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“Do not fail to admire the things we have together. Do not fail to acknowledge what we could have apart. But know that I would take this life over any other.” These were the words that my Lyra spoke to me on a day of tedious repudiation and intense revelation. That day haunts me, but it is a sweet sort of haunt. The sweetness flows like memories in a sleep slowed mind. The memories of the arguments that sparked animosity, but also understanding breeze through the study and the laboratory adjacent, down to the living quarters and the sleeping quarters, down farther to the drawing room and eatery, down, till it reaches the hickory door and spreads itself thickly over the garden. The drawing room was the starting scene for this altercation. Who was there I am not sure, these were colleagues of Lyra’s, fellow scientists who were radical enough to appreciate her, and occasionally myself, should I make myself known. But even with their progressive views, they found our lives strange. It was an unspoken truth that our household was a bit different than most you would find in the age. Two people, two women, both unwed and seemingly with no desire to do so, perfectly happy. It was a general consensus that the Lady Lyra must be so focused on her science that she simply didn't have time to find a suitor and settle down. Instead, she was content to live with another of her gender, who, if not for their arrangement, would also have been destined for perpetual loneliness. I, however, have been more of a mystery. It is known that I am a writer, it is known that I help Lyra with the research and the reports of her experiments and that I am well versed myself in many a great intellectual pondery. And this, I think, was the heart of the mystery the population of our peers sought to uncover. Our personages were an enigma, and thus the theories about our affiliation ran rampant. But, to explain further the curiosities and speculations that plagued our lives, I must explain the person of Lyra. Like the strangely constructed home we live in, Lyra herself is a complicated maze of the feminine and the masculine. Not enough of one to confuse, but ample in terms of intrigue. Her face holds confidence unbeknownst to most women of the time, a set of the brow and lips that are more commonly found in the gentile men who are sure of their place and value. Her voice has a deepness that plays on the senses like the humming of a piano long after the final chord has been struck. Everything she says is done so with indefinite finality, and it would, and continues, keep those who do not know her on seats' edge. But her speaking is not as unusual as her laugh. Lyra’s laugh may yet be my favourite sound. It has a harsh quality, as if she were not quite laughing with you, but at you. Not meanly, mind, just as a sort of observation, as though she sees the intricacies you were trying to subtly hide in your speech. This laugh draws you in and keeps you there, it certainly kept me. To most though her eyes were probably the most alluring. Oh, how common the love of her eyes, I almost think it a tragedy that she should be victim to the most generic of compliments about them. But I can see why they are appreciated. Her eyes have an intelligent pleasure that lingers deep in their depths but is still obvious at the slightest glance. They guard the knowledge of many a study of the scientific sort, along with a knowledge of a different kind. This other knowledge, the knowledge of me, was one that Lyra knew with great intimacy, it is one that others would have liked to know as well. And it was this, I think, what caused the tension that we felt on that day. The day that carried a tacit weight upon my shoulders before breaking me and driving me to near panic. On the day in question, the learned folks of the town gathered in our drawing room. They talked of science and scripture, the nature of both, the nature of either, the nature of none. And somewhere along these talks turned to the nature of us, of my and Lyra’s affections. Of course, I was used to the questions of marriage from my kinsmen and those gossiping old ladies who tend to push their sons on you at first chance. I was used to the questions of why I seemed content without a husband of my own and only another woman as company. I was used to questions of career and finance if either Lyra or I would be able to sustain ourselves being the women we are. But this question was new, I cannot recall exactly what was said or by who, but it shook me. It shook me enough that I retreated to my chambers to ponder my reaction.
After the party had gone Lyra found me. I acted as though it had simply been a pain in my temples that drove me to retract myself, headaches were not uncommon for me so I knew it was a believable lie. And indeed it was, possibly too believable, any qualms I had were hidden beneath my own expert manipulation. She could not see the seed of doubt that had been instilled in me by this remark. But neither of us could see that my trepidation would grow and spread like weeds in our garden. It took a fortnight before my anxieties crept upon me and started to become noticeable, even to Lyra, who, had been quite focused on a new experiment and had little time to direct any at me. She found me in the study, I had open a book of old medicinal and holistic practices for healing a strained mind. I believe I must have read the same passage nearly twenty times, yet I cannot recall what was said. I haven't had reason to open that book since that conversation that followed Lyras’ entrance. Upon her entry, she questioned after my secluded habits that had formed of late. I did not reply. She questioned once more, this time upon the nature of my reasons if it was something she did or something she said. I still did not answer. Finally, she lost patience and took me into her embrace. It was a comfort, her arms strong and warm, and my rigidness, both in mind and body, loosened somewhat with her touch. I was held by her long enough that my defences broke down, I asked what seemed to be a million parts of a single question, I pleaded, but for what I do not know. I might have shed tears, I might have shed much more. All I remember is the comfort that came after my brief mental collapse. Lyra gave me relief and told me the answer I must have asked or at the very least implied somewhere in my fanatical babbling. “Do not fail to admire the things we have together. Do not fail to acknowledge what we could have apart. But know that I would take this life over any other.” And as simple and as quick as it may seem my soul was eased. My fears seemed less so at the utterance of these earnest words. They are the reason that the day of the argument is a bittersweet memory to me. These words are the whole of our foundation. On which we have built our home and our lives. The weeds that had overtaken my mind seemed now to be swept away by the perfume of the purport of lasting understanding. A sweetness that rests like honey on the tongue, as a tonic for the mind and a featherlight imprint on the spirit that I imagine shall grant me solace for time to come. Now my thoughts are peaceful. I no longer trouble myself with suspicions about the nature or strength of our bond. Lyra put these thoughts to rest without any uncertainty and she quelled my terror as easily as one puts out a candle's flame. And I believe that I shall put this argument out of my mind in a similar form of extinguishment after I have written this final phrase. Do not fear what you have, do not fear what you could. Know that this is your life, and you should cherish it, while it is here.