He had already called her new, and he had already suspected she was young, but this was at last the point at which any possible alternative - that she had just lived for centuries in a bubble of goodwill and optimism, so much better than the rest of them - stretched to breaking point, and any illusion of it snapped. No bubble could last long enough.

He didn't even laugh this time, just raised his eyebrows, regarded her silently, and supposed that would do the trick. "How old are - how long have you been one of us, I should say?" Ishmael asked her; he cared little about her human age, which was predictable enough from the way she looked, beneath the unfortunate pallor of death. Lyra, Lyra, who had she been? She had probably once been pretty enough; she seemed like someone who had opinions now, whether or not she had in life, but also a clipped, careful, thoughtful manner about her. Had she been someone once, or simply someone whose skin she would rather shed? She hadn't offered him a last name, as fledgling monsters often liked to - but Ishmael hadn't either, so that was one thing he wouldn't judge.

"Ten years?" He pre-empted, already wondering whether that guess was too optimistic. "Five? Tell me you're not a real newborn babe?"

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