"Hello, Lyra. I've been waiting for you."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Oh, that doesn't matter. Sit by me, will you?"
She felt as if she had no other choice; she sat down beside him. He was older than her, certainly – in his early twenties – with short brown hair and eyes just a shade darker, and average dimensions. A common face, and body, all in all, but his clothing – no inch of cloth on his body was any other color than black or gray. Dark, for the warmth that he exuded, and his daemon – a snowy owl with not even a fleck of gray among the masses of white plumage – didn't help the perception at all.
"Where is this?"
"The hills of Scotland," he replied. "Lovely."
She wasn't a fan of the mountains, but she could see exactly what he meant. The shades of green on the rolling hills, the tall blades of grass, the thick, powerful trees that had probably stood there for four human lifetimes . . . the beauty was there, yes.
"It is lovely."
"I was referring to more than the view."
"What do you–" she started, realized what he meant, and said, "I'm flattered."
"Not often I hand out compliments like that."
"Would you mind telling me your name, sir?"
"Certainly. Which one should you like?"
"Which–how many names do you have?"
"Given ones, seven," he said, smiling. "My mother gave Vincent and James, but since then I've been forced to add Arthur, Duncan, Edward, Sean and Tobias to those."
"If you don't mind," she replied, "I'll stay with Vincent, thank you."
"Can't say I blame you–"
"You could always do as I do," the owl suddenly spoke up, "and call him Idiot."
"Always sweet as honey, Leochleánne."
It took Lyra a moment to realize that that name belonged to the daemon. She had to laugh, nevertheless – since when did settled daemons snap at their humans so quickly?
"A pretty name."
"Don't tell her. I wouldn't want her to get a bigger head than she has now."
"You should be talking."
"By the way, Lyra," Vincent said, turning back to her, "I doubt you've realized it yet, but this is a dream . . . though we will see each other soon, I believe."
"Then – how – you're–"
"I'm as alive and warm-blooded as you are."
"But–"
"It would take too much time to explain in one night," he said, still smiling. "Later, Lyra, once we can see each other on the physical plane, I shall tell you."
"What do you mean? How–are you coming to the school?"
"No, no," he responded, "though I would love to see Oxford. No, you will have to come to me . . . and you may not know it yet, but you will, soon enough. In fact, if I am still attuned to the physical world, you will have to wake up in about an hour."
"But I've only been here–"
"A few minutes, I know. I did not intend to see you here for much longer. Sleep in a dream world such as this will not be as refreshing as a dreamless one, Lyra. I promise you, I will tell you everything you want to know – once we've met each other."
"When will I see you?"
"By tomorrow afternoon we'll have become friends, in any case."
"How do you know–"
She didn't even finish the sentence. Instead, darkness gripped her, and she felt herself dragged down into an inescapable void . . . yet, as she fell upon its surface – or its essence, perhaps? – she felt it sweet, warm, and desirable, and closed her eyes again.
Lyra felt sweat on her brow, back, and arms. She kicked off the drenched sheets and sat in the bed, looking around the dark room. That was the last time she ate so closely to her curfew; or perhaps the gentle breeze blowing into the room had something to do with it. She remembered the one time she had been in Scotland, when Dame Hannah had personally taken her to see a scholar who lived in Edinburgh. The breeze reminded her of the forests there – which had interested her more anyway – but she had dreamed of hills.
"Lyra," Pan said groggily beside her, "go back to sleep."
"D'you feel like doing that, Pan, on these sheets?"
"I've seen worse from you before," he replied. "Just do it."
She lay back down and tried, but she knew damn well that there was no way she would fall asleep again; she would have to wait that hour out – if Vincent was right about the hour. Pantalaimon curled up beside her in his red-gold pine marten's fur, but for all the show, she easily sensed he wasn't about to fall asleep either.
"Strangest dream I've ever had, Pan."
"I've never seen a snowy owl like that one, anyway."
"Or a man that strange! How do you think he–"
"Lyra, it was only a dream, he wasn't–"
The door opened, and Lyra immediately crushed herself against the sheets.
But it wasn't Dame Hannah who came in, or Mrs. Cole, the Disciplinarian – for a second Lyra had been worried that she had screamed in her sleep. It was Mrs. Merrick, the housemaid, and she seemed to be muttering to herself. Lyra tried to catch a bit of it.
"Oh, what'll I say to her, what'll I do, what'll I act like, it'll–"
Lyra didn't try to hear any more; it seemed to her that Mrs. Merrick was thinking about having been late to something else again, which was actually quite common. She was incredibly persistent, good-natured, amicable and caring, yes, and that was why all the girls preferred her out of all the maids, but she tended to forget nearly everything.
Mrs. Merrick glanced at Lyra, but obviously didn't notice that she was awake. She began piling clothes on a chair beside the bed, a dress, heels, a pair of gloves, a change of undergarments – and then began piling, neatly and separately, what had to be changes of clothing. But she hadn't been told about a trip; had Dame Hannah thought up something she might like to see? Maybe they'd be going off to the hills of Scotland?
"Lyra, child," Mrs. Merrick finally said, "wake up. Get up, quick."
"What the–what's going on, Mrs. Merrick?"
"Someone passed away."
Someone had died? Lyra felt herself straining to think; perhaps Dame Hannah had wanted her to go to the Scottish scholar's funeral. That made sense, if she truly was to see Vincent soon – she would be seeing him in the hills, no?
"Who is it?"
"Oh, child – Farder Coram. Old age."
"What?"
She had had a dream beyond all possibility, but this shattered what little remained of it. She was going on eighteen, and she had not seen Serafina, or Iorek, or Ma Costa in over four years – and now one of them, she would never see again. Somehow, she fought back the urge to cry: after all, he'd be free now, wouldn't he? He'd tell the spirits of that world stories, and in return, he'd finally be free of the world, free . . .
"Child, get up, the Costa narrowboat is waiting."
"All right," she mumbled. "Do I have to wash first?"
"Never mind that. Just dress and go."
She changed quickly and tried her best to walk with the heels – though her friends here had done their best to show her how to do it, she was none too skillful at it, and she felt a hope blooming in her chest that Mrs. Merrick had decided to pack other shoes in the suitcase as well. If she didn't have long before she changed, in any case . . .
"All right, Lyra, you might not be seeing us for a while."
"Why?"
"Well, there's the funeral and all, isn't there? A proper gyptian funeral, I imagine. Dame Hannah says you're to be allowed to travel for whatever length of time you want, child, so this is goodbye, if only for a year or so, child."
"Oh, don't say that. I'll come back if I can."
Mrs. Merrick gave her a hug and sent her on her way; Lyra managed to walk well enough that she faced no stares, as a few other girls were in the corridors despite the early hour. Pantalaimon stayed curled up on her shoulder; she went down the staircase, left the Dormitory Building, and found herself right in front of Tony Costa.
"Wish we could have seen you in happier circumstances, Lyra," he immediately said, "but Ma'll be glad to have you, and there's someone she'd like you to meet."
"Who?"
"She wouldn't let me say, though I felt it right."
She followed Tony to a pair of horses – probably their own; she'd heard rumors of gyptian families buying horses in bulk to help with transportation – and spoke nothing as they rode through Oxford to the docks. She wondered if perhaps Vincent was there . . .