How could a person jump from the same stock as John and myself and certain enhancements to pass the apples?! Lyra felt a little giddy and a lot frazzled, her words bursting out too quick to let Rosario go into detail bout her family history.
"The same stock," she repeated, determined to pull the conversation away from apples. She did stand though, picking up the bowl, but she gripped them like the safety bar of a ride she hadn't realised was going to drop so quickly. "I remember what you said, bout the faeries, that you were of them but not them, or something? And you," she turned to Johnny, Johnny who was looking infuriatingly calm and thoughtful about the whole thing. "I remember you said you were Little John, like from a story. I know what you told me, and I know there are faeries, and I know that time can get all twisted up, and I know everyone forgot me and everyone forgot you and that's some kinda voodoo and I know I have saint's blood but I don't know what that means, or like, how people can come back from the dead, like real dead, rotting dead, not just a little dead! Does that mean you can come back from the dead as well? Is 'saint's blood' a 'certain enhancement'?! What are we?!"
(In the back of Lyra's head, she was imagining this scene playing out in a world where Rosario hadn't seen the undead huntress and didn't really believe her, and Lyra knew that the tumble of questions falling out of her mouth weren't doing her any favours in the 'I'm not crazy' claim, even though that was no longer a claim they were disputing. She sounded crazy. She felt a little crazy. So much for trying to be the one who knew what was going on.)
"Arright, arright," Little John said, rising to take the bowl of slices from Lyra's hands and set them down where Elaine could reach them. "Let's try slow it all down. I know it's a lot, but we've got time, arright?"
Did they? Lyra couldn't feel it. Her insides were humming with urgency, but Little John spoke again before she could express any more.
"You girls are right," he said, which was up there with the best thing anyone coulda said to Lyra, right now, and she both saw, and appreciated, the deep look of empathy he gave Rosario. "You're both in it. Let's try and unpack all this one thing at a time? We gotta get this cleared up first, though: saint's blood might make you a little different, but it isn't going to bring you back from the dead, don't ever try to test that. And yeah, you remember right, I am Little John, and yeah, I've been around since about the thirteenth century, so I've died and pulled myself back together a few times. Trust me, tisn't pretty from my end, either. You want to move on to different questions," he asked, taking a seat once more. "Or you want to unpack those answers a little more?"
Lyra didn't sit again. Lyra stayed on her feet, her hands gripping on to back of Rosario's chair, trying to work out what she needed to process more: saint's blood might make you a little different or thirteenth century. She honestly had no idea.