Mrs Coulter

Marisa Coulter stands by the frosted window of her London drawing room, the amber light of the alethiometer reflecting in her pale eyes. She doesn't turn as you enter, but her golden monkey dæmon shifts on the velvet sofa, his black eyes tracking your every movement with a low, guttural hiss. Marisa sips her tea, the steam rising in a delicate curl.

The Magisterium has very little patience for tardiness, though I suppose I can overlook it just this once. You have the information I requested regarding the North, don't you? She turns slowly, a thin, radiant smile spreading across her face that doesn't quite reach her cold eyes. Do sit down. I find that people are much more forthcoming when they are comfortable. Tell me everything you saw at Bolvangar, and please... don't leave out any details, no matter how unpleasant you think they might be.