Chapter 9 FIVE - THE COCKTAIL PARTY-1

In the days that followed, Lyra went everywhere with Mrs. Coulter, almost as if she were a daemon herself. Mrs. Coulter knew a great many people, and they met in all kinds of different places: in the morning there might be a meeting of geographers at the Royal Arctic Institute, and Lyra would sit by and listen; and then Mrs. Coulter might meet a politician or a cleric for lunch in a smart restaurant, and they would be very taken with Lyra and order special dishes for her, and she would learn how to eat asparagus or what sweetbreads tasted like. And then in the afternoon there might be more shopping, for Mrs. Coulter was preparing her expedition, and there were furs and oilskins and waterproof boots to buy, as well as sleeping bags and knives and drawing instruments that delighted Lyras heart. might go to tea and meet some ladies, as well dressed as Mrs. Coulter if not so beautiful or accomplished: women so unlike female Scholars or gyptian boat mothers or college servants as almost to be a new sex altogether, one with dangerous powers and quasi such as elegance, charm, and grace. Lyra would be dressed up prettyly for these occasions, and the ladies would pamper her and include her in their graceful delicate talk, which was all about people: this artist, or that politician, or those lovers .

And when the evening came, Mrs. Coulter might take Lyra to the theater, and again there would be lots of glamorous people to talk to and be admired by, for it seemed that Mrs. Coulter knew everyone important in London. In the intervals between all these other activities Mrs. Coulter would teach her the rudiments of geography and mathematics. Lyras knowledge had great gaps in it, like a map of the world largely eaten by mice, for at Jordan they had taught her in a piecemeal and disconnected way: a junior Scholar would be detailed to catch her and instruct her in such-and-such, and the lessons would continue for a sullen week or so until she “forgot” to turn up, to the Scholars relief. Or else a Scholar would forget what he was supposed to teach her, and drill her at great length about the subject of his current research, whatever that happened to be. It was no wonder her knowledge was patchy. She knew about atoms and elementary particles, and anbaromagnetic charges and the four fundamental forces and other bits and pieces of experimental theology, but nothing about the solar system. In fact, when Mrs. Coulter realized this and explained how the earth and the other five planets involved around the sun,Lyra laughed loudly at the joke.

However, she was keen to show that she did know some things, and when Mrs. Coulter was telling her about electrons, she said expertly, “Yes, they’re negatively charged particles. Sort of like Dust, except that Dust isn’t charged.” As soon as she said that, Mrs. Coulters daemon snapped his head up to look at her, and all the golden fur on his little body stood up, bristling, as if it were charged itself. Mrs. Coulter laid a hand on his back . "Dust?" she said. "Yeah. You know, from space, that Dust." "What do you know about Dust, Lyra?" “Oh, that it comes out of space, and it lights people up, if you have a special sort of camera to see it by. Except not children. It doesn’t affect children.”

“Where did you learn that from?” By now Lyra was aware that there was a powerful tension in the room, because Pantalaimon had crept ermine-like onto her lap and was trembling violently. “Just someone in Jordan,” Lyra said vaguely. “I forget who. I think it was one of the Scholars.” “Was it in one of your lessons?” “Yes, it might have been. Or else it might have been just in passing. Yes. I think that was it. This Scholar, I think he was from New Denmark, he was talking to the Chaplain about Dust and I was just passing and it sounded interesting so I couldnt help stopping to listen. Thats what it was.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Coulter. "Is it right, what he told me? Did I get it wrong?" "Well, I dont know. Im sure you know much more than I do. Lets get back to those electrons...." Later, Pantalaimon said, “You know when all the fur stood up on her daemon? Well, I was behind him, and she grabbed his fur so tight her knuckles went white. You couldn't see. It was a long time till his fur went down. I thought he was going to leap at you." That was strange, no doubt; but neither of them knew what to make of it. And finally, there were other kinds of lessons so gently and subtly given that they didnt feel like lessons at all. How to wash ones own hair; how to judge which colors suited one; how to say no in such a charming way that no offense was given; how to put on lipstick, powder, scent. To be sure, Mrs. Coulter didnt teach Lyra the latter arts directly, but she knew Lyra was watching when she made herself up, and she took care to let Lyra see where she kept the cosmetics, and to allow her time on her own to explore and try them out for herself.

* * * Time passed, and autumn began to change into winter. From time to time Lyra thought of Jordan College, but it seemed small and quiet compared to the busy life she led now. Every so often she thought of Roger, too, and felt uneasy, but there was an opera to go to, or a new dress to wear, or the Royal Arctic Institute to visit, and then she forgot him again. When Lyra had been living there for six weeks or so, Mrs. Coulter decided to hold a cocktail party. Lyra had the impression that there was something to celebrate, though Mrs. Coulter never said what it was. She ordered flowers, she discussed canapes and drinks with the caterer, and she spent a whole evening with Lyra deciding whom to invite.

“We must have the archbishop. I couldnt afford to leave him out, though hes the most hateful old snob. Lord Boreal is in town: hell be fun. And the Princess Postnikova. Do you think it would be right to invite Erik Andersson? I wonder if its about time to take him up...." Erik Andersson was the latest fashionable dancer. Lyra had no idea what “take him up” meant, but she enjoyed giving her opinion nonetheless. She dutifully wrote down all the names Mrs. Coulter suggested, spelling them atrociously and then crossing them out when Mrs. . Coulter decided against them after all. When Lyra went to bed, Pantalaimon whispered from the pillow:

“Shes never going to the North! Shes going to keep us here forever. When are we going to run away?” “She is,” Lyra whispered back. “You just dont like her. Well, thats hard luck. I like her. And why would she be teaching us navigation and all that if she wasn't going to take us north?" “To stop you getting impatient, thats why. You dont really want to stand around at the cocktail party being all sweet and pretty. Shes just making a pet out of you.” Lyra turned her back and closed her eyes. But what Pantalaimon said was true. She had been feeling confined and cramped by this polite life, however luxurious it was. She would have given anything for a day with Roger and her Oxford ragamuffin friends, with a battle in the claybeds and a race along the canal.

The one thing that kept her polite and attentive to Mrs. Coulter was that tantalizing hope of going north. Perhaps they would meet Lord Asriel. Perhaps he and Mrs. Coulter would fall in love, and they would get married and adopt Lyra, and go and rescue Roger from the Gobblers. On the afternoon of the cocktail party, Mrs. Coulter took Lyra to a fashionable hairdressers, where her stiff dark blond hair was softened and waved, and her nails were filed and polished, and where they even applied a little makeup to her eyes and lips to show her how to do it. Then they went to collect the new dress Mrs. Coulter had ordered for her, and to buy some patent-leather shoes, and then it was time to go back to the flat and check the flowers and get dressed.

“Not the shoulder bag, dear,” said Mrs. Coulter as Lyra came out of her bedroom, glowing with a sense of her own prettiness. Lyra had taken to wearing a little white leather shoulder bag everywhere, so as to keep the alethiometer close at hand. Mrs. Coulter, loosening the cramped way some roses had been bunched into a vase, saw that Lyra wasn't moving and glanced pointedly at the door. “Oh, please, Mrs. Coulter, I do love this bag!” “Not indoors, Lyra. It looks absurd to be carrying a shoulder bag in your own home. Take it off at once, and come and help check these glasses....” It wasn't so much her snappish tone as the words “in your own home” that made Lyra resist stubbornly. Pantalaimon flew to the floor and instantly became a polecat, arching his back against her little white ankle socks. Encouraged by this, Lyra said:

“But it wont be in the way. And its the only thing I really like wearing. I think it really suits—” She didnt finish the sentence, because Mrs. Coulters daemon sprang off the sofa in a blur of golden fur and pinned Pantalaimon to the carpet before he could move. Lyra cried out in alarm, and then in fear and pain, as Pantalaimon twisted this way and that, shrieking and snarling, unable to loosen the golden monkeys grip. Only a few seconds, and the monkey had overmastered him: with one fierce black paw around his throat and his black paws gripping the polecats lower limbs, he took one of Pantalaimons ears in his other paw and pulled as if he intended to tear it off. Not angrily, either, but with a cold curious force that was horrifying to see and even worse to feel. Lyra sobbed in terror. "Don't! Please! Stop hurting us!" Mrs. Coulter looked up from her flowers. "Do as I tell you, then," she said. "I promise!" The golden monkey stepped away from Pantalaimon as if he were suddenly bored. Pantalaimon fled to Lyra at once, and she scooped him up to her face to kiss and gentle. "Now, Lyra," said Mrs. Coulter. Lyra turned her back abruptly and slammed into her bedroom, but no sooner had she banged the door shut behind her than it opened again. Mrs. Coulter was standing there only a foot or two away. "Lyra, if you behave in this coarse and vulgar way, we shall have a confrontation, which I will win. Take off that bag this instant. Control that unpleasant frown. Never slam a door again in my hearing or out of it. Now , the first guests will be arriving in a few minutes, and they are going to find you perfectly behaved, sweet, charming, innocent, attentive, delightful in every way. I particularly wish for that, Lyra, do you understand me?" "Yes, Mrs. Coulter." "Then kiss me." She bent a little and offered her cheek. Lyra had to stand on tiptoe to kiss it. She noticed how smooth it was, and the slight perplexing smell of Mrs. Coulters flesh: scented, but somehow metallic. She drew away and laid the shoulder bag on her dressing table before following Mrs. Coulter back to the drawing room. “What do you think of the flowers, dear?” said Mrs. Coulter as sweetly as if nothing had happened. “I suppose one cant go wrong with roses, but you can have too much of a good thing....Have the caterers brought enough ice? Be a dear and go and ask. Warm drinks are horrid..." Lyra found it was quite easy to pretend to be lighthearted and charming, though she was conscious every second of Pantalaimons disgust, and of his hated for the golden monkey. Presently the doorbell rang, and soon the room was filling up with fashionablely dressed ladies and handsome or distinguished men. Lyra moved among them offering canapes or smiling sweetly and making pretty answers when they spoke to her. She felt like a universal pet, and the second she voiced that thought to herself, Pantalaimon stretched his gold finch wings. She sensed his glee at having proved her right, and became a little more retiring. “And where do you go to school, my dear?” said an elderly lady, inspecting Lyra through a lorgnette. "I don't go to school," Lyra told her. "Really? I thought your mother would have sent you to her old school. A very good place..." Lyra was mystified until she realized the old lady mistake. “Oh! Shes not my mother! Im just here helping her. Im her personal assistant,” she said importantly. "I see. And who are your people?" Again Lyra had to wonder what she meant before replying. “They were a count and countess,” she said. “They both died in an aeronautical accident in the North.” "Which count?" “Count Belacqua. He was Lord Asriels brother.” The old lady daemon, a scarlet macaw, shifted as if in irritation from one foot to another. The old lady was beginning to frown with curiosity, so Lyra smiled sweetly and moved on. She was going past a group of men and one young woman near the large sofa when she heard the word Dust. She had seen enough of society now to understand when men and women were flirting, and she watched the process with fascination, though she was more fascinated by the mention of Dust, and she hung back to listen. The men seemed to be Scholars; from the way the young woman was questioning them, Lyra took her to be a student of some kind. “It was discovered by a Muscovite—stop me if you know this already—” a middle-aged man was saying, as the young woman gazed at him in admiration, “a man called Rusakov, and they usually called Rusakov Particles after him. Elementary particles that dont interact in any way with others—very hard to detect, but the extraordinary thing is that they seem to be attracted to human beings.” “Really?” said the young woman, wide-eyed. “And even more extraordinary,” he went on, “some human beings more than others. Adults attract it, but not children. At least, not much, and not until adolescence. In fact, thats the very reason—” His voice dropped, and he moved closer to the young woman, putting his hand confidentially on her shoulder. “—thats the very reason the Oblation Board was set up. As our good hostess here could tell you.” “Really? Is she involved with the Oblation Board?” “My dear, she is the Oblation Board. Its entirely her own project—” The man was about to tell her more when he caught sight of Lyra. She stared back at him unblinkingly, and perhaps he had had a little too much to drink, or perhaps he was keen to impress the young woman, for he said: “This little lady knows all about it, Ill be bound. Youre safe from the Oblation Board, arent you, my dear?”