"Miss Carpenter, the gadfly metaphor was not intended in that way."

"How do you know?"

"It's historically true that we've only used the term 'horse's ass' for the last two hundred years." Chuckles swept the classroom. "Socrates only used equine hindquarters to refer to Athenian society, not to insult it."

"But Professor, you don't know Socrates' intent, do you?"

"Well, no, but it can be inferred from – "

"Professor," another girl spoke up, a tall, deep-voiced blonde, "you told us yourself inferences can be dangerous. Aren't you being kind of hypocritical?"

"Miss Whittard, it is in the nature of most philosophers to be hypocritical. Our thoughts often contradict themselves in terms and spirit. The great thing about actively pursuing the study of philosophy is that you can be a hypocrite and get away with it."

"Professor," a third one cut in, this one redheaded and freckled, "wouldn't that just be sophistry? I thought philosophy was a search for truth."

"It is, Miss Ordway. However, 'truth,' as we search for it, is neither a constant quantity, nor a predictable one. Truth can change from time to time, and often does, more than we'd expect." Miss Whittard raised an eyebrow. "We are sadly not blessed with the ability to stop time, or to keep circumstances from changing. We age. We die. Empires rise, and then fall. Prime Ministers are elected." Another round of chuckles. "Time changes. The rest of the world goes on. If we fail to adapt . . . we become obsolete."

"How do we adapt, Professor?" the redheaded girl asked.

"Well, obviously we can't expect time to wait for us. He who hesitates is lost, and never is that more true than when we're talking about someone whose very duty it is to analyze what's going on around him – or her." He looked over the three girls at the rest of the class. "Who can tell me what the maid said to Thales of Miletus?"

"How can you look so wonderingly at the beautiful stars," a fourth, very familiar, voice said, "if you can't even see what's at your feet, Thales?"

"Well, I doubt it was said with such embellishment, Miss Belacqua, but in essence you are correct." He smiled. "What brings you to my humble classroom?"

"There's someone calling on you, Professor."

"Well, he can wait until after the class is done. Five minutes."

"It's a woman, Professor, and she says it's urgent."

"Right." He looked down for a moment and thought. "Class dismissed. No immediate assignments, but as usual, go home and think."

More than a few of the girls waved good-by at him as they left: he tried not to smile too widely. Dame Hannah had told him why male Scholars were uncommon here, but as he'd been warned, the woman had exaggerated. Once the classroom was empty except for him, Miss Belacqua met him halfway across.

"Who is it, Lyra?"

"She identified herself as a fellow of yours."

"I assume you checked for the marks?"

"Of course."

He nodded, put on his glasses, and followed Lyra out of the classroom, hands in his pockets. Every once in a while a Scholar or student would pass by and either greet him or ask him a question, and he tried to answer as best he could without slowing down. Lyra kept a quick pace in front of him, making way through the college's corridors.

"You're sure she asked specifically for me?"

"I'm not an idiot, Professor," she replied. "Dame Hannah bade her wait in the Rectory. I daresay we'll find her there as well."

"Good work on your pronunciation."

They didn't say much else until they left the main building, crossed the grounds, and found the Chamberlain at the Rectory's door. After a short and hurried conversation with Lyra, he nodded them through, and almost immediately he detected a familiar scent in the air – jasmines, although Dame Hannah kept no flowers in the Rectory.

There was only one other person in the Rectory's entrance room, and Beatrice Keller stood up now and walked towards them. She was older than he remembered her, but that was only one or two more wrinkles than she'd had in his mind: the hard curve of her chin, the taut line of her posture, and the elegance of her gestures were the same.

Her eyes were the same, as well – the same misty gray they had been, as long as he, or she, could remember. The color of blindness.

"Beatrice," he said softly. "Where's Koubek?"

"Some bastard murdered him some time ago." Beatrice extended her hand in anticipation of him doing the same with his own, and they shook. "I avenged him well."

"As we all expect."

"I have not been well informed, my dear fellow. Diego hurried me over here, and news have not yet reached me." She gestured at him to sit. "What goes on?"

"Before I tell you that, Beatrice, I must ask you to meet someone."

"Your miracle?"

"If anything, the miracle is her own," he said, ignoring Lyra's burning cheeks. "Miss Lyra Belacqua, meet Miss Beatrice Keller."

They shook hands – Beatrice had an almost unnatural skill at it – and then he and Lyra sat across from her. The Chamberlain came to offer them all refreshments, but they all politely refused him.

"Well then, Vincent?"

"Truth be told, I haven't been well informed either. I've been hiding from the Black Rose for the past year." He sighed. "Lyra and I aren't out of danger yet."

"It's a wonder you haven't been found yet."

"I agree," he replied, "but if news and talk were all you came for, Beatrice, you wouldn't have come at all. There's something else you need from us, isn't there?"

For a moment, no one spoke. The soft glow of the naphtha lamps brushed the edges of Beatrice's face and lit her eyes up every so often. Her fox daemon, Ethelred, the only one in the room, settled on her lap and shook his bushy tail.

"As I'm sure you know, it hasn't yet been ascertained whether the First, or any of his companions, survived the Black Rose's assault on our hall."

"Indeed."

"Until it has, Vincent, you doubtlessly understand that we are leaderless, and without guidance, we will surely perish."

"That I do doubt."

"But you would surely – "

"What Beatrice means," Ethelred interrupted, "is that without yours and Lyra's help, we are, colloquially put, 'up a creek without a paddle.' Aside from Lord Olmedo, you are the only Watchers of whose existence we are certain."

"True."

"Then you clearly see why we need your help, don't you?"

"Of course I do." He stood. "However, Beatrice, it is not only my own life I protect by refusing to take the first move. I do have a responsibility."

"Vincent, I'm nineteen – " Lyra began.

"But you are not yet a mature Watcher. You have excellent potential, undeniably, but your training has left much to be desired since we had to go underground."

"You told me once the best training was done in the field."

"I also told you once I'd try to spare you that much agony."

"We both lost our parents," she retorted. "We've both faced pain. You can't tell me I'm not ready for your training."

"Perhaps."

"Vincent, I respect your talents as a teacher and as a Watcher," Beatrice added gently, "but Lyra's right. She'll never really understand the depth of her powers if you don't allow her to experiment, to apply what she's learned."

"That much is true."

He paced around the room, hands on his hips. He felt uncomfortable, both because of the company, and because of the way this world made him feel.

"Beatrice, and if you took her?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"You said yourself Koubek was dead. Why not take Lyra as a new assistant, while you reassemble the Watchers?" Lyra raised an eyebrow. "She's certainly got the training for such a mission, and you've always been a better field instructor than I."

"Subjectively, it may be true," Beatrice said, petting Ethelred, "and yet your proposal speaks of ulterior motives. Have you some other need to stay in Oxford?"

He knew she'd answer with that, and knew he had no prepared answer to give her – but anything he could have said would have been taken as a lie.

"I do not need to stay in Oxford, no. But if I am to help you on this mission, I would rather not encumber your travel, or Lyra's."

"Somehow you're finding this difficult to say."

"Very much so." He blushed; he suspected Lyra's blushing wasn't visible only because of the red glow of the lamps. "I do not wish to separate myself from you, nor is it with any sort of pleasure that I would do it. But it may be the only way to – "

"I understand," she said. "What will we do?"

"You and I, Lyra, must find an expert on chthonic travel. I daresay Professor Benjamin Cartwright shall do, if we can find him." She turned to him. "And you?"

"For the moment, I do not know. If you have anything to suggest . . . "

"Very well. We shall have to be going, then, before I am found out by the Black Rose." She kissed him on the cheek and left. "I shall arrange for a carriage, Lyra."

"Thank you."

He hadn't noticed the hard angle of Lyra's shoulders until Beatrice had left, and by then it was gone, and she stepped in front of him. He suddenly noted how much she'd changed in a year: how her posture had grown strong and the last vestiges of innocent girlhood had disappeared from her gaze. Then he scratched his head.

"You really don't know what you're going to do?"

"If I had any idea, Lyra, I would tell you."

"I know." She kissed him, just a short kiss, and stepped past him. "Good-by."