Lyra woke up to hear the college clock striking eight. In the first few minutes of drowsy surfacing, before thought began to interfere, her sensations were delicious, and one of them was the warmth of her dæmon’s fur around her neck. This sensuous mutual cherishing had been part of her life for as long as she could remember.

She lay there trying not to think, but thought was like a tide coming in. Little trickles of awareness—an essay to finish, her clothes that needed washing, the knowledge that unless she got to the hall by nine o’clock there’d be no breakfast—kept flowing in from this direction or that and undermining the sandcastle of her sleepiness. And then the biggest ripple yet: Pan and their estrangement. Something had come between them, and neither of them knew fully what it was, and the only person each could confide in was the other, and that was the one thing they couldn’t do.

She pushed the blankets away and stood up, shivering, because St. Sophia’s was parsimonious where heating was concerned. A quick wash in the little basin where the hot water knocked and shook the pipes in protest before condescending to appear, and then she pulled on the tartan skirt and the light gray jersey that were more or less the only clean things she had.

And all the time Pan lay pretending to sleep on the pillow. It was never like that when they were young, never.

“Pan,” she said wearily.

He had to come, and she knew he would, and he stood up and stretched and let her lift him to her shoulder. She left the room and started downstairs.

“Lyra, let’s pretend we’re talking to each other,” he whispered.

“I don’t know if pretending’s a good way to live.”

“It’s better than not. I want to tell you what I saw last night. It’s important.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you came in?”

“You were asleep.”

“I wasn’t, any more than you were just now.”

“Then why didn’t you know I had something important to tell you?”

“I did. I felt something happen. But I knew I’d have to argue to get you to tell me about it, and frankly…”

He said nothing. Lyra stepped out at the foot of her staircase and into the dank chill of the morning. One or two girls were walking towards the hall; more were coming away, having had breakfast, stepping briskly out to the morning’s work, to the library or to a lecture or tutorial.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she finished. “I’m tired of this. Tell me after breakfast.”

She climbed the steps into the hall and helped herself to porridge, and took her bowl to a spare place at one of the long tables and sat down. All around her, girls of her own age were finishing their scrambled eggs, or porridge, or toast, some chatting happily, some looking dull or tired or preoccupied, one or two reading letters or just eating stolidly. She knew many of them by name, some just by sight; some were friends cherished for their kindness or their wit; some just acquaintances; a small number not exactly enemies, but young women she knew she would never like, because they were snobbish or arrogant or cold. She felt as much at home in this scholastic community, among these brilliant or hardworking or gossipy contemporaries, as she did anywhere else. She should have been happy.

As she stirred some milk into her porridge, Lyra became aware of the girl opposite. She was called Miriam Jacobs, a pretty, dark-haired girl, sufficiently quick and clever to get by academically without doing more work than the minimum; a little vain, but good-natured enough to let herself be teased about it. Her squirrel dæmon, Syriax, was clinging to her hair, looking stricken, and Miriam was reading a letter, one hand on her mouth. Her face was pale.

No one else had noticed. As Miriam put the letter down, Lyra leant across the table and said, “Miriam? What is it?”

Miriam blinked and sighed as if she were coming awake, and pushed the letter down onto her lap. “Home,” she said. “Something silly.” Her dæmon crept onto her lap with the letter while Miriam went through an elaborate demonstration of not caring that was wasted on her neighbors, who hadn’t been watching anyway.

“Nothing I can help with?” asked Lyra.

Pan had joined Syriax under the table. Both girls could sense that their dæmons were talking, and that whatever Syriax told Pan would be in Lyra’s knowledge very soon. Miriam looked at Lyra helplessly. Another moment and she might burst into tears.

Lyra stood up and said, “Come on.”

The other girl was in that state in which any decisiveness, from anyone, is seized like a lifebelt in a rough sea. She went with Lyra out of the hall, clutching her dæmon to her breast, not asking where they were going, just following like a lamb.

“I’m sick to death of porridge and cold toast and dry scrambled eggs,” said Lyra. “There’s only one thing to do in a case like this.”

“What’s that?” said Miriam.

“George’s.”

“But I’ve got a lecture—”

“No. The lecturer’s got a lecture, but you haven’t and I haven’t. And I want fried eggs and bacon. Come along, step out. Were you a Girl Guide?”

“No.”

“Neither was I. I don’t know why I asked.”

“I’ve got an essay to do—”

“Do you know anyone who hasn’t got an essay to do? There are thousands of young ladies and gentlemen all behind with their essays. It would be bad form to be anything else. And George’s is waiting. The Cadena’s not open yet or we could go there. Come on, it’s chilly. D’you want to get a coat?”

“Yes—just quickly then…”

They ran up to get their coats. Lyra’s was a shabby green thing that was a little too small. Miriam’s coat was of navy cashmere and fitted her perfectly.

“And if anyone says why weren’t you at the lecture or the seminar or whatever, you can say that you were upset and nice Lyra took you for a walk,” Lyra said as they went out through the lodge.

“I’ve never been to George’s,” said Miriam.

“Oh, go on. You must have.”

“I know where it is, but…I don’t know. I just thought it wasn’t for us.”

George’s was a café in the Covered Market, much used by market traders and workers from round about.

“I’ve been going there since I was young,” said Lyra. “I mean, really young. I used to hang around outside till they gave me a bun to go away.”

“Did you? Really?”

“A bun or a clout. I even worked there for a bit, washing dishes, making tea and coffee. I was about nine, I think.”

“Did your parents let— Oh God. Sorry. Sorry.”

The only thing Lyra’s friends knew about her background was that her parents were people of great family on both sides who had died when she was young. It was understood that this was a source of great sorrow to Lyra and that she never talked about it, so naturally their speculation flourished. Now Miriam was mortified.

“No, I was in the care of Jordan by then,” Lyra said cheerfully. “If they’d known, I mean if the Jordan people had known, they’d have been surprised, I suppose, but then they’d have forgotten about it and I’d have kept on going there anyway. I sort of did what I wanted.”

“Didn’t anyone know what you were doing?”

“The housekeeper, Mrs. Lonsdale. She was pretty fierce. I was always getting told off, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. I could be quite well behaved when I needed to be.”

“How long were you— I mean, how old were you when— Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“The first thing I remember is when I was taken to Jordan for the first time. I don’t know how old I was—probably just a baby. I was being carried by a big man. It was midnight and stormy, with lightning and thunder and pouring rain. He was on a horse, and I was wrapped up inside his cloak. Then he was banging on a door with a pistol, and the door opened and it was all warm and light inside, and then he handed me over to someone else and I think he kissed me and got on his horse and rode away. He was probably my father.”

Miriam was very impressed. In truth, Lyra wasn’t sure about the horse, but she liked it.

“That’s so romantic,” Miriam said. “And that’s the first thing you remember?”

“The very first. After that, I was just…living in Jordan. Have been ever since. What’s the first thing you remember?”

“The smell of roses,” said Miriam at once.

“What, a garden somewhere?”

“No. My father’s factory. Where they make soap and things. I was sitting on his shoulders, and we were in the bottling plant. Such an intense sweet smell…The men’s clothes used to smell of it, and their wives had to wash them to get it out.”

Lyra was aware that Miriam’s family was rich, and that soaps and perfumes and such things were behind their wealth; Miriam had a vast collection of scents and fragrant ointments and shampoos, and it was a favorite occupation of her friends to try out all the new ones.

Suddenly Lyra realized that the other girl was weeping. She stopped and took Miriam’s arm. “Miriam, what is it? Was it that letter?”

“Daddy’s bankrupt,” Miriam said shakily. “It’s all over. That’s what it is. So now you know.”

“Oh, Miriam, that’s awful!”

“And we won’t—they can’t—they’re selling the house, and I’ll have to leave college—they can’t afford…”

She couldn’t go on. Lyra held out her arms, and Miriam leant against her, sobbing. Lyra could smell the fragrance of her shampoo, and wondered if there were roses in that too.

“Hush,” she said. “You know there are bursaries and special funds and…You won’t have to leave, you’ll see!”

“But everything’s going to change! They’re having to sell everything and move to…I don’t know…And Danny will have to leave Cambridge and…and it’s all going to be horrible.”

“I bet it sounds worse than it is,” said Lyra. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Pan whispering to Syriax, and she knew he was saying just the same sort of thing. “Course it was a shock, learning about it in a letter over breakfast. But people survive this sort of thing, honest, and sometimes things turn out much better than you think. I bet you won’t have to leave college.”

“But everyone will know….”

“So what? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Things happen to people’s families all the time and it’s not their fault. If you cope with it by being brave, people will admire you for it.”

“It’s not Daddy’s fault, after all.”

“Course not,” said Lyra, who had no idea. “Like they teach us in economic history—the trade cycle. Things that are too big to resist.”

“It just happened, and no one saw it coming.” Miriam was fumbling in her pocket. She brought out the crumpled letter and read: “ ‘The suppliers have simply been so unreasonable, and although Daddy has been to Latakia again and again, he can’t find a good source anywhere—apparently the big medical companies are buying everything up before anyone else can—there’s absolutely nothing one can do—it’s too awful….’ ”

“Suppliers of what?” said Lyra. “Roses?”

“Yes. They buy them from the gardens over there and distill them or something. Attar. Attar of roses. Something like that.”

“Won’t English roses do?”

“I don’t think so. It has to be roses from there.”

“Or lavender. There’s lots of that.”

“They— I don’t know!”

“I suppose the men will lose their jobs,” Lyra said as they turned into Broad Street, opposite Bodley’s Library. “The men whose clothes smelled of roses.”

“Probably. Oh, it’s awful.”

“It is. But you can cope with it. Now, when we sit down, we’ll make a plan of what you can do, all the options, all the possibilities, and then you’ll feel better at once. You’ll see.”

In the café, Lyra ordered bacon and eggs and a pint of tea. Miriam didn’t want anything except coffee, but Lyra told George to bring a currant bun anyway.

“If she doesn’t eat it, I will,” she said.

“Don’t they feed you in that college?” said George, a man whose hands moved faster than anyone’s Lyra had ever seen, slicing, buttering, pouring, shaking salt, cracking eggs. When she was young, she’d greatly admired his ability to crack three eggs at once into a frying pan with one hand and not spill a drop of white, or break the yolk, or include a fragment of shell. One day she got through two dozen trying it herself. That had earned her a clout, which she had to admit she deserved. George was more respectful these days. She still couldn’t do the egg trick.

Lyra borrowed a pencil and a piece of paper from George and drew three columns, one headed Things to do, the next Things to find out, and the third Things to stop worrying about. Then she and Miriam, and their two dæmons, filled them in with suggestions and ideas as they ate. Miriam finished the currant bun, and by the time they’d covered the paper, she was almost cheerful.

“There,” said Lyra. “It’s always a good idea to come to George’s. St. Sophia’s breakfasts are very high-minded. As for Jordan…”

“I bet they’re not austere like ours.”

“Socking great silver chafing dishes full of kedgeree or deviled kidneys or kippers. Must keep the young gentlemen in the style to which they’re accustomed. Lovely, but I wouldn’t want it every day.”

“Thank you, Lyra,” said Miriam. “I feel much better. You were quite right.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Go and see Dr. Bell. Then write home.”

Dr. Bell was Miriam’s moral tutor, a sort of pastoral guide and mentor. She was a brusque but kindly woman; she’d know what the college could do to help.

“Good,” said Lyra. “And tell me what happens.”

“I will,” Miriam promised.

Lyra sat there for a few minutes after Miriam had gone, chatting to George, regretfully turning down his offer of work in the Christmas vacation, finishing her pint mug of tea. But eventually came the time when she and Pan were alone again.

“What did he tell you?” she said to him, meaning Miriam’s dæmon.

“What she’s really worried about is her boyfriend. She doesn’t know how to tell him because she thinks he won’t like her if she isn’t rich. He’s at Cardinal’s. Some kind of aristocrat.”

“So we spent all that time and effort and she didn’t even tell me the thing she was worried about most? I don’t think much of that,” Lyra said, gathering up her shabby coat. “And if that’s how he feels, he’s not worth it anyway. Pan, I’m sorry,” she said, surprising herself as much as him. “You were just going to tell me what you saw last night, and I didn’t have time to answer before.” She waved to George as they left.

“I saw someone being murdered,” he said. b6bzH5zwEemRfACJHRNpYaq+Voq4Lm2zCVzTTRr1aAQzUZVfnwVLkEeaKXOKSnvP