“A witch from Lake Enara. She said Serafina Pekkala’s clan had a good friend in Oxford. Our clan is allied to hers through the birch-oath.”

  “And where is Yelena Pazhets, your witch?”

  “She’s lying sick beyond the Urals, in our homeland.”

  Lyra could feel Pan teeming with questions, and she half-closed her eyes in a flicker that she knew he’d see: Don’t. Wait. Hush.

  “It would be too painful for you to hide in my bag till nightfall,” she said, “so this is what we’ll do. I’ll leave this window open for you and you can shelter in here, and fly out whenever you need to. I shall come back at…Can you read the time in our fashion?”

  “Yes. We learned at Trollesund.”

  “You can see the clock over the hall from here. At half-past eight I shall be in the street outside the tower where you found us. Fly down and meet us there, and we’ll take you to Mr. Makepeace.”

  “Yes—yes. Thank you.”

  They shut the door and hurried down. What she’d said a minute before was true: she should be in school, for dinner at seven was compulsory for all the pupils, and it was already twenty minutes to.

  But on the way through the lodge she was struck by a thought, and said to the Porter:

  “Mr. Shuter, have you got an Oxford directory?”

  “Trade, or residential, Miss Lyra?”

  “I don’t know. Both. One that covers Jericho.”

  “What are you looking up?” said the old man, handing her a couple of battered reference books.

  The Porter was a friend; he wasn’t being nosy.

  “Someone called Makepeace,” she said, turning to the Jericho section of the residential one. “Is there a firm or a shop called Makepeace that you know of?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” he said.

  The Porter sat in his small room, and dealt with visitors and inquiries and students through the window that opened into the lodge. Behind him and out of sight was a rack of pigeonholes for the use of Scholars, and for Lyra too, and as she was running her finger quickly down the list of residents in Jericho she heard a cheery voice from inside.

  “Are you after the alchemist, Lyra?”

  And Dr. Polstead’s ginger face leaned out of the Porter’s window, beaming at her curiously.

  “The alchemist?” she said.

  “The only Makepeace I’ve ever heard of is a chap called Sebastian,” he said, fumbling with some papers. “Used to be a Scholar of Merton, till he went mad. Don’t know how they managed to tell, in that place. He devoted himself to alchemy—in this day and age! Spends his time changing lead into gold, or trying to. You can see him in Bodley, sometimes. Talks to himself—they have to put him outside, but he goes mildly enough. Dæmon’s a black cat. What are you after him for?”

  Lyra had found the name: a house in Juxon Street.

  “Miss Parker was telling us about when she was a girl,” she said, with a bright, open candor, “and she said there was a William Makepeace who used to make treacle toffee better than anyone, and I wondered if he was still there somewhere, because I was going to get some for her. I think Miss Parker’s the best teacher I ever had,” she went on earnestly, “and she’s so pretty too, she’s not just dull like most teachers. Maybe I’ll make her some toffee myself….”

  There was no such person as Miss Parker, and Dr. Polstead had been Lyra’s unwilling teacher himself for a difficult six weeks, two or three years before.

  “Jolly good idea,” he said. “Treacle toffee. Mmm.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Shuter,” said Lyra, and she laid the books on the shelf before darting out into Turl Street, with Pan at her heels, and made for the Parks and St. Sophia’s.

  Fifteen minutes later, breathless, she sat down to dinner in the hall, trying to keep her grubby hands from view. It was the way in that college not to use the high table every day; instead, the Scholars were encouraged to sit among the students, and the teachers and older pupils from the school, of whom Lyra was one, did the same. It was a point of good manners not to sit with a clique of the same friends all the time, and it meant that conversation at dinner had to be open and general rather than close and gossipy.

  Tonight Lyra found herself sitting between an elderly Scholar, a historian called Miss Greenwood, and a girl at the head of the school, four years older than Lyra was. As they ate their minced lamb and boiled potatoes, Lyra said:

  “Miss Greenwood, when did they stop doing alchemy?”

  “They? Which they, Lyra?”

  “The people who…I suppose the people who think about things. It used to be part of experimental theology, didn’t it?”

  “That’s right. And in fact the alchemists made many discoveries, about the action of acids and so on. But they had a basic idea about the universe that didn’t hold up, and when a better one came along, the structure that kept their ideas in place just fell apart. The people who think about things, as you call them, discovered that chemistry had a stronger and more coherent conceptual framework. It explained things, you see, more fully, more accurately.”

  “But when?”

  “I don’t think there’ve been any serious alchemists for two hundred and fifty years. Apart from the famous Oxford alchemist.”

  “Who was that?”

  “I forget his name. Irony—why do I say that?…He’s still alive—an eccentric ex-scholar. You find people like that on the fringes of scholarship—genuinely brilliant, sometimes—but cracked, you know, possessed by some crazy idea that has no basis in reality, but which seems to them to hold the key to understanding the whole cosmos. I’ve seen it more than once—tragic, really.”

  Miss Greenwood’s dæmon, a marmoset, said from the back of her chair:

  “Makepeace. That was his name.”

  “Of course! I knew it was ironic.”

  “Why?” said Lyra.

  “Because he was said to be very violent. There was a court case—manslaughter, I think—he got off, as far as I remember. Years ago. But I mustn’t gossip.”

  “Lyra,” said the girl on her left, “would you like to come to the Musical Society this evening? There’s a recital by Michael Coke—you know, the flautist….”

  Lyra didn’t know. “Oh, Ruth, I wish I could,” she said. “But I’m so behind with my Latin—I really must do some work.”

  The older girl nodded glumly. Small audience expected, thought Lyra, and felt sorry; but there was nothing for it.

  At half-past eight she and Pan moved out of the shadow of the Radcliffe Camera’s great dome and slipped into the narrow alley, overhung with chestnut trees, that separated Jordan College from Brasenose. It wasn’t hard to get out of St. Sophia’s School, but those girls who did were severely punished, and Lyra had no wish to get caught. But she was wearing dark clothes and she could run fast, and she and Pan, with their witchlike power of separation, had managed to mislead pursuers before now.

  They looked both ways where the alley opened into Turl Street, but there were only three or four people in sight. Before they could step out under the gaslight, there was a rush of wings, and the dæmon-bird flew down to perch on the tall wooden bollard that closed the alley to traffic.

  “Now,” said Lyra, “I can take you to the house, but then I must go straight back. It’ll take about fifteen minutes. I’ll walk ahead—you watch and fly after me.”

  She made to move away, but the dæmon-bird fluttered up and back, and said with great agitation, “No—no—you must make sure it’s him—please, wait and see him, make sure!”

  “Well, we could knock on the door, I suppose,” said Lyra.

  “No—you must come in the house with me and make sure—it’s important!”

  She felt a little quiver from Pan, and stroked him: hush. They turned into Broad Street and then up past the little oratory of St. Ann Magdalen, where the Cornmarket met the wide tree-lined avenue of St. Giles’. This was the busiest and best-lit part of their journey, and Lyra would have liked to turn left into the maze of little back streets that reached all the way to the alchemist’s house; but she and Pan agreed silently that it would be better to stay in St. Giles’, where the dæmon-bird would have to keep a little distance from them, so that they could talk quietly without his hearing.

  “We can’t make sure it’s him, because we don’t know him,” Pan said.

  “I thought they might have been lovers, him and the witch. But I don’t know what a witch would see in a fusty old alchemist…though maybe if he was a manslaughterer?”

  “I never heard of that birch-oath, either.”

  “That doesn’t mean there isn’t one. There’s a lot of witch-stuff we’ll never know.”

  They were going past the Grey Friars’ Oratory, and through the window there came the sound of a choir singing the responses to an evening rite.

  Lyra said quietly, “Where is he now?”

  “In one of the trees further back. Not close.”

  “Pan, I don’t know if we should—”

  There was a hasty clap of wings, and the dæmon-bird skimmed over their heads to land on the low branch of a plane tree just ahead of them. Someone coming out of the little lane to the left gave a startled exclamation and then passed on.

  Lyra slowed down and looked into the window of the bookshop on the corner. Pan sprang to her shoulder and whispered, “Why are we suspicious?”

  “I don’t know. But we are.”

  “It’s the alchemy.”

  “Would we be less suspicious if he was an ordinary Scholar?”

  “Yes. Alchemy’s nonsense.”

  “But that’s a problem for the witch, not for us—”

  Behind them the dæmon in the tree uttered a soft rattling sort of cry, followed by a quiet “Wheee-cha!” The kind of bird he was, the real bird, would make a cry like that. It sounded like a warning. Lyra and Pan understood: he meant move on, we must hurry, we can’t stand around. But it had the effect of arousing some pigeons roosting in the treetops. They awoke at once and flew down with a clatter of wings, furious, and chased away the dæmon, who darted out into the broad space of St. Giles’ and shot up high into the night sky. The pigeons gave chase, but not for long; they were less aggressive than the starlings, or else they were simply sleepier. With a lot of grumbling and fussing, they flapped back up to their nest and went to sleep.

  “Where did he go?” said Lyra, scanning the sky above St. John’s College.

  “There he is….”

  A darker speck than the sky was roving uncertainly back and forth, and then he found them and skimmed low to perch on a windowsill that was barred with an iron grille. Lyra moved toward it casually, and when they were close enough for Pan to do it without alarming the dæmon-bird, he sprang up to the grille beside him. Lyra loved the way he did that: one fluent movement, utterly silent, his balance perfect.

  “Is it far now?” said the dæmon shakily.

  “Not far,” said Pantalaimon. “But you haven’t told us the whole truth. What are you afraid of?”

  The dæmon-bird tried to fly away, but found in the same instant that Pan had his tail firmly in the grasp of one strong paw. Wings flapping hard, the dæmon fell awkwardly against the grating, and cried out in the strange rattling cooing sound that had enraged the pigeons—and almost at once fell silent, in case they heard and attacked again. He struggled back up to the perch.

  Lyra was standing as close as she could.

  “If you don’t tell us the truth, we might lead you into trouble,” she said. “We can tell this is dangerous, whatever it is. Your witch ought to know that. If she was here, she’d make you tell us the truth, or tell it herself. What are you going to this man for?”

  “I have to ask for something,” the dæmon said unhappily, with a wild quiver in his voice.

  “What? And you have to tell us.”

  “A medicine for my witch. This man can make an elixir…”

  “How does she know that?”

  “Dr. Lanselius has visited him. He knows. He could vouch for it.”

  Dr. Lanselius was the consul of all the witch-clans at Trollesund, in the far north. Lyra remembered her visit to his house, and the secret she’d overheard—the secret which had had such momentous consequences. She would have trusted Dr. Lanselius; but could she trust what someone else claimed on his behalf? And as for an elixir…

  “Why does your witch need a human medicine? Haven’t the witches got all kinds of remedies of their own?”

  “Not for this sickness. It’s a new kind. Only the gold elixir can cure it.”

  “If she is sick,” said Pan, “why are you healthy?”

  The bird shrank back into the shadow. A middle-aged couple was passing, arm in arm, their dæmons, a mouse and a squirrel, looking back with curious eyes.

  “That is the sickness,” came the shaky words from the shadow. “It is a new kind, from the south. Witches fade and die, and we dæmons don’t die with them. I have known three of our clan-sisters fall sick with it, and their dæmons are still alive—alone and cold….”

  Pantalaimon gave a little mew of distress and flowed onto Lyra’s shoulder. She put her hand up to hold him firmly.

  “Why didn’t you say?” she said.

  “I was ashamed. I thought you would shun me. The birds can sense it—they know I bring sickness. That’s why they attack me. All the way I have had to avoid flocks of birds, flying many leagues out of the way….”

  The poor thing looked so wretched, huddled there in the cold shadow; and the thought of his witch, waiting in the north in the faint hope that he’d bring back something to heal her, made tears come to Lyra’s eyes. Pan had told her she was too soft and too warmhearted, but it was no good telling her about it. Since she and Will had parted two years before, the slightest thing had the power to move her to pity and distress; it felt as if her heart were bruised forever.

  “Then come on,” she said. “Let’s get to Juxon Street. It’s not far now.”

  She moved on quickly, with Pan leaping ahead. A dozen troubling thoughts were passing over her mind like cloud shadows swiftly skimming over a cornfield on a breezy day, but there wasn’t time to hold them back and examine them, because already they were turning down Little Clarendon Street, that row of fashionable dress shops and chic cafés, where the gilded youth of Lyra’s Oxford passed the time; and then right into Walton Street, with the great classical bulk of the Fell Press on the left. They were in Jericho now.

  Juxon Street was one of the little streets of terraced brick houses that ran down to the canal: the homes of laborers, workers at the Press or the Eagle Ironworks behind the street, watermen and their families. Beyond the canal, the open expanse of Port Meadow stretched almost as far as the hills and woods of White Ham, and Lyra could hear the cry of some night bird out on the distant river.

  At the corner of the street Pantalaimon waited for Lyra to come close, and leapt to her shoulder again.

  “Where is he?” she whispered.

  “In the elm tree just back there. He’s watching. How far down is the house?”

  Lyra looked at the numbers on the doors of the nearest houses.

  “Must be the other end,” she said. “Near the canal….”

  The other end of the street, as they approached it, was almost completely dark. The nearest streetlamp was some way back; only a faint gleam came from curtained windows, and the gibbous moon was bright enough to throw a shadow on the pavement.

  There were no trees in the street, and Lyra hoped that the dæmon-bird could find enough darkness on the rooftops. Pan whispered, “He’s moving along the edge of the roofs, next to the gutter.”

  “Look,” said Lyra, “that’s the alchemist’s house.”

  They were almost at the door—a front door just like all the others, opening onto a minute patch of dusty grass behind a low wall, with one dark curtained window beside it and two more upstairs; but this house had a basement. At the foot of the front wall a dim light leaked out into the untidy, overgrown little patch of garden, and although the glass was too dirty to see much through, Lyra and Pan could see the red flare of an open fire.

  Pan leapt down and peered through the glass, keeping to one side so as to be seen as little as possible. The dæmon-bird, at that moment, was directly above on the roof tiles, and couldn’t see the pavement below, so he didn’t notice when Pan turned and leapt up to Lyra’s shoulder and whispered urgently:

  “There’s a witch in there! There’s a furnace and a lot of instruments, and I think there’s a man lying down—maybe dead—and there’s a witch….”

  Something was wrong. All Lyra’s suspicions flared up like a naphtha lamp sprinkled with spirits of wine.

  What should they do?

  Without hurrying or hesitating, Lyra stepped off the pavement and made to cross the street, walking toward the last house on the other side as if that had been the destination all the time.

  The dæmon-bird on the roof behind them uttered that low strangled rattle, but louder this time, and launched himself down to fly at Lyra’s head. She heard and turned, and he flew around her urgently, saying:

  “Where? Where are you going? Why are you crossing the street?”

  She crouched, making him fly low, and that let Pantalaimon fling himself from her shoulder as she rose again quickly, taking impetus from her movement and leaving a deep scratch in the skin of her shoulder as he did; but their aim was good, and he seized the dæmon-bird in the air, and bore him to the ground in a tangle of squawking, screaming, scratching anger—

  —and from the house behind them came a high wild scream: the voice of a witch.

  Lyra spun around to face her. Pan had the advantage of weight and power over the other dæmon, but it would be quite different with the witch herself, an adult to Lyra’s youth, and one used to fighting and ready to kill, besides. What did it mean? Lyra’s mind was whirling. They’d nearly walked into a trap—and now Lyra, weaponless, would have to fight to stay alive. She thought, “Will—Will—be like Will—”

  It was all happening too quickly. The witch hurtled out of the door, half falling, stumbling, knife in hand, her face contorted and her eyes bulging and fixed on Lyra. The two dæmons were still struggling, snarling, snapping, biting, tearing, and each of their people felt every blow and every scratch. Lyra moved into the center of the little street, and backed away toward the edge of the canal, thinking that if she could get the witch to charge toward her—

 

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