“I don't know what was the matter with them. Starlings, from over Magdalen way. They were all going mad. Look!”
She held out her bespattered books. He made a face.
“Better get those cleaned,” he said.
“Well, yes,” she said, “that's where I was going.”
His daemon was a cat, as ginger as he was. She purred a greeting from the doorway, and Pan acknowledged her courteously and moved away.
Lyra lived at St. Sophia's in term time, but her room in the back quad at Jordan was always there when she wanted to use it. The clock was striking half-past six as she hurried there with her living burden—who was much lighter than her own daemon, as she intended to tell Pantalaimon later.
As soon as the door had closed behind them, she set down the bag on her desk and let the daemon out. He was frightened, and not only of the dark.
“I had to keep you out of sight—” she began.
“I understand. Lyra Silvertongue, you must guide me to a house in this city—I can't find the house, I don't know cities—”
“Stop,” she said, “slow down, wait. What is your name, and your witch's name?”
“I am Ragi. She is Yelena Pazhets. She sent me—I must find a man who—”
“Please,” Lyra said, “please don't speak so loudly. I'm safe here—this is my home—but people are curious—if they hear another daemon's voice in here, it would be hard to explain, and then you would be in danger.”
The daemon fluttered anxiously to the window-sill, and then to the back of Lyra's chair, and then back to the table.
“Yes,” he said. “I must go to a man in this city. Your name is known to us—we heard that you could help. I am frightened this far south, and under a roof.”
“If I can help, I will. Who is this man? Do you know where he lives?”
“His name is Sebastian Makepeace. He lives in Jericho.”
“Just Jericho? That's all the address you have?”
The daemon looked bewildered. Lyra didn't press him; to a witch of the far north, a settlement of more than four or five families was almost unimaginably vast and crowded.
“All right,” she said, “I'll try and find him. But—”
“Now! It's urgent!”
“No. Not now. Tonight, after dark. Can you stay here comfortably? Or would you rather come with us to … to my school, which is where I should be now?”
He flew from the table to the open window and perched on the sill for a moment, and then flew out altogether and circled in the air above the quadrangle. Pantalaimon leapt onto the windowsill to watch for him while Lyra searched through the untidy bookshelves for a map of the city.
“Has he gone?” she said over her shoulder.
“He's coming back.”
The daemon flew in and beat his wings inward to slow down and perch on the back of the chair.
“Danger outside and suffocation within,” he said unhappily.
Lyra found the map and turned around.
“Sir,” she said, “who was it who told you my name?”
“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
