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 daemon-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 daemon-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 daemon-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 daemon-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 daemon 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 daemon, 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 daemon-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 daemon shakily.
“Not far,” said Pantalaimon. “But you haven't told us the whole truth. What are you afraid of?”
The daemon-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 daemon 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?”
