Lyra had slept like the dying - submerged by a blackness that crept closer by the second, painfully heavy. And yet she fought it all the way. Always just aware and clinging to the edge. Clawing her nails into the wall as the tide began to turn and she was swept out to sea, tossed and wrecked all the long night through, suspended somewhere eternal, just between drowned and free.
Now though, it was morning and soon the dawn would come to pinch her and leave its bruises underneath her eyes and Fahey, Fahey would loom from the shadows. Loom and ask her over and over as her skin seared like the furnace: ‘did you see the light?’
And she’d nod. Because, how could she not nod? The light was in her now, turning blood into molten ore and thumping its wings against the confines of her skull like the songbird in its cage. And so she’d nod and he’d unfurl. His shape going from big to small so easy, oh so painfully easy and he’d crouch, reach a finger that was spindly like the needle of a clock and tick it across her forehead. Tick. Tick. Tick. His breath would mutter and then quietly, in a voice just for them now,
‘did you dream?’
As he did, her eyes came back, able to see color now and not just fire, his parchment skin and waxy grey eyes, the limp lip drooping like a starfish that was just starting to crust on the beach.
‘No, Mr Fahey.’ And he drew back delighted, the starfish bulging now, threatening to spill its entrails all over her as the clock finger tickled her cheek and he nodded, again and again.
‘Good. Good girl, Lyra. Good girl.’
‘Thank you, Mr Fahey.’
How that stopped him. Arithmetic quick to scurry across his mind just as a quill would scratch too fast across parchment, blotting, smudging, troubling. Did he push her? Today was a beautiful day, full of light and no dreams and no challenge and so of course, he didn’t push her. The coward. Gone were the days when he’d hold her by the chin and summon the voice of all the spirits into his tongue and boom until her eardrums burst that
‘you will call me Sir.’ No. Long gone and tidied neat away. He wouldn’t do that now. Too tired of having to formulate a fitting response and punishment to meet the two unblinking eyes of ice-cold blue that would forever lock with his own and the calm and quiet answer that ended all his daily prayers.
‘You’re not my master.’
No. It was too much to manage. Too hard to achieve the balance between beating for good - for penance, redemption and for teaching, and for beating for bad - rebellion, loss of control and unholy temptation. So fitting it be that he left it now, the slow pucker of dead lip the only sign of distaste and he shrunk from confrontation and moved instead to loosen the binds upon her wrist, force composure back onto his tongue.
‘You’re ready to go back up?’
‘Yes, Mr Fahey.’
‘To go and work?’
‘Yes, Mr Fahey.’
‘But you’ll remember the curfew?’
‘Yes, Mr Fahey?’
‘And avoid the ocean?’
‘Yes, Mr Fahey.’
‘And stop watching over the Schooners?’
‘Yes, Mr Fahey.’
‘No more talking to the sea-men?’
‘No, Mr Fahey.’
‘And no more… Questions?’
‘Never. Mr Fahey.’
Her tone never changed. Unblinking the whole way and focused entirely on the wan grey of his eyes until he cracked first as always, closing shutters on those watery puddles and then nodding. Firmly. As if somehow it restored control.
‘Very good. Go on.’
She stood then and slowly, her dress falling back to brush her ankles, legs unsteady and spine unfurling much like parchment does when it has been kept in confinement too long. Carefully, she rubbed life into her hands, her fingers tinged blue and burning as they traced her arms. Burning with sin. She took a step, then two, then was almost all the way across the room when he stopped her, calling out her name and her body almost snapped as she turned.
‘Lyra.’ He repeated. ‘I said, is it going to rain?’
She shrugged. The prominence of her shoulder blades only emphasizing her point and he smiled, a real, proper smile this time and stood back to wave her forth.
Up into the light.
Outside, the first coming of the dawn had rubbed the grey away, leaving the world above bathed in palest pink and the air shivered as she heaved the heavy gate closed behind her, clanging metal scraping through the dew. The cliff town was sleeping still. The wind alone up to whisper and Lyra couldn’t help but taste the salt, the faintest promise of the sea rubbed across her lips to draw her eyes towards the East and the water, black and heavy far below down in the bay. Sleeping. A lump rose briefly in her throat before she swallowed it dead just like the waves themselves and turned instead to stone.
All of the dwellings were silent. Their labyrinth walkways slick beneath feet that weaved a shadow’s path left and then right and then left and then right whilst all the while her chest blew freer and freer until she reached grey rock and sea moss stacked three stories high and closed eyes to exhale. Against her hands, the snaggled crust of barnacles bit, fingers pale and thin as bone briefly mottled ruby, her breath sinking into welts. It had rained in the night, Fahey’s question rolled around eyes that found droplets buried in between the cracks, traced their path and then felt along the wall for the change in the stone that signaled entry. A loosened brick, much like any other at first glance, maybe second but not the third. Lyra pushed it, glancing up again to meet with nothing but frigid air until the arches of her feet stretched to snap and the first morning seabird soared above, carried fingers to the silver disc around her neck and then snapped them onward, inside.
The light of the coming day had yet to spill its way down the steps that she descended, the constricted passages beyond still heavy with the dark. She had to feel her way. Practiced feet easing over cracks, lifting to avoid the secret lips and ledges littering the shadows, niggling for mistakes. Lyra was deep underground now, lips curling at the irony of being freed into the light just to creep back into dark as she stooped narrow shoulders under ceiling dip and breathed again. The sea was strong in here, the scent of the last blood-tide thick enough to tear a shiver out of her, her mind briefly tugged back to the ravenous water racing from the caves below and claiming all it could. Not today. Today, all was calm and ahead, a pinprick of flame finally punctured endless black and drew a proper smile. Someone was awake.
Rounding the corner the heat of the fire cut the cold that lingered in her bones, drawing her in to raise hands towards it and find the figure on their knees and tending to the embers.
‘Late night? Or early morning?’
‘Can it not be both?’ The reply was biting quick. The woman who’d served it springing instantly to look her over, piercing green eyes all across her whilst a hand forced back a graying curl that spilled from piled-up bun. ‘He didn’t hurt you?’ It was a statement as much as it were a question. A dare that hung whilst strong shoulders bristled for battle, gaze fell on purple welts that snaked fresh around her wrists and another curl was yanked back into place.
‘No.’
‘Lyra.’
‘No.’ Again, she shook her head. The second reassurance landing deeper, cooling the rage that spat within the older woman. ‘He didn’t hurt me Mol. Not this time. He didn’t even shout. Hit me, showed me the belt, took my hands and then only touched my cheek. With dancing fingers too.’ Pausing, a smirk spilled at the memory, their eyes meeting before they spoke in perfect unison, gazes flung towards the sky. ‘Coward.’
‘Bastard.’ Mol had her hands now. Rubbing warmth into them and guiding her towards the fire and to the low seat that she was glad to settle onto, knees drawn up to chest to make a cushion, let her rest her head. Around her, the tavern creaked, secreted tables swept clean and pushed back against the wall with all the lamps out, tankards buried back beneath the floor. There was a bottle though, one last forgotten bottle with cool glass and a smooth rim that she let her thumb explore before she swigged, warmth trickling down within.
‘He was distracted.’
‘Hm?’
‘Fahey. He was distracted. Not just cowardly. He sat up for hours watching over the bay, even after he thought I’d fallen asleep.’
‘The rain-’
‘No.’ Slowly, Lyra let another drop of rum kiss her throat. ‘He was watching the sea, not the sky and there was no fear though he did ask me again this morning...’ Trailing, she bit her lip, ‘I don’t know, usually he sleeps me in the draft. It quickens cramp and besides, if I’m cold, if I shiver, then his hands can be upon me without any sin.’ Mol’s lip had puckered but she didn’t interject, only tilted her head further whilst Lyra stared into the fire and watched it dance, played the long night over and over and over, then bit her lip again. ‘Something's coming Mol. I can feel it sure as tides.’
