Disclaimer: I don't own anything. My invisible friend thinks and wishes she does. No I don't. Only joking. :D It's all Philip Pullman's… and you know what? I'm glad! I don't write half as good as him! HA! Now… on with the story… keep on subject…

Note: This is the boring part. Please don't get bored by this chapter, it's probably going to be much less entertaining than the ones after. :D Happy reading

"I don't understand. I really don't. Just tell me why! Why the sudden rush?" Laisa's sharp eyes surveyed Lyra, who was throwing clothes out of Thomas's wardrobe into a battered leather case, and Pantalaimon, who was on top of the wardrobe.

"I… it's hard to explain," Lyra said breathlessly, jumping on the clothes to flatten them out. "I've told you. Pan… he remembered something."

"What, that you were born there? You already knew that."

"Yes, I know," Lyra said impatiently, half-zipping the case and then spotting a pair of shoes on the opposite side of the room.

"Well… why then? Please just tell me, for God's sake!"

Lyra hated to lie to him. She took a breath to do so, hating herself for it, but suddenly had something that could have been a vision. It was only a flash, but it showed a smooth, round, golden object that looked like a compass, but bigger. The front was covered with glass and under the glass, there were pictures in a neat circle, and three long hands, pointing to different pictures. Then, next to the instrument, there was a ladder, and then the words Do not lie to the scholar…

"Lyra? Lyra? What's the matter?"

There were hands round her, shaking her, but everything felt strange, upside-down…

"I'm OK…" she found herself muttering, feeling the floor under her feet, still swaying slightly. Opening her eyes, she saw Thomas in front of her, holding her arms, his expression concerned.

"You sure?" asked Thomas, as she pulled out of his grip and walked over to the window. Seeing the busy London streets below her made Lyra feel something that could only be homesickness.

"Yes," she sighed, turning back around. She put her arms around Thomas, who gratefully nestled her hair. She drew back and said quietly, "I'm going to Oxford because… because Pan… he… we both have this feeling…"

Thomas's eyes narrowed, and Lyra felt Laisa's growl, somewhere near Thomas's feet.

"A feeling…" he repeated, his voice sceptical, almost mocking her. She didn't look at him, but turned away to start wrestling with the zip. This provoked Thomas to quickly stand in front of her and grab the hand which was on the zip. "Lyra," he said, quietly, but urgently, "I need you for the painting. If you're not going to tell me why you're going, and you don't really know, why not just stay? Mm?"

"I can't stay," Lyra said, forcing her own hand out of his grasp. "I can't. I need to… I've just had an urge, or something, and I need… no, Thomas, don't look like that, I need to go… look, you know I haven't told you much about my childhood?"

His eyes stared at her sullenly, but brightly. He nodded slightly, and Lyra noticed that for the first time, Laisa was in his arms. Lyra shook herself and carried on, "Well, I've told you all I know. And I want to know more. I don't want to die not knowing anything about my childhood-"

"But now? Why now? Why not go some other time? Why this sudden rush?"

"Because… because… I've built up the courage," Lyra said, taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Thomas, but I'm getting on that zeppelin whatever you choose to do."

"Of course," said Thomas coldly, turning around. Laisa slipped to the floor as the two of them headed towards the door. Then Thomas stopped and stooped to pick up the pair of shoes. "Just… just stay one last evening so I can finish the painting," he said, then when she nodded, her throat dry, he threw the shoes onto the bed.

Lisa suddenly felt horribly uneasy after she led Mr. Parry into the main gallery. One of the paintings had provoked a tightening of her stomach, or maybe it was the thick, horrible-buzzing-fly atmosphere that had settled on the place. Will felt it too, obviously, and looked around. None of the paintings looked that interesting, although he recognized one or two. There was a set of smaller doors, yet even grander-looking, since they were clean, and closed, and they caught his eye and he pointed to it.
"What's in there?" he asked, walking towards it.

"Oh," said Lisa, her eyes glittering strangely. "Nothing. Well, if the doors are closed, that means it's not open. So, I guess there's nothing interesting in there."

"Or maybe something really interesting," murmured Will. He was still slowly walking towards the doors, as if pulled there by some unseen force.

"I don't… no, to be honest, this place isn't big enough for any really big paintings…" Lisa said quickly, hurrying up behind him. The sound of her shoes made Will feel frustrated, and he walked faster.

Next to the door was a little golden plaque, and it read, This door is only opened on special occasions. Please do not attempt to access the enclosure as the antique behind may be fragile. All due regards, Mr. Greening, The Manager.

"When is this open?" asked Will, standing directly in front of the door and looking it over fully. Lisa slowly came after him and said, "I don't know, it's never been open whilst I'm here. It must be really special occasions."

"I'll be back in a minute," said Will, "Stay here."

Lisa watched him hurry away, thinking he needed the toilet, and going over what his strange behaviour could mean in her head. But Will didn't go to the toilet. He was making his way to the door he had gone past and marked in his memory a few minutes ago, marked Mr. Greening. Manager. Private, Do Not Enter. When he got there he knocked on the door, cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

"What is it please?" said a voice, and Will turned to where it had come from. On the left, a short, busy-looking woman was smiling through what looked like gritted teeth as her long, painted red fingernails drummed on the clipbourd she was clutching.

"I wanted the manager," Will said, frowning.

"He's busy, I'm sorry. Do you have an appointment? Can you please state your name? What company are you from? Please note that our paintings are not for sale." As she said all this, her black curls, pulled back into a high ponytail, bobbed around her head, making her look happy aswell as business-like, which Will found slightly amusing.

"I'm not from a company," Will said, "My name is Will Parry. I was merely going to ask an important question about art that I doubt you will know. I'm a painter, Miss, and I wanted to paint for this place, as I think it is suitable for my needs. And I need. To. See. The. Manager."

The woman looked flustered. Her fingernails stopped drumming, and she was completely still. Then, slowly, she raised her hand to tap her black-rimmed glasses down her nose.

"I've never heard of you," she said primly, "You must not be a very good painter."

"I wouldn't make assumptions," Will said, "I doubt you know much about art, if you don't know my name. Tell me, please, an interesting fact about art."

"Well… I…" blustered the woman. Then she regained her composure and said in a annoyed voice, "Well, you've got me there, Mr. Parry. I don't know much about art, but I know the painters. And you ain't even famous. Um, sorry, I meant, aren't."

"Can I see the manager, please? If I don't before the minute is over, I'll just go and give them to some other gallery!" Will said, pretending to be getting angry.

"Knock twice, then ring the bell three times," she said, in a rather bored voice. "That's the only thing he answers to, I'm afraid. If this were any other time, I wouldn't have let you through, you know, it's just, I'm so busy today…" and she walked off, round a corner, out of sight.

Will turned around, surprised that she had let him off, and then knocked twice on the door. Now… a bell… he searched the door, and found one quickly on the left-hand side. It was basically a white button, and it looked pretty unremarkable, and he would have missed it if it was not labelled in large, bold letters, BELL - PLEASE RING BUTTON ONCE FOR ASSISTANCE, ONLY IF URGENT. Raising his eyebrows at the statement, Will pushed it, once, twice, three times. He couldn't hear it ring, but it must've, because a second later the door was thrown open with such force it bounced off the wall behind, revealing a short, fat man of about forty or fifty, wearing corduroys and a tweed jacket. His hair ringed his head like a brown crown, fringed with grey hairs. He looked displeased.

"What is it?" he asked snappily, then squinted at Will, who hadn't moved. "Nancy? That's not you, is it? Oh, give me a minute."

A minute later he returned. He now had square glasses on, and he frowned when he saw Will. "What do you want?" he said rudely, adjusting the glasses.

"I want to speak with you. It's about the out of bounds area. I'm a… land surveyor, and I think that unless whatever behind that screen is absolutely incredible, this place is a waste of space."

This was a complete lie, but the man didn't see through it. He stopped frowning, smoothed down his jacket and then said contemptuously, "That is probably, sir, because you have no taste for art. The painting behind the doors is indeed absolutely incredible - if you come along next Thursday to the official opening I'm sure you'll agree."

There was a short silence, then Will said, "OK then, Mr Greening. What time…?"

"It doesn't matter, just come back Thursday. Any time."
Will thought for a moment, then nodded, turned his back on the man and walked down the corridor, for the first time wondering why he had suddenly had the urge to go and ask about whatever was behind the doors. Whatever it was, he thought uneasily, he would know whether it was important that next Thursday.

A nagging feeling made him stop straight and think. He knew it was important. He had been thinking about it only that morning, and for some reason he knew that Thursday was a special day.

Exactly on the moment when he remembered, Lisa ran up behind him and shouted, "Boo!"

"Wha - Lyra - I mean… Lisa… hi."

Lisa frowned. He seemed suddenly distracted, so, to keep his attention on her, she grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him towards her.

"Ow!" She drew away from him suddenly, and bent down, rubbing her leg. She didn't his subdued, warning whisper of "Kirjava!", but when her hand came away it was dotted with blood.

"What…" Will cleared his throat and tried again, "What happened?"

"I don't know," she said, scrubbing at the small scratch. "It stings though."

She looked up, and Will looked shifty. As soon as he realised that he was looking at her, he turned away.

Feeling completely baffled, Lisa found a tissue in her pocket and dabbed at the scratch. As soon as it stopped bleeding, she replaced the tissue and leant back up, saying, "Well, shall we…" She stopped. Will had gone.