Mrs. Coulter turned back to the water oove, which was nearly at the boil.
Croug down, she crumbled some dried leaves into it, two pinches from this bag, one from that, and added three drops of a pale yellow oil. She stirred it briskly, ting in her head till five minutes had gone by. Theook the pan off the stove and sat down to wait for the liquid to cool.
Arouhere lay some of the equipment from the camp by the blue lake where Sir Charles Latrom had died: a sleeping bag, a rucksack with ges of clothes and washing equipment, and so on. There was also a case of vas with a tough wooden frame, lined with kapok, taining various instruments; and there istol in a holster.
The deco cooled rapidly ihin air, and as soon as it was at blood heat, she poured it carefully into a metal beaker and carried it to the rear of the cave. The monkey daemon dropped his pine e and came with her.
Mrs. Coulter placed the beaker carefully on a low rod k beside the sleeping Lyra. The golden monkey crouched oher side, ready to seize Pantalaimon if he woke up.
Lyras hair was damp, and her eyes moved behind their closed lids. She was beginning to stir: Mrs. Coulter had felt her eyelashes flutter when shed kissed her, and knew she didnt have long before Lyra woke up altogether.
She slipped a hand uhe girls head, and with the other lifted the damp strands of hair off her forehead. Lyras lips parted and she moaned softly; Pantalaimon moved a little closer to her breast. The golden monkeys eyes never left Lyras daemon, and his little black fiwitched at the edge of the
sleeping bag.
A look from Mrs. Coulter, a go and moved back a hands breadth. The womaly lifted her daughter so that her shoulders were off the ground and her head lolled, and then Lyra caught her breath and her eyes half-opened, fluttering, heavy.
"Roger," she murmured. "Roger... where are you... I t see..."
"Shh," her mother whispered, "shh, my darling, drink this."
Holding the beaker in Lyras mouth, she tilted it to let a drop moisten the girls lips. Lyras tongue se and moved to lick them, and then Mrs. Coulter let a little more of the liquid trickle into Lyras mouth, very carefully, letting her swallow each sip before allowing her more.
It took several minutes, but eventually the beaker was empty, and Mrs. Coulter laid her daughter down again. As soon as Lyras head lay on the ground, Pantalaimon moved back arouhroat. His red-gold fur was as damp as her hair. They were deeply asleep again.
The golden monkey picked his way lightly to the mouth of the cave and sat once more watg the path. Mrs. Coulter dipped a flannel in a basin of cold water and mopped Lyras face, and then unfastehe sleeping bag and washed Lyras arms and ned shoulders, for Lyra was hot. Then her mother took a b aly teased out the tangles in Lyras hair, smoothing it back from her forehead, parting it ly.
She left the sleeping hag open so the girl could cool down, and unfolded the buhat Ama had brought: some flat loaves of bread, a cake of pressed tea, some sticky rice ed in a large leaf. It was time to build the fire. The chill of the mountains was fierce at night. W methodically, she shaved some dry tinder, set the fire, and struck a match. That was something else to think of: the matches were running out, and so was the naphtha for the stove; she must keep the fire alight day and night from now on.
Her daemon was distented. He didnt like what she