him again, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved. Subterfuge did not come naturally to Thorold, and the idea of spiriting Lyra away for a visit with Mrs Coulter while Lord Asriel was in the vicinity was enough to give Anfang the jitters.

He saw Lyra growing up. Not like those who saw children growing up usually did: so gradually as to be unnoticeable, until one day they blinked, there was a grownup standing in front of them and they wondered where the time had gone. No, he saw Lyra growing older in big increments that made it impossible to forget the relentless passage of time.

They visited in the spring, and she was a spindly little girl, her hair long enough to braid, speaking a mile a minute in full sentences; her chubby cheeks, toddler clumsiness and baby babbling a thing of the past. They visited in the summer, and she was old enough for school lessons, wearing a defiant look as her smudged, crooked letters and numbers were inspected and found lacking. They visited in the autumn, and she was almost an adolescent, childhood starting to leave her behind, bit by bit.

Over the years, Lyra’s features became more and more her own, the resemblance to her parents disappearing. All things considered, given the rumours Thorold heard about an initiative called the Oblation Board, and his sneaking suspicion that his axe-grinding lord was trying to find the realm where the Authority resided, that might be considered for the best.

He might’ve been relieved, if not for the fact that he could still see the resemblance. It was there when he heard about Lyra’s reckless, fearless, incredulous exploits: walking along the ridge of the chapel roof as if it were a tightrope and her a circus performer, hunting birds in the Jordan gardens and cooking them in the kitchens, making off with a Gyptian houseboat. It was there when he saw how she wrapped all and sundry around her little finger, seldom facing consequences no matter the transgression, somehow gaining admiration and approval rather than anger and admonishment. It was there when he saw how headstrong she was, determined to do what pleased her, no matter what.

Thorold could see that Lyra was more like her parents than either one of them would acknowledge; more like her parents than was conducive to a safe, quiet, orderly life. And he could only sigh at that.

***

A decade passed. In the last few weeks before the end, Lord Asriel was in a foul mood more often than not, temper constantly rankling. He hurried outside every time new supplies arrived, and then he berated the bears who’d pulled the sledge up the crag, heedless of the fact that every one of them could easily rip his head from his body, furious because not all he’d asked for was there, something was missing. He remained unplacated and unforgiving when the bears informed him that the commodity was very difficult to procure around these parts, storming back to his workroom to bang around, Stelmaria snarling angrily at his side.

The last night, after Lord Asriel had departed with the boy, rushing off in a near frenzy, a curious light in his eyes, Thorold paused a moment before closing the door. He stared out at the ice and the dark and the emptiness and tried to make sense of it all – he had to, you see, because no instructions had been left to follow.

He worked it all over in his mind, everything he’d seen and heard and been told for weeks and years, ever since he first started coming to the North with Lord Asriel, and suddenly something clicked, and realisation dawned.

The boy was the missing piece needed to complete the experiment; the great, terrible experiment Lord Asriel had been working towards all this time.

Something frightening and colder than the Arctic night took hold of Thorold in the wake of that insight and left him at a complete loss. He closed the door and ran to wake Little Miss Lyra because he didn’t know what else to do. He blabbed his fears and suspicions to her, the anxious words tumbling out of his mouth seemingly of their own accord; something that would shame him later when he’d collected himself.

Some frenzy was sparked in Lyra too, and she ordered him to bring her furs, pulling them on as fast as she could and hurtling out the door, yelling for the bear Iorek Byrnison, yelling that she had to catch Lord Asriel. She disappeared into the night, up the mountain, following in her father’s tracks.

Thorold was left watching again, Anfang trembling next to him, helplessly wondering if he’d just made things better or so much worse.

***

The Magisterium forces arrived within the hour, and Mrs Coulter came with them. Thorold pointed the gun, his aim steady, the feel of the trigger familiar under his finger. It had been a long time since loading the ammunition and passing the weapon to Lord Asriel was all he was expected to do. And he told himself that he would do what he had to do now; the situation called for it.

Mrs Coulter looked at him without a hint of fear, perfectly certain that he wouldn’t pull the trigger, even before he was forced to admit as much to himself. When she spoke, there was something malicious in her voice. It was colder and darker and so much more dangerous than the scorn she’d shown the night he found out about the baby. It unnerved him, making Anfang’s hair stand on end.

He’d never heard her speaking like this before, or seen her looking at anyone like this, something so dark in her eyes – she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger if their positions were reversed – but she seemed more herself, somehow. Perhaps this had been her true self all along. The golden monkey was baring his teeth, like a viper.

Mrs Coulter asked him where Lord Asriel had gone and what he was doing. Thorold remained silent. The Magisterium could stop the experiment, if they got there in time, but they’d sentence Lord Asriel to death. He was beyond imprisonment.

Mrs Coulter was puzzling it out regardless, without his input. True terror sparked in her eyes then; there for a moment before she managed to hide it from him. “Thorold, tell me who’s with him.”

She was thinking of Lyra. He didn’t want to think of the boy. He kept quiet, even as she walked closer, even as she kept demanding information. He didn’t move an inch; the gun was still aimed but she was no longer in front of it. He was frozen by that cold dark again, like when he was standing in the door watching Lord Asriel go into the night.

Mrs Coulter was next to him, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her and sense some strange metallic smell swirling around her. She commanded him, in the name of the Authority, to tell her what he knew, and something inside of him gave way. Not to tell her; not to betray Lord Asriel to his death. He would never do that.

Tears sprang to his eyes and his hands trembled before he finally lowered the gun in defeat because he knew what he knew and the boy would die, the boy he’d woken, bundled into his parka, and sent to Lord Asriel.

“Oh, Thorold,” Mrs Coulter sighed at his stubborn silence, stepping away from him.

He might be condemned to die now; he might deserve it.

“I should throw you to the wolves,” she said. “But I won’t.”

He was to live. He was being given a chance to escape. Anfang’s eyes widened in surprise, a whine escaping her. It was only later that he'd realise he might've earned his reprieve and Mrs Coulter's mercy, long ago on a bright summer's day in an Oxford park.

“Asriel’s always been so reckless,” Mrs Coulter said then. “He’s never treated any of us well. You included.” She gave him a strange, knowing look tinged with something like pity or commiseration. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Then she turned on her heel and stalked out of the workroom, the monkey prowling after her.

***

Thorold didn’t leave and no one made him. He’d been quite forgotten.

Days turned into weeks, and he took care of the house on the crag and waited for news, for Lord Asriel’s return, for kingdom come.

He had enough canned- and preserved food to last him for years. The naphtha was running low, but it was growing warmer by the day. Soon, it wouldn’t be a necessity to heat the house. He could get by with only natural light, and cold food would sustain him just as well as warm meals would.

The isolation was harder to bear, but he had Anfang, and he made do. And without a lord to tend to, he had some free time, a rarity in his life. “That’s something,” he smiled at his dæmon.

Weeks turned into months, and Thorold remained resolute in the one duty he had left: guarding the house. He cleaned, mended what needed mending, shovelled snow off the path (a task that grew easier and easier as there was less snow all the time), and made regular patrols of the perimeter, rifle in hand, to keep a lookout for signs of cliff-ghasts and other threats.

He glanced up at the mountain peak and the bright line of otherworldly light in the sky, and looked away again quickly.

Sometimes he heard a strange sound in the dead of night, something like a scratch against the window or a rustle from the sky, and for a moment he questioned if the cliff-ghasts had come to finish him off or if it had just been his imagination. Then the moment passed, nothing more happened, and it was just him alone, as before.

There was no one else to talk to about the unnatural weather, and sometimes he wondered if it had really become so warm here in the heart of the frozen waste or if madness had found him.

He devised games to pass the time, like bowling over empty tin cans or folding paper airplanes and making them race each other, as if he was a young lad at play again rather than a man approaching his dotage. If anyone saw him now, exclaiming jubilantly because his Dauntless had beaten Anfang’s White Lightning, they would surely think madness had found him and had its way with him.

And then one bright, empty, endless day, he did something entirely out of character, something he’d never done before: he snooped in his lord’s business.

Men of his prided profession were supposed to be unerringly discreet. They were supposed to mind their master’s business while minding their own business. They were never to see or hear more than was necessary to perform their duties. Thorold knew very little he wasn’t supposed to, all of it picked up by accident, and none of it ever acted on, as it behoved him. So, what possessed him to pull out one of Lord Asriel’s notebooks and start reading that day?

Maybe it was another sort of madness. Maybe it was because he knew, somewhere at the back of his mind, that his lord would not be returning and the life he’d known for so long was a thing of the past.

He sat down at the table and read theories, formulas, calculations and conclusions. When he finished with the first notebook, he opened the next and the next. (He'd possessed the foresight to hide all of Lord Asriel's notes when he heard the drone of a zeppelin on the approach.) Much of it was beyond his comprehension, but he could make sense of enough to fill in the gaps in the narrative he’d had. And the neatly labelled sketch of the device certainly left little room for confusion.

He paused a long while with the sketch of the cutting device open in front of him, lifting his eyes to glance out the window, up at the mountain he’d found beautiful when he first got here.

For the first time in months, he forced himself to look up, not averting his eyes, not even when Anfang started trembling and whimpering. He’d looked away for long enough.

What had become of the boy’s body? Had anyone cared enough to make a proper final resting place for him? Was there someone mourning, or someone still waiting, wondering, hoping and praying? He didn’t know, and it pained him. All thoughts of Roger Parslow pained him, terribly so, but that was no less than he deserved as retribution for what he’d done – or failed to do.

Finally, he sighed, turned the page and continued reading.

The last page of the last notebook only had a few lines scrawled on it: a short list of materials still needed, tasks to complete and items to pack. The last necessity on the list had been underlined a few times, the nib of the pen pressing down hard into the paper, as if in frustration.

A child is needed.

It had taken longer than Lord Asriel would’ve liked, almost too long – the Magisterium had been nipping at his heels. But the needed child had arrived. Lord Asriel had a way all his own, a way of bringing about what he needed, what he willed.

There was one last line written on the page, underneath the list. And then Thorold understood Mrs Coulter’s strange, knowing look the night Roger died.

An adult may suffice.

It was there in Lord Ariel’s familiar handwriting, another terrible truth. A child would deliver the best results, but an adult might have sufficed. If the boy hadn’t showed up when he did, an adult might’ve ended up under the blade. The only adult at hand. Him.

Anfang pressed herself against his leg, shivering when she thought of that sharpest cut.

Thorold had served Lord Asriel loyally, diligently and unquestioningly. He’d felt a bullet skim through the air next to his ear, a bullet that had been meant for Lord Asriel. He’d been imprisoned alongside Lord Asriel, because of Lord Asriel. He’d offered up his own life as shield and betrayed an innocent child to die so Lord Asriel would live.

He’d served the Belacqua family faithfully for over forty years, and in the end that was worth nothing at all, not even his life to spare. Lord Asriel would’ve taken his life as easily as he’d taken Roger Parslow’s life and felt no pity and no remorse in doing so.

Had he always known this? Had it always been there in the background, carefully overlooked?

He could remain sitting there forever, dark questions and bitter betrayal weighing him down, but Anfang nudged his leg, giving him strength, telling him there was something he could do.

So Thorold stood, gathered up all the notebooks and tossed them in the fire. Then he went to pack his knapsack and left the house on the crag.

He left the sense of betrayal behind. Lord Asriel was gone for good, he was free of duty, free to walk away, and he wouldn’t allow the man to cast a shadow over what remained of his life – his life now for true; no longer would he exist to serve the will and ambitions of another.

He carried the burden of guilt and remorse for what he’d allowed to happen to the boy with him; that was his own to bear.

He didn’t know where he’d go, but he’d try to find a place where he could do the world some good.