Disclaimer: Me own no thing.

Silence followed Philip Pullman's words. Uncomfortable, tense silence that filled the room like dense fog. Will didn't know what to think. The author's words seem to have knocked him senseless. He just sat there, staring at the floor below him, his body and mind unsure how to respond. The only thing that seemed to be working was a broken record player in his head, repeating Philip Pullman's words over and over like the haunting dance music of the past. …it all started with a dream…it was an angel. Female…'Make use of that information, and write it down for the world to read. The truth must be known.' It wasn't until Mary cleared her throat and broke the deathly silence, did that ghostly record player stop.

"Well…That's interesting…," muttered Mary.

Will jerked his head up as she spoke. Her voice was cracking and her eyes were intentionally avoiding Philip Pullman. Her face was pale, though it was obvious that she was trying to regain composure.

"Are you okay, Ms. Smith?" caringly asked the author leaning towards Mary.

Mary coughed and rubbed the heels of her hands against her face as if to wake herself up. Will watched Mary numbly. He knew he should be worried, or at least be wondering if he looked as pale as Mary, but he was suddenly too lost in his other thoughts. Mary's words had, in a way, woke him up, letting loose a flood of questions into his mind. Why did the angel chose Philip Pullman? Why did she say that the truth must be known? Who was the angel? He was so focused on his own thoughts that he almost didn't hear what was said next.

"Yah, I fine. Just-just a bit tired. I might be coming down with Will's flu," commented Mary, taking her hands away from her face and looking back at Philip Pullman with her painted reporter smile back on. But the smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Are you sure you shouldn't be at home, resting?" questioned Philip Pullman with a hit of worry in his voice.

"Oh, it's not that bad. My immune system is fairly strong. But thanks for the concern."

"You welcome. So…are we done with the interview?"

"Um… I think so," began Mary, her smile faltering. She obviously hadn't planned this far. "Yes…Yes, we are done. I think I got everything I need," Mary finished on a confident note.

Mary motioned to pick up the tape recorder from the coffee table, but Lena stopped her.

"Wait! I have a question. Philip Pullman…"

"Yes?" said the author turning towards the woman he thought was an intern.

"Have you entertained the silly idea that what you've written down might be…true?" cautiously asked Lena.

Her words caused both Will and Mary to stare at her, snapping them out of their thoughts. What did she think she was doing? thought Will. Kirjava, who was curled up tight next to Will's leg was gazing at Lena, with the tiniest hint of hatred, but it was mostly confusion coming off her. Lena avoided everyone's eyes and focused on Philip Pullman, who was now voicing his answer.

"I would like to say that I haven't. But there are times very late at night when I can't sleep and I'm staring up at the ceiling that that silly little notion pops into my head. I know it's kind of foolish of me, but I sometime imagine that I would meet Will Parry, or Lrya Silvertongue, or Mary Malone, or any other of the many characters of the books. But I know they're not real. It's just a fictional story after all."

"I don't think it's silly at all. At least you know that it's a fictional story with fictional characters. There are nut-jobs out there that think that books like these tell the truth, you know," commented Lena, picking up on Mary's false cheery voice.

"Oh, yes. There are the freaks," responded Philip Pullman.

Will was puzzled. What exactly was his girlfriend trying to do? Prove that there are weirdoes out there that think books like Harry Potter and His Dark Materials are real? What was the point in all of this?

"She wants to make sure that Philip Pullman doesn't think that what he wrote down is true. She probably thinks that if he doesn't think it's true then the world won't either," quietly muttered Kirjava, pulling in closer to his human, her unease in abundance.

Will nodded slightly. His daemon was right. Lena was likely just trying to find out some more facts, right?

"Yes, freaks….Now I think we'd best be going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pullman," said Mary, grabbing the tape recorder and turning it off. She then proceeded to stand up, wiping off the crumbs of the previously consumed crackers and cheese. "And thank you for the tea and snack," continued Mary, holding her hand out for Philip Pullman to shake.

"Pleasure's all mine, Ms. Smith," replied the author standing up himself and shaking Mary's hand. "And I hope that you and Will feel better."

"I hope so too," kindly responded Mary letting go of Philip Pullman's hand.

Lena then stood up as well and Will followed. As Lena shook the author's hand and thanked him, Will's mind again began to ponder the questions that appeared first when the author had told them of his dream. In fact Will was so lost in thought that he didn't notice at first that Philip Pullman was holding out his hand for him to shake.

"Will!" whispered Kirjava, snapping Will out of his thoughts.

He jerked his head and looked at the author that had changed his life. From up close he looked older than he first appeared to be. There were wrinkles around his eyes from years of smiling. His hair was thinning and his eyes shone with an almost Santa Claus-like caring and curiosity. Why did the angel chose him? thought Will.

Will, distracted, held out his left hand for Philip Pullman to shake, but upon realizing that it was the wrong hand, he quickly switched hands.

"I just noticed that you've got three fingers on you left hand," observed Philip Pullman, grasping Will's right hand and shaking it.

The anxiety and fear suddenly peaked in Kirjava as she jumped off the couch and her human's heartbeat went rapid.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're pale again," said Philip Pullman letting go of Will's hand.

Why was he reacting this way? thought Will. This surely isn't the first time someone mentioned his left hand, so why was he freaking out so much?

"Yah…I'm fine," murmured Will turning away from the author, the butterflies turning into sharks in his stomach.

Will needed to get away from Philip Pullman as soon as possible, for he knew the author was a bright person. Sooner or later he would make connections and start asking questions, and that wouldn't be good. There was also the added fact that couldn't stand the worried looks from not only Philip Pullman but from Lena and Mary as well. So, Will walked away from the group and headed towards the books that lined the walls of the room. His daemon followed, too nervous about the comment to say anything. He heard the other three chattered as he stared absent mindedly at the Pullmans collection of Charles Dickens' novels.

"Was there something I said?" Philip Pullman whispered to Lena and Mary.

"No. He's still probably sick, like I said before. Plus, there's the added anxiety of loss of the two fingers on his left hand," quietly replied Mary.

"What happened?"

"Petting zoo accident. Nasty. Not something he likes to talk about."

"Oh…"

Mary was telling him the official story. It was a story they had decided on years ago. Whenever someone asked about Will's left hand, they would give them the petting zoo story. Will had even given it to Lena when she first asked about his hand. It was just something that needed to be stated. If they didn't tell them a story, then people would get curious and that was never a good thing. It was best just to settle the matter upright.

"Anyway, like I said. We best be going. My editors will be expecting the story on their desks by tonight, and we can't waste any more time," stated Mary, taking the first step to leave.

"Wait, mind if I ask you a question first?" spoke Philip Pullman.

"No. Go ahead," replied Mary, stopping and turning back to the author.

"Who are you?"

"Pardon?"

"You really aren't journalists are you?"

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Pullman."

Will turned back to watch Mary's and the author's conversation. Mary was struggling to keep her surprise hidden, he could tell in her voice. Worry was starting to creep up into Will's throat. What was Philip Pullman getting at? Did he make the connection? Did he figure out who they were?

"I'm not dumb, Ms. Smith. If that's even you real name," said Philip Pullman with a threatening tone of voice.

"I'm sorry but-but I really have no clue what you're talking about."

"There's something not right here that I just realized. I have an agent who handles all my press interviews and book signings and stuff like that. If you really were journalists for The Guardian then you would've contacted my agent and she would've contacted me."

"I…I told you, Mr. Pullman. I..It was…my secretary. She probably screwed up and forgot to contact you and your agent," answered Mary as calmly as she could.

"But…It's just…" began Philip Pullman, trying to find his words. "There's just something wrong here. I know there is."

"And what might that be?"

"Something…there's just something…something that I can't quite grasp at the moment. I'm getting this strange sense of déjà vu for some reason…I-I-I just don't know."

Philip Pullman was becoming flustered and doubting himself. Not for the first time in his life, Will marveled at the Mary's extraordinary skill of lying, at making people believe something else, at making them doubt their words and actions. She really should act, thought Will, relaxing his muscles that he didn't even knew he tensed.

"Mr. Pullman, are you okay?"caringly asked Lena, reaching out to the author.

"Yes-yes. I'm fine. I just…Oh, bother. My mind must be going. Ah, the wonders of old age. Please, don't listen to me. I just…I don't know. I'm sorry for accusing you of something that clearly wasn't true. It was a stupid thing of me to do," responded Philip Pullman.

"Oh, don't mention it, Mr. Pullman," began Mary, letting out a sigh. "You're obviously tired. You might be coming down with the flu as well. But like I said. We must be going. I hope you feel better. And thank you again for your time." And for the second time took a step to leave.

"Wait," sharply said Philip Pullman.

"What is it, Mr. Pullman?" questioned Mary, sounding a little impatient as she turned back to the author for another time.

"Could I possibly…get a number to contact you with? Just in case I have…I don't know…anything more to say or questions as to when the interview will be published."

"Um…sure. Um…"

"Here, I'll give it to him, Mary," offered Lena.

As Lena spoke to Philip Pullman, Mary walked over to Will. He quickly turned back to the bookshelf. He didn't know why, but he didn't want Mary to know he was watching them.

"That was a close one," whispered Mary, coming up behind Will and lightly laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah…" Will replied shakily, refusing to look at Mary.

"I was just…" began Mary. She paused as if deciding what the right thing to say was. "You're okay, right?"

Will nodded. He knew Mary was trying to help. She loved and cared for him. But he didn't want to talk to her. Philip Pullman wasn't the only one that was having the sense of déjà vu. Will felt that he and Mary had gone through this before, that history was repeating itself. He had a hard time opening up to Mary before, and that was happening again. For some reason he couldn't talk to Mary. Maybe it was because she cared too much, that she was too concerned for Will's comfort. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he never really had a true relationship with his mother, because whenever she would become well enough for him to talk to her, she would become ill again. Or maybe it was his mind unconsciously telling him that Mary wasn't his mother, and that he shouldn't open up to her. But whatever it was, he just couldn't talk.

"Alright," said Mary, a hint of disappointment in her voice as she took her hand off Will's shoulder and walked back over to Philip Pullman and Lena.