The Painting

Chapter One - Forgotten

Lyra Silvertongue looked out of the window uneasily, feeling something familiar yet again try and press into her mind, leaving her frustrated and baffled. Something was wrong-yet she couldn't place what it was. Her wandering mind focused on the view outside the window, the rather bleak city of London spread out in front of her like a map. Even though the sun was shining weakly through a cloud, it looked like a smoky, factory-filled rubbish dump. Suddenly feeling cold, she wrapped the paint-stained linen sheets more firmly about her and turned around to feel her heart turn in her chest as she saw the man lying on the bed, his eyes closed. Her heart always flipped when she saw him, and realized that he was all hers. Yet something gnawed at her brain, a heavy feeling. Her daemon felt it too, and jumped into her arms. She stroked his fur, admiring her lover. He was led on the bed rather awkwardly his arm thrown out beside him, on his side. He had black hair, and a broad face, yet strongly lined and handsome in a way that surprised her. His daemon Laisa, an effortlessly beautiful arctic fox, was led at his feet making small snorting noises Pantalaimon would tease her about afterwards. Lyra went to sit beside him and smile, watching him sleep. Pantalaimon slipped out of her arms onto the bed. He looked at the fox for a moment, and then poked the sleeping man gently. Her daemon gestured, a meaning that he was still asleep. She swept Pantalaimon off the covers, standing up. The man moved slightly, and she jumped. She pulled the flimsy material of the cover against her skin. His eyes opened and surveyed her gently, and Laisa opened her mouth in a yawn that showed all of her sharp teeth. Pantalaimon shifted in his arms, and she silently forgave him for waking him up.

"Lyra," the man muttered, getting up and looking around his room, then standing up totally and going round the bed to kiss her lightly. She put her arms around him and hugged him, and he squeezed her tight. She let go and he stepped back. "Anything wrong?" he inquired, running his stained hands through his ruffled black hair. Laisa and Pantalaimon were walking round each other and rubbing heads whenever they got close enough.

"No," she said firmly, stepping forward so he could kiss her again and comfort her. He wrapped her in his arms, kissed her hair and then suddenly let go. Surprised, she let him guide her over to the window, and stepped back to admire the early Oxford sun shining on her hair and shoulders. He stood back, a little critical. "There's something missing…" he said, and as soon as he said it, Pantalaimon had crawled up her legs and rested round her neck, purring or growling. When Thomas saw this he sighed gently, like he had just been relieved of a great burden. "Aahh" he said quietly, instructing her to stay where she was. She did so, and waited for him as he disappeared downstairs. His daemon followed him, padding down the stairs lightly and asking him questions, which he answered. They both laughed, and then they were gone for a few minutes. During the pause when they left, Pan whispered, "What was that we felt before?"

"I dunno," replied Lyra automatically. She checked herself. The time she had spent with the master of Jordan the last few days had made lasting effects. "I mean, I don't know. It felt like… like there was something important, and I couldn't remember. That's never happened before."

"Yeah, I know," Pan said, feeling something come back to him. "Hey, remember when that woman came up to us in the markets and asked us what we did after our journey?"

"Yeah, I remember. That was weird. She started asking me all this stuff about dead people. She was dead scary."

"She was mad," Pan said, almost correcting her. She smiled slightly out of the window.

"She was quite utterly mad," she said primly, trying to sound posh. Pan snorted. Both of them feeling a little better, they waited for Thomas. After a few moments they came back up, Thomas carrying an easel.

"What are you-"she started, fully aware she was only wearing a thin cotton sheet, with her bronze daemon hiding her neck.

"Ssshh, don't talk," he said, squirting out paints and then coming to stand next to her. She smelt his scent fresh and sharp, like the damp leaves that were always found in heaps under the crisp, dry ones. It was the paint, mostly. Thomas Lochard was an artist, seeing things and then painting them if they looked good on his canvas. He would sometimes be careless and make an obvious mistake, but otherwise, he was a very respected painter and his works quite famous.

He moved her so that she was looking out of the window, but her head inclined towards the easel with her daemon looking cosy round her neck, gazing out too. She was smiling slightly, and with her head cocked she looked like she was thinking about something which amused her. He told her firmly that the linen sheet added to the beauty, and she let him watch her and make the first sketches. When he had done the very first stages they both went downstairs, Laisa and Pantalaimon nudging each other behind and sat at the dining table. Lyra leaned over Thomas's chair, and he smelt her hair appreciatively, holding her arms in place round his neck, leaning back to look in her eyes. She smiled, yet feared that her expression would reflect the strange battle going on inside her, saying, 'This is not the man… there is another… you knew him once…' Confused and rather frustrated, she turned to Thomas again and asked him lightly, "What do you fancy for breakfast?"

He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. Neither of them was particularly domestic.

"Mm… I don't know," he said, stroking his stubby chin. "Do you know what omelette is? Some guy in a pub told my ma how to do it, and she taught me. He was a strange fellow, but his recipes sure are nice." He didn't notice Lyra's eyes widen as she tried to grasp something she couldn't quite reach, as her brain strained to remember….

"OK," she said after a while, finding her voice strangely high-pitched. Pantalaimon, who had stopped absent-mindedly watching the arctic fox and gazed at her with fear only she could recognize, shot her a look and turned to gracefully leap onto a chair, with Laisa watching him all the way. Lyra turned around to gather the ingredients.

"What? You really know what omelette is? How?" asked Thomas, chewing a hangnail.

"I… my mother taught me," Lyra lied, not knowing why she lied. Where had she learned to make omelette? Her mother… Lyra knew nothing of her mother. She had been brought up in Jordan College.

"Oh really? Well, get to work then," Thomas said, obviously not believing her.

Lyra decided to lie again. She didn't often lie to Thomas, but now she lied with all her heart, just like she had done… done when? She knew that there was something there in her brain that had been barred off, and she yearned to explore it…

"OK, OK, you got me, Mr. Recipe. Cook us an omelette. Go on. Do it. En't you supposed to be master cook?" she had switched to her childhood accent deliberately, knowing it annoyed him.

"Don't you get me annoyed first thing in the morning," he said, smiling as she stood up. She giggled but he muffled her mouth with a tea towel. She pushed it away and dodged his kisses, grinning slyly.

"Cook me an omelette or whatever you call them," she said stubbornly, "And then I'll kiss you."

"You're going to kill me, I swear…" he said, checking the pan she had already got out and wiping the edges to check for grease. He placed it on the oven and looked up at Lyra who was watching him tend to the fire with a little frown creasing his forehead. She didn't realize that she used to look like that, when reading the alethiometer. As he made the omelette, she fidgeted around him resting her chin on his shoulder to see what he was doing, sniffing his neck, teasing out little hairs that hung over the back of his head. At last he turned around with two plates in his hands, and set them down on the table. She followed him and sat down.

"Eat," he ordered, stabbing his omelette with his fork and eating a small piece.

Lyra did as she was told, a growing sense of unease washing around her. She tasted a strange texture and taste on her tongue even though she hadn't touched her omelette. It was fresh and sharp, savoury yet sweet at the same time. Then she tasted sweet, cold juice running down her throat.

"Marchpane…" muttered Lyra, the word slipping from nowhere before she could stop it.

"Mm?" Thomas looked up, his glance questioning. Pan lifted his head from the table where he had been watching Lyra, his eyes holding something Lyra couldn't follow. Laisa was watching Lyra with sharp, observant eyes.

"Nothing," Lyra said quickly, deflecting his attention and trying to look boring. It worked. He lost interest and attacked his omelette once again.

These aren't cooked very well, she found herself thinking. It's all rubbery. How would she know how omelette tasted? Shaking her head to clear these thoughts, Lyra bent her head and speared her own omelette, trying to think of any foods that tasted sweet aswell as savoury…