“Lizzie?”

The brown-haired woman sat bolt upright at the sound of her mother’s voice; a voice so old it sounded like dry paper rustling and cracking. Elizabeth had been sleeping on the small couch, wrapped protectively in the arms of her lover and soon-to-be-husband. He had proposed a week ago, and even with her mother in the condition she was, Elizabeth couldn’t refuse. She loved him so fiercely it made her heart ache with excitement just to think about him.

But now Mother called. She was so old... and Elizabeth was afraid, terribly afraid. Her love for her mother was of a deeper vein, one which Alek had yet to tap into. Lyra was such an independent spirit; Elizabeth could not bear the thought that the world would soon lose such a beautiful person. She could not bear the thought of losing her own mother. It was too much, especially after Dad had died only two months ago, due to complications with his heart surgery.

“Lizzie? Where are you, love? I can’t see so well.”

Elizabeth gently disentangled herself from Alek, who stirred and opened his eyes a fraction. Elizabeth touched his cheek lightly with a forefinger and smiled, to tell him that everything was all right. Mother had been needing so much care recently that Elizabeth slept with her, on the couch in her bedroom, almost every night. Just in case. Elizabeth knew Lyra was strong. She’d hold out. She was far too stubborn to die.

But Elizabeth kept an eye on her. Just in case.

She tiptoed to the bed, allowing Alek to slip back into the blessed sleep he’d had so little of recently. Neither of them had been sleeping well.

Elizabeth laid a cool hand on Mother’s small, papery-skinned forehead. Even at ninety-one, Lyra was beautiful. Her fine gray hair had not thinned noticeably even in her later years, and her wrinkles formed thin, fine lines of smiling and laughter all around her eyes and mouth. Her blue eyes were as keen as ever, though they had long since ceased to pick through all the layers of meaning held buried within the treasure she had worked so hard to understand: her alethiometer.

“Yes, Mama? I’m here. I’m just right here. What is it?”

Pantalaimon opened his misty pine marten eyes and nuzzled his snout up from where he was lying curled around Lyra’s neck and shoulder. Quintelia, Elizabeth’s dæmon, fluttered down from her shoulder and settled on the bed closer to Pantalaimon’s muzzy sight. Pan and the starling rubbed cheeks briefly, and Quintelia set to preening the fur behind Pantalaimon’s ears. Lyra sighed.

“Lizzie, what day is it?”

Lyra had always called her Lizzie, even though her given name was Elizabeth; and where her older brother’s name was Timothy, Lyra refused to call him by any name but Tim. When Elizabeth had asked about this, Lyra had only said that they were old reminders of days long gone. But she had said this with such a look of wistfulness, longing and sorrow that Elizabeth knew there was more to it.

“It’s Midsummer Day, Mama.”

She knew how the rest of the conversation would go, and she had wished it wouldn’t happen this year, as it had happened every year before. For forty-six years Elizabeth had gone with her mother to the Botanic Garden, late in the evening on Midsummer Day. Lyra would sit on the little stone bench at the back while Elizabeth and Quintelia poked about in the trees and flowers. Then the bells would begin to chime, and Lyra’s breath would catch, and she would try to hide her tears. And when the last deep metal voice faded to a whisper, Lyra would stand, touch the air over the opposite side of the bench lovingly, sigh; and they would leave, and Mother would never say another word about it until next year.

Now, before Lyra could gather words for the request, Elizabeth continued. “Mama... you’re far too weak to go this year. You know that, right? Mama, I love you. It’s wet out and you’d catch your death. I couldn’t bear it. Why can’t you rest this year? I’m here with you, you’d be safe.”

Lyra opened her eyes and looked up into Elizabeth’s face. “Lizzie, I have to go. Will you come?”

Elizabeth hesitated, but she just couldn’t deny her own mother her right... whatever the Garden held for Lyra emotionally, it was something strong and deep-rooted, and this close to the end Elizabeth thought Mother deserved to get what she asked for without being deceived or restrained. “All right. Let me tell Alek where we’re going.”

Lyra smiled and nodded, closing her eyes. Elizabeth and Quintelia moved quietly to Alek’s couch and Elizabeth shook him gently awake. He frowned slightly at her explanation, but consented with a kiss; he got up and helped her find her lightest oiled coat, because it was only drizzling outside, not pouring down rain. He held it up for her to shrug into. Quintelia crooned quietly to Alek’s Eurasian lynx dæmon, who twitched her stubby tail with worry. Aleksandr and his dæmon had taken a long time to adjust to life in Oxford; he was an immigrant Muscovite, and was used to far colder weather.

Finally Lyra was supported into a wheelchair and with a parting hug and kiss between Elizabeth and Alek, the daughter wheeled her mother into the living room.

“Hold there,” said Lyra. “Take me over to the table.”

Elizabeth did as she was told. The table was cluttered with papers, candles, and stubs of pencil, and one corner was entirely taken up by a large globe. Lyra twirled the globe expertly, and her finger landed precisely in the middle of the country of Texas.

“See you soon, Mr. Scoresby,” she whispered. Then she reached further and plucked one of the marchpane decorations off of the amateurishly-made cake that Elizabeth had slapped together for Tim’s fiftieth birthday, two days ago. It was mostly stale now, but only a small slice or two’s worth of it remained anyway, because Elizabeth had been snacking on the leftovers in place of almost every meal. Her will to cook had been completely worn out by that one attempt, though it had been much appreciated by her older brother, who knew for a fact that Elizabeth was a terrible cook by nature. He claimed it was a family trait, for Lyra herself had never been able to cook much of anything except omelette, which was an invention of hers that she was quite proud of.

Lyra had not had any of the cake until now. She couldn’t digest it, really; she had to have softer foods. But now she plucked a petal off of a marchpane flower and popped it in her mouth with closed eyes. Elizabeth looked on anxiously, afraid she might choke; but she didn’t.

“All right,” Mother said eventually, barely above a whisper. “Let’s go.”

The walk down the familiar Oxford streets was a relatively short one, and Elizabeth knew it by heart. She nodded at the occasional person she knew, as they passed on their ways to shops or pubs or homes; or when they simply passed, unsure themselves of where they were going.

“I wish I could say goodbye to dear old Iorek,” Lyra murmured to herself as they neared the Botanic Garden, visible by the dying sunlight. “I en’t got the slightest idea where Serafina Pekkala’s gone to. She has duties, of course.”

“What was that, Mama?” Elizabeth inquired.

“Just a moment, dear, just a moment. Let me walk in, would you? Yes, I know I’m not up to it,” she went on as Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest. “Help me up, please.” Lyra held up her arm to Elizabeth, who helped lever her out of the chair and onto her feet, despite her own better judgment. They stood in the doorway to the Botanic Garden: the mother old and gray and stooped, the daughter young and nimble and quick; and both as full of light as a pair of flowers in spring.

Elizabeth helped her mother to the stone bench at the very back, where she always distinctly sat on the right side, as if leaving room for some invisible person or spirit to seat itself beside her. Pantalaimon lay in her lap, as old and frail as Lyra, his joints threatened with arthritis and his fur gray-streaked and silky.

“Now, Lizzie,” said Lyra with a heavy breath. “I have some things to tell you. Come here, sit with me.”

Elizabeth sat on the left side of the bench hesitantly, feeling as though she were disrupting some sacred place that belonged only to Lyra.

“What is it, Mama?” she asked quietly.

“I feel the need to tell you about a very important thing that happened when I was a child of about twelve. I’ll tell you about where the names Lizzie and Tim come from, too, because it’s all connected.”

Elizabeth felt her heart jump with excitement. She had always known there was something that Lyra had always held back on telling her, and she was sure this was it.

“There’s just one condition, now, Lizzie. And you must accept it, because I don’t think I can bear to take this knowledge to the grave with me.”

“Of course I’ll accept it, Mama. What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to believe me,” Lyra said simply.

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For the next hour -- or perhaps longer, Elizabeth found it hard to keep track of time -- Lyra wove such a bizarre tale of love and betrayal, Dust and hate, death and religion, and love again, that Elizabeth was lost in the beautiful tapestry of her mother’s storytelling. She fought tears valiantly, but still she wept for Lee Scorseby and Roger the kitchen-boy, and for the tiny Gallivespians with their dragonfly mounts; she gazed in wonder at Pantalaimon, wondering if he really could leave Lyra’s side and travel long distances like a witches’ dæmon; she and Quintelia fluttered and shivered with horror at the thought of being cut apart. Slowly Elizabeth began to understand a vast expanse of the intrinsic wisdom her mother had always seemed to bear; faster, Elizabeth’s love and affection for her mother deepened.

And finally, Elizabeth learned about Will Parry, and the bittersweet ending of her mother’s all-too-brief relationship with the boy with the cat dæmon.

“I loved him so much it hurt, Lizzie,” said Lyra, and Elizabeth thought of Alek, and how heart-strainingly she loved him. “When he closed that last window I felt I’d never be able to love anyone again. But I did, I fell in love with your father just as deeply, and I knew we’d be right together. But you see, dear Lizzie, I en’t never forgotten Will, nor will I ever, until I die. Even after that I won’t. I’ll tell the harpies all about boarding school, and getting married, and you and Tim, and about everything else I learned since I left Will behind; and then I’ll go out the window we left open for the ghosts, and I’ll become trees and dirt and starlight. I’ll find out Roger and Mr. Scoresby and little Lady Salmakia, and everyone else I’ve ever lost, and I’ll be a part of them, too. I’ll come and be a part of you, soon’s I can.

“Lizzie, I’ve accepted my death for years now, and though you may not be able to see him, I can. He’s been by my bedside for five years or more. He’s here beside me now. Don’t look like that. He en’t cutting my head off or anything, he’s just a waiting for me. When I’m gone, there’s nothing for you to be sorry about, because now you know where I’ll be going, and it’s the most beautiful, loving place I could ever be: I’ll be going into your heart. Pan and I love you and Tim more than anything else, even Will, but that’s a different kind of love. We don’t want either of you to be sad for us. But now that you know my story, you have to remember these things, because they’re the only things I have to give back to the world that gave so much to me.”

A tear splashed over Elizabeth’s cheek, and she whispered, “Yes, Mama. I’m listening.”

Lyra developed a faraway look as the first bell chimed outside, deep and sorrowful.

“You have to be all those difficult things like curious and kind and cheerful and patient , and you have to work hard at your dreams because they don’t come true all by themselves. Give all your imagination to love and living, to keep Dust alive. And learn all you can, even if that’s a little bit about everything instead of a lot about one thing, because it takes all sorts to build the Republic of Heaven.”

Elizabeth’s tears were flowing freely now, and she stifled an audible sob. “I will, Mama. Alek and I will get married, and I know he has a lot to teach me. I’ll learn, I swear I will.”

“I know you will, love. You have some things to teach him, too, you know.” Lyra hugged her daughter as best she could, and Elizabeth buried her face in her mother’s shoulder as if she were a small child again.

“There, it’ll all be fine, dear,” murmured Lyra. “I think I’m as ready to leave as a soul can be. I’ve got no regrets except for my own parents, but I can’t change their fates; that’s all done and past. I can’t hold any regrets about Will, because I’m so sure we’ll meet again in death. So there’s nothing to fret about.”

Quintelia fluttered towards Pantalaimon and back to Elizabeth, then up and about in confused little circles in the air, giving away how grief-stricken Elizabeth was at her mother’s pronouncement.

“I think I should... I think I should like to be buried... in the Lower Quadrangle at... at Jordan, if it could be arranged. Under the... the oak, there. Roger and I... spent... a good deal of time... playing there... when we were children,” Lyra gasped, short of breath. Elizabeth looked up, fear in her light blue eyes.

“No, no, dear, I’m... I’m all right,” Lyra sighed. “Just a bit tired, is all. Oh...” Her vision became unfocused, as if she were looking at someone Elizabeth couldn’t see.

“He says it’s time to go now,” Lyra murmured. “Don’t worry, Lizzie. Everyone’s death is very kind to them. Mine is, at least. He’s let me have... so much time... for goodbyes.”

“Mama,” Elizabeth gasped, sitting upright and holding onto her frail form. “Lyra? Don’t die, please don’t...”

Lyra’s eyelids fluttered. “I want to,” she whispered. Pantalaimon let out a tiny mew, and Lyra held him close to her. “I want to find Will.”

Elizabeth remembered her thought earlier, that Lyra deserved what she asked for without being restrained. Elizabeth knew she was being selfish, trying to hold her mother back from the death she craved.

Half-choked and blinded with tears, Elizabeth whispered, “Goodbye, Mother.”

Lyra smiled faintly, making the lines on her old face deepen into shadowed wrinkles, outlining her smile. Quintelia gave a small goodbye call and fluttered away as Pantalaimon closed his eyes, let out a deep breath, and vanished.

Elizabeth and her dæmon sat on the small stone bench, alone with the the memory of Lyra Silvertongue, who had been Eve, Mother of All.

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Epilogue

Will Parry, at the ripe old age of ninety-two, had walked alone to the Botanic Garden this year. Usually Anna came with him, but she had stayed home this year to help babysit the grandkids. Will shook his head. Hard to believe he even had grandchildren. The thought of it made him feel particularly old.

He got over the threshold with some difficulty, using his cane as leverage. Walking down the flower-lined path this late evening, he listened to the bells chiming outside, all the different voices agreeing on the time, though some were slower to get to it than others. His panther dæmon, Kirjava, padded silently beside him, as sleek and lithe as ever.

For his entire life he had come here every year, to sit beside Lyra, his first love, though he knew she couldn’t see him. He had always been able to feel her presence, even though they were billions of universes apart. Last year it had been stronger than ever, and it had seemed to linger with him ever since, wherever he went; but there was a hint of sadness that accompanied it, a feeling Will couldn’t account for.

But now, as he neared the bench, he slowed. The bench, though always physically empty, seemed now to be empty even of her faint presence. Had she forgotten to come this year? He hadn’t felt that his old heart could break, but he thought it might now, if she had finally forgotten him. Of course, he had found another love, had married, had had kids and grown old with them; but still he’d never forgotten to come here every year.

“No,” said Kirjava quietly, voicing the thought Will was intentionally avoiding. “She hasn’t forgotten. She’s been with us for the last year.”

Will looked down at the bench sadly, accepting her death with a deep, aching grief, but no tears. “Yes, I suppose she has.”

Will and his dæmon looked on for a bit longer, then turned as one, the sadness lifting at last, replaced by a feeling of deep resignation. But it was layered over by happiness, of the inexplicable sort that Will couldn’t describe; because he was going to go home to a loving wife and family, and Lyra would still be with him. She’d be with him forever now, wherever he went, even after his death.

Will walked out into the red-gold light of the setting sun and was reminded of the color of Pantalaimon’s pine marten fur. He walked on, one gnarled hand on Kirjava’s back, the other gripping his oakwood cane. And quite far away, sunlight reflected off of the river where, in another world and another era, a young Lyra Belaqua had stolen a gyptian boat and sailed almost as far as Abingdon; ripples shivered the light up into a thousand tiny particles, creating, as some would have it, the illusion of Dust.

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