Another week passed, and Lyra didn’t see her again. She still didn’t feel better. Kept bouncing around between wanting to sleep all day, wishing she could get a head injury so she’d have an excuse not to write, and wanting mostly just to sit around and be sad, interspersed with watching TV with Bon Bon to make it not feel so bad.
Then, one day, Lyra was at Sugarcube Corner, picking up some lunch for her and Bon Bon. Pumpkin fritters and iced coffee; she feigned a little smile and thanked Mrs. Cake, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and carried the things in her magic, floating them at her side as she went for the door.
And there she was again.
Right out there, in the open. Standing outside on the street. Her stance was wide and confrontational. Lyra felt her heart pick up and a hard twitch in her right foreleg.
“HEY!” shouted the other her.
“WHAT?!” she screamed.
“FUCK YOU!” she screamed.
“FUCK YOU!” she screamed back.
“FUCK YOU!” she retorted.
And that’s when Lyra hurled the coffee at her and charged out into the street and tackled her, and she threw a punch, and then Lyra threw a punch in her snout—