11

The Knot

Fog and cobwebs. Her mind was full of them, and so was the room, so was the dream she’d woken from.

‘Pan,’ she said, and hardly recognised her own voice. ‘Pan!’

No reply. No scuttle of claws on the floorboards, no feather-light leap on to the bed.

‘Pan! What are you doing? Where are you?’

She ran to the window, flung back the curtain, saw the ruins of the priory in the pearly glimmer of dawn. The wide world was out there still: no fog, no cobwebs, and no Pan.

In here? Was he under the bed, in a cupboard, on top of the wardrobe? Of course not. This wasn’t a game.

Then she saw her rucksack on the floor beside the bed. She hadn’t left it there; and on top of it there was the little black notebook of Hassall’s that Pan had spoken about.

She picked it up. It was worn and stained and many of the pages had corners that had been folded back. She flicked through it, seeing now, as he had, how the addresses seemed to trace the course of a journey from a mysterious Khwarezm to a house in the Lawnmarket, Edinburgh. And there was Sebastian Makepeace, in Juxon Street, Oxford, just as he’d said. Why hadn’t the name caught her eye? Why hadn’t she noticed what Pan was doing when he hid it? How many thousands of other things had she failed to see?

And then a note fell out. She snatched up the scrap of paper with shaking hands.

Pan’s claws weren’t formed to hold a pencil, but he could write in a fashion by holding one in his mouth.

It said:

GONE TO LOOK FOR YOUR IMAGINATION

That was all. She sat down, feeling weightless, transparent, disembodied.

‘How could you be so …’ she whispered, not knowing how to finish the question. ‘How can I live like …’

Her alarm clock showed the time to be half past six. The pub was quiet: Mr and Mrs Polstead would be getting up soon to make breakfast, to light fires, to do whatever else had to be done every morning. How could she tell them this? And Malcolm wasn’t there. She could have told him. When would he come? Surely he’d come soon. There was work to be done. He must come.

But then she thought: how can I tell them? How can I show myself to them like this? It would be shameful. It would be worse than mortifying. These people whom she hardly knew, who’d taken her in, whom she was growing to like so much – how could she inflict a monstrosity like herself now, a half-person, on them? On Pauline? On Alice? On Malcolm? Only Malcolm would understand, and even he might find her loathsome now. And she stank of garlic.

She would have wept if she hadn’t been paralysed with fear.

Hide, she thought. Run and hide. Her mind flew here and there, into the past, into the future and back quickly, into the past again, and found a face she remembered and loved, and trusted: Farder Coram.

He was old now, and he never moved from the Fens, but he was still alive and alert. They wrote to each other from time to time. And above all, he’d understand her predicament now. But how could she get to him? Her memory, rushing from image to image like a bird trapped inside a room, fluttered against something from the White Horse a night or two before. Dick Orchard, and the gyptian knotted handkerchief around his neck. He’d said something about his grandfather – Giorgio something – he was in Oxford now, wasn’t that it? And Dick was working the night shift at the Mail depot, so he’d be at home during the day …

Yes.

She dressed quickly in her warmest clothes, flung some others into the rucksack together with the black notebook and a few other things, looked around the little room she’d come to feel so much at home in, and went downstairs in silence.

In the kitchen she found some paper and a pencil and left a note: Sorry – so sorry – and thank you so much – but I’ve got to go. Can’t explain. Lyra.

Two minutes later she was walking along the riverbank again, and looking only at the path ahead of her, and with the hood of her parka pulled up over her head. If she saw anyone she’d have to take no notice. People often carried their dæmons, if they were small enough, in a pocket or buttoned inside their coats. She might be doing that. There was no need for anyone to suspect her if she walked on quickly, and it was still early.

But the journey to Botley, where Dick lived with his family, still took most of an hour, even walking fast, and she heard the bells of the city across the expanse of Port Meadow, striking unhelpfully – what? Half past seven? Half past eight? Surely not yet. She wondered what time his night shift finished. If he started work at ten, then he should be coming out sometime soon.

She slowed down as she came to Binsey Lane. It was going to be a rare clear day; the sun was bright now and the air was fresh. Binsey Lane led down from the meadow into the Botley Road, the main route into Oxford from the west. And people would be getting up now, and going to work. She hoped they’d be too busy to look at her, and had their own worries and preoccupations; she hoped that she looked uninteresting, as Will made himself look, as the witches did when they made themselves invisible, so that no one would give them more than a glance, and then forget them at once. She might be a witch herself, with her dæmon hundreds of miles away on the tundra.

That thought sustained her until she reached the Botley Road, where she had to look up to check the traffic before she could cross, and to look for the right little street going off the other side. She’d been to the Orchards’ house three or four times: she remembered the front door, even if she’d forgotten the number.

She knocked. Dick should be home by now … surely? But what if he wasn’t, and she had to explain herself to his mother or his father, who were nice enough, but … She almost turned and walked away, but then the door opened, and it was Dick.

‘Lyra! What you doing here? You all right?’ He looked tired, as if he’d just come home from work.

‘Dick, are you on your own? Is there anyone else in?’

‘What’s the matter? What’s happened? There’s only me and my gran. Come in. Hang on …’ His vixen-dæmon was backing away behind his legs, and uttering a little cry. He picked her up, and then he saw what the matter was. ‘Where’s Pan? Lyra, what’s going on?’

‘I’m in trouble,’ she said, and she couldn’t hold her voice steady. ‘Please can I come in?’

‘Yeah, sure, course you can …’

He moved back to make room in the little hall, and she stepped inside quickly and shut the door behind her. She could see all kinds of consternation and anxiety in his eyes, but he hadn’t flinched for a moment.

‘He’s gone, Dick. He’s just left me,’ she said.

He put a finger to his lips and looked upstairs. ‘Come in the kitchen,’ he said quietly. ‘Gran’s awake, and she’s easily frightened. She can’t make sense of things.’

He looked at her again as if he were unsure who she was, and then led the way along the narrow corridor to the kitchen, which was warm and rich with the smell of fried bacon.

She said, ‘I’m sorry, Dick. I need some help, and I thought—’

‘Sit down. You want some coffee?’

‘Yes. Thanks.’

He filled a kettle and set it on the range. Lyra sat in the wooden armchair on one side of the fire, holding her rucksack tight against her chest. Dick sat in the other. His dæmon, Bindi, leaped up to his lap and sat close, trembling.

‘I’m sorry, Bindi,’ Lyra said. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why he went. Or I mean I do, but it’s hard to explain. We—’

‘We always wondered if you could do this,’ said Dick.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Separate. We never seen you do it, but it just felt like if anyone could do it, you could. When did he go?’

‘In the night.’

‘No message or nothing?’

‘Not exactly … We’d been arguing … It was difficult.’

‘You didn’t want to wait in case he came back?’

‘He won’t come back for a long time. Maybe never.’

‘You don’t know.’

‘I think I’ve got to go and look for him, Dick.’

A thin cry came from upstairs. Dick looked at the door. ‘Better go and see what she wants,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a minute.’

Bindi was out of the door before he was. Lyra sat still and closed her eyes, trying to breathe calmly. When he came back the kettle was boiling. A spoonful of coffee essence in each mug, a splash of milk, the offer of sugar, and he poured some water into two mugs and handed one to Lyra.

‘Thanks. Is your gran all right?’ she said.

‘Just old and confused. She can’t sleep easy so there’s got to be someone here with her in case she gets up and does herself some damage.’

‘You know the grandfather you mentioned the other night at the White Horse … is she his wife?’

‘No. This one’s Dad’s mother. The gyptians are on Mum’s side of the family.’

‘And you said he was in Oxford now?’

‘Yeah, he is. He had a delivery to the Castle Mill boatyard, but he’s off soon. Why?’

‘Could he … D’you think I could meet him?’

‘Yeah, if you want to. I’ll go there with you when Mum gets back.’

His mother worked as a cleaner in Worcester College, Lyra remembered. ‘When would that be?’ she said.

‘About eleven. But she might be a bit later. Do a bit of shopping or something. Why d’you want to meet my grandad?’

‘I need to go to the Fens. There’s someone I have to see there. I need to ask the best way of getting there without being seen or caught or … I just want to ask his advice.’

He nodded. He didn’t look very gyptian himself at the moment; his hair was dishevelled, his eyes red-rimmed with tiredness. He sipped his coffee.

‘I don’t want to get you into trouble either,’ she added.

‘Is this something to do with what you told me the other night? Someone being killed near the river?’

‘Probably. But I can’t see the connection yet.’

‘Benny Morris is still away from work, by the way.’

‘Oh, the man with the wounded leg. You haven’t told anyone about what I said?’

‘Yeah, I put a great big notice up on the bloody canteen wall. What d’you take me for? I wouldn’t give you away, gal.’

‘No. I know that.’

‘But this is serious stuff, right?’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘Anyone else know about it?’

‘Yeah. A man called Dr Polstead. Malcolm Polstead. He’s a scholar at Durham College and he used to teach me a long time ago. But he knows about it all because … Oh, it’s complicated, Dick. But I trust him. He knows things that no one else … I can’t tell him about Pan leaving, though. I just can’t. Pan and me, we’d been quarrelling. It was horrible. We just couldn’t agree about important things. It was like being split in half … And then this murder happened, and suddenly I was in danger. I think someone knows Pan saw it. I stayed at Dr Polstead’s parents’ pub for a couple of nights but—’

‘Which pub’s that?’

‘The Trout at Godstow.’

‘Do they know Pan’s … disappeared?’

‘No. I left before anyone got up this morning. I really need to get to the Fens, Dick. Can I see your grandad? Please?’

There was another cry from upstairs, and a thump as if something heavy had fallen on the floor. Dick shook his head and hurried out.

Lyra was too restless to sit still. She got up and looked out of the kitchen window at the neat little yard with its cobblestones and bed of herbs, and at the calendar on the kitchen wall with a picture of Buckingham Palace and the changing of the guard, and at the frying pan on the draining board with the bacon fat already beginning to congeal. She felt like crying, but took three deep breaths and blinked hard.

The door opened and Dick came back. ‘She’s woken up proper now, dammit,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to take her some porridge. Sure you can’t stay here for a while? They’ll never know.’

‘No. I’ve really got to keep moving.’

‘Well – take this then.’ He held out his blue-and-white spotted neckerchief, or one very similar, tied in a complicated knot.

‘Thanks. But why?’

‘The knot. It’s a gyptian thing. It means you’re asking for help. Show it to my grandad. His boat’s called the Maid of Portugal. He’s a big tough man, good-looking, like me. You won’t miss him. He’s called Giorgio Brabandt.’

‘All right. And thanks, Dick. I hope your gran gets better.’

‘There’s only one way that’ll end. Poor old girl.’

Lyra kissed him. She felt very fond of him. ‘See you … when I get back,’ she said.

‘How long you going to stay in the Fens?’

‘As long as I need to, I hope.’

‘And what was that name again? Doctor something.’

‘Malcolm Polstead.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ He came to the door with her. ‘If you go up Binsey Lane, past the last house there’s a path through some trees on the right that takes you to the river. Cross the old wooden bridge and keep going a little way and you come to the canal. Go left up the towpath and that’ll get you to Castle Mill. Good luck. Just keep bundled up, then maybe they’ll think he’s … you know.’

He gave her a kiss and embraced her briefly before seeing her out of the door. Lyra saw the compassion in Bindi’s eyes, and wished that she could stroke the pretty little vixen, just for the sake of touching a dæmon again; but that was impossible.

Lyra could hear the old woman calling in a quavering voice from upstairs. Dick shut the door, and Lyra was out in the open again.

Back up to the Botley Road, still busy with traffic, and then Lyra went across and set off for the river. She kept her hood up and her head down, and before long she came to the path through the trees and the old wooden bridge that Dick had mentioned. To left and right the slow river extended, upstream through Port Meadow and downstream towards the Oxpens and the murder spot. There was no one in sight. Lyra crossed the bridge and continued on the muddy path between water meadows, and came to the canal, where a line of boats was moored, some with smoke coming out of their tin chimneys, one with a dog that barked furiously until she came closer, when it must have sensed something wrong: it turned and skulked down to the other end of the boat, whining.

A little further along Lyra saw a woman pegging out some washing on a line strung the length of her boat, and she said, ‘Good morning, lady. I’m looking for Giorgio Brabandt, of the Maid of Portugal. D’you know where he might have moored?’

The woman turned to her, half suspicious of any stranger and half mollified by Lyra’s correct use of the term of respect for a gyptian stranger.

‘He’s further up,’ she said. ‘At the boatyard. But he’s moving on today. You might have missed him.’

‘Thanks,’ said Lyra, and walked on fast before the woman noticed anything wrong.

The boatyard extended along an open space on the other side of the canal, under the campanile of the oratory of St Barnabas. It was a busy place; there was a chandlery, where Malcolm had gone twenty years before to look for some red paint, there were workshops of different kinds, a dry dock, a forge, and various pieces of heavy machinery. Gyptians and landlopers were working side by side, repairing a hull or repainting a roof or fitting a tiller, and the longest of the boats tied up, and by some way the most richly decorated, was the Maid of Portugal.

Lyra crossed the little iron bridge and walked along the quay till she came to the boat. A large man with sleeves rolled up over his tattooed arms was kneeling in his cockpit reaching down into the engine with a spanner. He didn’t look up when Lyra stopped beside the boat, but his black and silver Keeshond-dæmon, ruffed like a lion, stood up and growled.

Lyra approached the boat, steady, quiet, watchful.

‘Good morning, Master Brabandt,’ she said.

The man looked up, and Lyra saw Dick’s features – larger, older, coarser and stronger, but unmistakably Dick. He said nothing, but scowled and narrowed his eyes.

Lyra took the neckerchief out of her pocket and held it carefully in both hands, opening them to display the knot.

He looked at it, and his expression changed from suspicious to angry. A dull red suffused his face. ‘Where’d you get that?’ he said.

‘Your grandson Dick gave it me about half an hour ago. I went to see him because I’m in trouble and I need help.’

‘Put it away and come aboard. Don’t look around. Just step over the side and go below.’

He wiped his hands on an oily rag. When she was inside the saloon he came through to join her, and shut the door behind him.

‘How’d you know Dick?’ he said.

‘We’re just friends.’

‘And did he put this trouble in your belly?’

For a moment Lyra didn’t know what he meant. Then she blushed. ‘No! It’s not that kind of trouble. I take better care of myself than that. It’s that … my dæmon—’

She couldn’t finish the sentence. She felt horribly vulnerable, as if her affliction had suddenly become gross and visible. She shrugged and opened her parka and spread out her hands. Brabandt looked at her from head to foot, and his face lost all its colour. He took a step backwards and clutched the door frame.

‘You en’t a witch?’ he said.

‘No. Just human, that’s all.’

‘Dear God, then what’s happened to you?’ he said.

‘My dæmon’s lost. I think he’s left me.’

‘And what d’you think I can do about it?’

‘I don’t know, Master Brabandt. But what I want to do is get to the Fens without being caught, and see an old friend of mine. He’s called Coram van Texel.’

‘Farder Coram! And he’s a friend o’ yourn?’

‘I went to the Arctic with him and Lord Faa about ten years ago. Farder Coram was with me when we met Iorek Byrnison, the king of the bears.’

‘And what’s your name?’

‘Lyra Silvertongue. That’s the name the bear gave me. I was called Lyra Belacqua till then.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’

‘I just did.’

For a moment she thought he was going to slap her for being insolent, but then his expression cleared as the blood came back to his cheeks. Brabandt was a good-looking man, just as his grandson had said, but he was perturbed now, and even a little frightened.

‘This trouble o’ yours,’ he said. ‘When did it come on you?’

‘Just this morning. He was with me last night. But we had a terrible quarrel, and when I woke up he was gone. I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered the gyptians, and the Fens, and Farder Coram, and I thought he wouldn’t judge me badly, he’d understand, and he might be able to help me.’

‘We still talk about that voyage to the north,’ he said. ‘Lord Faa’s dead and gone now, but that was a great campaign, no doubt about it. Farder Coram dun’t move much from his boat these days, but he’s bright and cheerful enough.’

‘I’m glad of that. I might be bringing him trouble, though.’

‘He won’t worry about that. But you weren’t going to travel like this, were you? How d’you expect to go anywhere without a dæmon?’

‘I know. It’ll be difficult. I can’t stay where I am, where I was staying, because … I’ll bring trouble on them. There’s too many people coming and going there all the time. I couldn’t hide for long, and it wouldn’t be fair to them, because I think I’m in danger from the CCD as well. It was just luck I heard from Dick that you were in Oxford, and I thought maybe … I don’t know. I just don’t know where else to go.’

‘No, I can see that. Well …’

He looked out through the window at the busy waterfront, and then down at his big Keeshond-dæmon, who returned his gaze calmly.

‘Well,’ Brabandt said, ‘John Faa come back from that voyage with some gyptian children what we’d never’ve seen again else. We owe you that. And our people made some good friends among the witches, and that was something new. And I got no work on for a couple of weeks. Trade en’t good at the moment. You bin on a gyptian boat before? You must’ve bin.’

‘I sailed to the Fens with Ma Costa and her family.’

‘Ma Costa, eh? Well, she wouldn’t stand no nonsense. Can you cook and keep a place clean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then welcome aboard, Lyra. I’m on me own at the moment, since me last girlfriend took a run ashore and never come back. Don’t worry – I en’t looking for a replacement, and in any case you’re too young for me. I like my women with a bit o’ mileage on ’em. But if you cook and clean and do my washing, and keep out o’ sight of any landlopers, I’ll help you in your trouble and take you to the Fens. How’s that?’

He held out his oily hand, and she shook it without hesitation.

‘It’s a bargain,’ she said.

At the very moment when Lyra was shaking the hand of Giorgio Brabandt, Marcel Delamare was in his office at La Maison Juste, touching a little bottle with the point of a pencil, pushing it sideways, turning it around. The weather was clear, and the sunlight fell across his mahogany desk and sparkled on the little bottle, which was no longer than his little finger, capped with a cork, and sealed with a reddish wax that had dripped halfway down the side.

He picked it up and held it to the light. His visitor waited quietly: a man of Tartar appearance but in shabby European clothes, his face gaunt and sunburnt.

‘And this is it, the famous oil?’ said Delamare.

‘So I was told, sir. All I can do is tell you what the merchant said to me.’

‘Did he approach you? How did he know you were interested?’

‘I had gone to Akchi to look for it. I asked among the merchants, the camel-dealers, the traders. Finally a man came to my table and—’

‘Your table?’

‘Trade is done in the tea-houses. One takes a table and makes it known that one is ready to trade silk, opium, tea, whatever one has. I had assumed the character of a medical man. Several dealers came to me with this herb, that extract, oil of this, fruit of that, seeds of the other. Some I bought, to maintain my character. I have all the receipts.’

‘How do you know this is what you wanted? It could be anything.’

‘With respect, Monsieur Delamare, it is the rose oil from Karamakan. I am happy to wait for my payment until you have tested it.’

‘Oh, we shall, we shall certainly test it. But what was it that convinced you?’

The visitor sat back on his chair with an air of weary but well-guarded patience. His dæmon, a serpent of a sandy-grey colour with a pattern of red diamonds along her sides, flowed over his hands, in and out, through and through his fingers. Delamare caught an air of agitation, strongly subdued.

‘I tested it myself,’ said the visitor. ‘As the dealer instructed, I put the smallest possible drop on the end of my little finger and touched it to my eyeball. The pain was instant and shocking, which was the reason the dealer had insisted we leave the tea-house and go to the hotel where I was staying. I had to cry out with the shock and the pain. I wanted to wash my eye clear at once, but the dealer advised me to remain still and leave it alone. Washing would only spread the pain further. This is what the shamans do, those who use the oil, apparently. After I suppose ten or fifteen minutes the worst of it began to subside. And then I began to see the effects described in the poem of Jahan and Rukhsana.’

Delamare had been writing down the visitor’s words as he spoke. Now he stopped and held up his hand. ‘What poem is this?’

‘The poem called Jahan and Rukhsana. It relates the adventure of two lovers who seek a garden where roses grow. When the two lovers enter the rose garden after all their trials, guided by the king of the birds, they are blessed with a number of visions that unfold like the petals of a rose and reveal truth after truth. For nearly a thousand years this poem has been revered in those regions of Central Asia.’

‘Is there a translation into any of the European languages?’

‘I believe there is one in French, but it is not thought to be very accurate.’

Delamare made a note. ‘And what did you see under the influence of this oil?’ he said.

‘I saw the appearance of a nimbus or halo around the dealer, consisting of sparkling granules of light, each smaller than a grain of flour. And between him and his dæmon, who was a sparrow, there was a constant stream of such grains of light, back and forth, in both directions. As I watched I became convinced that I was seeing something profound and true, which I would never afterwards be able to deny. Little by little that vision faded, and I was sure the rose oil was genuine, so I paid the dealer and made my way here. I have his bill of sale—’

‘Leave it on the desk. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’

‘No, monsieur.’

‘Just as well for you. The town where you bought the oil – show it to me on this map.’

Delamare stood to fetch a folded map from the table, and spread it open in front of the traveller. It showed a region about four hundred kilometres square, with mountains to the south and north.

The visitor put on a pair of ancient wire-rimmed spectacles before staring at the map. He touched it at a point near the western edge. Delamare looked, and then turned his attention to the eastern side, scanning up and down.

‘The desert of Karamakan is just a little further to the south-east than this map shows,’ said the traveller.

‘How far from the town you mentioned, from Akchi?’

‘Five hundred kilometres, more or less.’

‘So the rose oil is traded that far west.’

‘I had made it known what I wanted, and I was prepared to wait,’ said the traveller, taking off his glasses. ‘The dealer had come to find me especially. He could have sold it at once to the medical company, but he was an honest man.’

‘Medical company? Which one?’

‘There are three or four of them. Western companies. They are prepared to pay a great deal, but I managed to acquire this sample. The bill of sale—’

‘You shall have your money. A few more questions first. Who sealed this bottle with wax?’

‘I did.’

‘And it has been in your possession all the way?’

‘Every step.’

‘And does it have a lifetime, so to speak, this oil? Does its virtue fade?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who buys it? Who are the customers of this dealer?’

‘He doesn’t only sell oil, monsieur. Other products also. But ordinary ones, you understand, herbs for healing, spices for cooking, that sort of thing. Anyone would buy those. The special oil is used mainly by shamans, I believe, but there is a scientific establishment at Tashbulak, which is –’ glasses on, he peered at the map again – ‘like the desert, just off this map. He has sold oil to the scientists there a small number of times. They were very keen to obtain it, and they paid promptly, though they did not pay as much as the medical companies. I should say there was such a place, until recently.’

Delamare sat up, but not sharply. ‘There was?’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘It was the dealer who alerted me to this. He told me that when he last travelled to the research station he found the people there in a state of great fear, because they had been threatened with destruction if they did not stop their researches. They were packing up, making preparations to leave. But between leaving Akchi and arriving here, I have heard that the establishment has been destroyed. All those who were still there, whether scientific staff or local workers, have either fled or been put to death.’

‘When did you hear this?’

‘Not long ago. But news travels quickly along the road.’

‘And who was it who destroyed the place?’

‘Men from the mountains. That is all I know.’

‘Which mountains?’

‘There are mountains to the north, to the west, and to the south. To the east, only desert, the worst in the world. The mountain passes are safe, or used to be, because the roads are well trod. Maybe not so any more. All mountains are dangerous. Who knows what sort of men live there? The mountains are the dwelling place of spirits, of monsters. Any human beings who live among them will be fierce and cruel. Then there are the birds, the oghâb-gorgs. There are stories told about these birds which would terrify any traveller.’

‘I am interested in the men. What do people say about them? Are they organised? Have they a leader? Do we know why they destroyed the station at Tashbulak?’

‘I understand it was because they believed the work there was blasphemous.’

‘Then what is their religion? What counts as blasphemy for them?’

The merchant shook his head and spread his hands.

Delamare slowly nodded, and tapped his pencil on a small pile of folded and stained papers. ‘These are the expenses you incurred?’ he said.

‘They are. And of course the invoice for the oil. I would be grateful—’

‘You shall be paid tomorrow. Are you staying at the Hotel Rembrandt, as I recommended?’

‘I am.’

‘Stay there. A messenger will bring you your money before very long. I would remind you of the contract we signed so many months ago.’

‘Ah,’ said the traveller.

‘Yes, ah, indeed. If I learn that you’ve been talking about this business, I shall invoke the confidentiality clause, and pursue you through every court till I have recovered all the money you’re being paid and a great deal more besides.’

‘I remember that clause.’

‘Then we need say no more. Good morning to you.’

The visitor bowed and left. Delamare put the bottle of oil into a desk drawer and locked it, then turned over in his mind the news the merchant had told him. But there was something about the way the man had looked at him while talking about it, something surprised, maybe sceptical, maybe doubtful. It had been hard to read. In fact, Delamare knew quite a lot already about these men from the mountains, and his purpose in asking about them was to find out how much was known by others.

No matter. He wrote a swift note to the Rector of the College of Theophysical Research, and then brought his attention back to the project that was occupying most of his time: a forthcoming congress of the entire Magisterium, of a kind that had never happened before. The oil, and what had happened at Tashbulak, would be at the centre of their deliberations, though very few delegates would know that.

Malcolm was detained most of that day by college business, but as the afternoon clouded over, he locked his door and set off for Godstow. He was keen to tell Lyra about the meeting at the Botanic Garden and everything he’d learned from it, and not just to warn her: he wanted to see her expression as she absorbed all the implications of what had happened. Her emotions came and went so vividly that it seemed to him that she was more in tune with the world than anyone else he’d known. He didn’t know quite what he meant by that, and he wouldn’t have said it to anyone, least of all her; but it was enchanting to see.

The temperature was falling, and there even seemed like a hint of snow in the air. When he opened the kitchen door at the Trout and went in, the familiar warmth and steam enveloped him like a welcome. But his mother’s face, as she looked up from the pastry she was rolling, was tense and anxious.

‘You seen her?’ she said at once.

‘Seen Lyra? What d’you mean?’

She nodded towards the note Lyra had left, which was still in the middle of the table. He snatched it up and read it quickly, then again slowly.

‘Nothing else?’ he said.

‘She left some of her things upstairs. Looks like she took what she could carry. She must’ve gone out early, before anyone else got up.’

‘Did she say anything yesterday?’

‘She just looked preoccupied. Unhappy, your dad thinks. But she was trying to be cheerful, you could see that. She didn’t say anything much, though, and she went to bed early.’

‘When did she go?’

‘She left before we got up. That note was on the table. I thought she might have come to you at Durham, or Alice, maybe …’

Malcolm ran upstairs and into the bedroom Lyra had been using. Her books, or some of them, were still on the little table; the bed was made; there were a few items of clothing in one of the drawers. Nothing else.

‘Fuck,’ he said.

‘I wonder …’ said Asta, from the window sill.

‘What?’

‘I just wonder if she and Pantalaimon both went. Or if she thought he’d gone, and went after him. We know they weren’t … they didn’t … they weren’t very happy together.’

‘But where would he have gone?’

‘Just to go out on his own. We know he used to do that. That’s when I saw him first.’

‘But …’ He was baffled, and angry, and far more upset than he could remember being for a long time.

‘Though she’d always know that he’d come back,’ Asta said. ‘Perhaps this time he just didn’t.’

‘Alice,’ he said at once. ‘We’ll go there now.’

Alice was drinking a glass of wine in the Steward’s parlour after dinner.

‘Good evening, Dr Polstead,’ said the Steward, rising to his feet. ‘Will you take a glass of port with us?’

‘Another time with pleasure, Mr Cawson,’ Malcolm said, ‘but this is rather urgent. May I have a quick word with Mrs Lonsdale?’

Alice, seeing his expression, stood up at once. They went out into the quad and spoke quietly under the light by the Hall steps.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

He explained briefly, and showed her the note.

‘What’d she take with her?’

‘A rucksack, some clothes … Not a clue otherwise. Had she come to see you in the last day or so?’

‘No. I wish she had. I’d have made her tell me the truth about her and that dæmon.’

‘Yes … I saw there was something wrong, but it wasn’t something I could bring up in conversation, with urgent things to talk about. You knew they weren’t happy, then?’

‘Not happy? They couldn’t stand each other, and it was awful to see. How’d she get on at the Trout?’

‘They saw the state of mind she was in, but she didn’t say anything about it. Alice, you did know she and Pantalaimon could separate?’

Alice’s dæmon, Ben, growled and pressed himself against her legs.

‘She never spoke about it,’ said Alice. ‘But I thought there was something different about them after they come back from the north. She was like someone haunted, I used to think. Shadowed, kind of thing. Why?’

‘Just a feeling that Pan might have left, and she went off to try and find him.’

‘She must’ve thought he’d gone a long way. If he was just out for a scamper in the woods he’d have been back before morning.’

‘That’s what I thought. But if you hear from her, or hear anything about her …’

‘Course.’

‘Is there anyone else in the college she might have spoken to?’

‘No,’ she said decisively. ‘Not after the new Master as good as chucked her out, the bastard.’

‘Thanks, Alice. Don’t stand about in the cold.’

‘I’ll tell old Ronnie Cawson that she’s missing. He’s fond of her. All the servants are. Well, the original servants. Hammond’s got some new buggers that don’t talk to anyone. This place en’t the same as it used to be, Mal.’

A quick embrace, and he left.

Ten minutes later he was knocking on Hannah Relf’s door.

‘Malcolm! Come in. What’s—’

‘Lyra’s vanished,’ he said, shutting the door behind him. ‘She was gone before Mum and Dad were up this morning. Must’ve been pretty early. She left this note, and no one’s got a clue where she’s gone. I’ve just been to ask Alice, but—’

‘Pour us some sherry and sit down. Did she take the alethiometer with her?’

‘It wasn’t in her bedroom, so I suppose she must have done.’

‘She might have left it there if she was intending to come back. If she thought it would be safe.’

‘I think she felt safe there. I was going to talk to her this evening, tell her about the business at the Botanic Garden … I haven’t even told you yet, have I?’

‘Does that concern Lyra?’

‘Yes, it does.’

He told her about the meeting, and what he’d learned from it, and the men from the CCD.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Definitely Oakley Street business. Are you seeing her again?’

‘Lucy Arnold – yes. And the others. But, Hannah, I was going to ask – would you be able to look for Lyra with your alethiometer?’

‘Yes, of course I could, but not quickly. She might be anywhere by now. What is it, twelve hours or so ago when she left? I’ll gladly start looking, but it’ll only give me a general idea at first. It might be easier to ask why she’s gone, rather than where.’

‘Do that then. Anything that’ll help.’

‘The police? What about telling them she’s missing?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘The less attention they pay to her, the better.’

‘I think you’re probably right. Malcolm, are you in love with her?’

The question took him utterly by surprise. ‘What on earth – where did that come from?’ he said.

‘The way you talk about her.’

He felt his cheeks flaring. ‘Is it that obvious?’ he said.

‘Only to me.’

‘There’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all. Completely forbidden, by every kind of moral and—’

‘Once, yes, but not any more. You’re both adults. All I was going to say was, don’t let it affect your judgement.’

He could see that already she regretted having asked about it. He’d known Hannah for most of his life, and he trusted her completely; but as for her final piece of advice, he thought it was the least wise thing he’d ever heard her say.

‘I’ll try not to,’ he said.