There's a party in the distance, Lyra can hear it. Music coming from somewhere, raised voices (not aggressive or anything, but happy is too soft a word for them too – call it excited instead) and, as they hit the peak of the hill, a smashing of glass sings its way through the night. Sound carries, but when you stop paying attention to it, it also fades away. The crash of glass is such a... well, a human sound, so Lyra turns back to Rosario and stops paying attention to it, before her mind can inquire about what other sort of party she thought it might have been.
She dumps her bag on the grass, then dumps herself too, sprawling onto her back fearless of dog shit or trash or needles or whatever. She's St Patrick's daughter, she's never accidentally sat in dog shit in her life. "Here's copacetic," she declares – a couple of years ago, when the world turned into the twenties again, Lyra took a deep dive into 1920s culture, for a few weeks calling everyone tomatoes and cats. Like most of her phases, it didn't last, but some of the vocab stuck around (and note to self, she thinks: see what Patrick was getting up to, back then. She bet he has some stories.)
"Crack open the wine, I'll crack open the donuts? Whatchu feel like, choc-hazel? Strawberry-lime-custard?"