One day, a lady and a golden monkey rode a bus (Open)
How ironic that she should find some solitude in a public transit. Mrs. Coulter! In a public transit! When she had her own flying zeppelin and a whole staff catering to her needs and now she travels with the masses.
But it did not really matter in a world who did not know who she was. Well, certainly not until that scandalous press release from the daily periodical, which continued to flood her apartment and cause incessant ringing of that communicative device, the 'phone'.
It was not the slightest bit amusing. It did not tickle her fancy those flirtatious phrases and the excruciating cliches. If anything, they were honey coated knives.
Those pamphlets so harmless, so common, so ubiquitous the past few days held information. Secrets, insider information, shamelessly displayed for all to see. Daemon the word flashed at her at the edge of the page. Never, had she even imagined of disclosing the nature of the golden monkey to anyone in that world, as was only wise. He was a 'pet', an animal companion, a poodle trotting after his mistress, one that just happened to be very intelligent one it seemed it had a mind of it own, and in which it did, but no one was supposed to know that. It should end in speculation.
Yet someone in the City has uncovered it, and published it so.
Mrs. Coulter should not be too worried yet, it was not as though it linked the word to the monkey, but any moment, it would, it could...They will see the monkey for what it is. Her heartbeat.
How much did the City know about her? About them? Was there an intention behind their placement? Were they not there by accident? By unfortunate circumstances? Experiments gone out of hand?
The nagging questions set her in a foul mood in that City bus, and her temper was already sore to begin with since her faithful spyflies remained missing for already the fourth day. She had no new information, no new names and places, the gathering of which has not--and likely will never--conclude as the City continues to shift like a child's daemon. But if her precious flies, her eyes in the City, were utterly paralyzed then it would be much akin to blindness. A certain danger in a City that probes and spies back with increasing and malicious fervour.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the bus stopped to accomodate new passengers. There was plenty of space at the back where she was seated, and the lady Coulter had such a comely face, if not just for the monkey on her lap who glared at everything.