In the flat

Will does as he is told.  He sits in the chair next to the Charlie Chaplin poster.

'Firstly, William,' says the old man in his whispery voice, 'I must tell you that I have one of my people stationed outside the door.  It is his task to ensure that we are not disturbed during our talk.  I should perhaps point out that he is not standing near the top of the stairs and that if you do attempt to leave before we finish it is much more likely that you will suffer a nasty, or even fatal, fall, than that he will.'

He strokes his mongoose-daemon, cradled in his lap.

'You see, we know a good deal about you.  I lost a good man once.  I don't intend to do so again.'

Will remembers the sickening crack the intruder's skull made when, two years ago, the men first came to his mother's house and he accidentally tripped one of them at the top of the stairs.  He tries to keep calm.

'You said your name was Henry Latrom.  Are you anything to do with Sir Charles Latrom?'

'He was my younger brother.  He disappeared two years ago, and we presume that he is dead.'

Will has never forgotten the hideously distorted face by the lake, in Mrs Coulter's camp.

'Yes, he's dead.  I saw his body.'  A thought strikes Will.

'Sorry, Lizzie.  Was Sir Charles your father?'

'No. Yes. Well – no, he wasn't my real father.  I was adopted, from an orphanage, when I was only a baby.  But I called him Father, and he treated me like a daughter.'  Lizzie gets up from the couch and stands behind it, looking out of the window.

'How did Charles die?'

'I don't know.  He was with that woman, Mrs Coulter.  There were Spectres, but I don't think it was them that killed him.'

Henry Latrom shakes his head, regretfully.  'We may talk more about Charles later, when…' And he indicates Lizzie.  She has her daemon Parander wrapped over her shoulders.  They are speaking softly to one another.

'Meanwhile – you've led us a merry dance, William, disappearing like this.  It's taken us a while to find you.  Now, I'm going to be completely honest with you…' He coughs convulsively.  Lizzie turns, red-eyed, from her place by the window.  'My tablets…' Henry croaks.

Lizzie takes a small dark bottle from the pocket of Henry's coat and gives her uncle two tablets, with a glass of water from the kitchen.  Henry is better after a few minutes.  Lizzie sits down next to him on the couch.

'William, I must tell you that we now possess the Knife.  All of it.'

Ah, yes.  Lizzie's cut hand. She must have found the Knife-point hidden in his bags.  And – Mary!  Will stands up and advances on the old man.

'Where's Mary?  What have you done with her!'

'William, please calm yourself.  Doctor Malone is with your mother.  They are both receiving the best possible care in a private hospital.'

'Have you hurt them?  I'll kill you right now if you've hurt them!'

'William, I must remind you that you left your mother all alone with nobody to help her for nearly three weeks.  She was starving and distressed when we found her.'

'You made me leave her.  Your men did!'

'You never let us speak to you.  If you had, a great deal of inconvenience and suffering could have been avoided.  Now, sit down!'

Will, chastened, does as he is told.  Again.  An implicit threat now hangs in the air.  These people have the Knife, Mary and his mother in their power.

'As I said, we have the Knife.  We know about its unique properties – that it can cut windows between the worlds.  We also know that you are the only person who can use it.  It is true that the Knife can have only one user at a time?'

'Yes, as far as I know.  But it's broken.  I couldn't get anyone to help me re-forge it.'

'Nor would you have.  The Knife cannot be remade in any ordinary fire.'

'But – it was broken before!  Iorek and I mended it!  It was only a wood fire that we had.  And besides…'

'Yes.'

'I promised not to use it.'

'Who did you make that promise to?'

Will can feel control slipping from him.  He has said more than he should, and yet – this man might help him repair the Knife.

'The angel Xaphania.'

'Quite so.  Do you think that it was a fair promise?'

'Yes. No.  I don't know.'

'Or do you think that it was extracted from you under duress?'

'Xaphania told me that every time the Knife was used to open a window, it created a Spectre.  I saw what they do.'

'And?'

'She said that Dust was leaking from the worlds into the Void, along the Knife-cuts.  She said that the windows had to be closed, or else all the consciousness would drain out of the worlds.  I showed her how to close the windows, to stop it happening.'

'I see.'  Will feels more and more as if he is on trial.

'And yet, despite what she said, you have sought to re-make the Knife and, presumably, use it again.'

Will cannot help himself:  'It was so unfair!  Lyra and me… all we wanted was to be together all our lives.  We deserved it.  And Xaphania said that the angels could manage the Dust-loss.  It was only happening because the windows were being left open.  I wouldn't have done that.  And she said that the angels could take care of the Spectres.  Why couldn't we stay together, living in the worlds?'

'So you think the angel Xaphania was unjust, then.'

'Yes!  Yes, I do!'

'We think so too, William, but for a different reason.  Do you remember your father?'

'Yes, of course.'

'What did he die of?'

'A witch shot him, because… because he wouldn't sleep with her.  Because he was faithful to my mother.'

'Ah, yes.  But if the witch hadn't shot him?'

'He was sick.'

'Why was he sick?' 

Will remembers his father's last words to him; the reason why neither he nor Lyra could live in each other's worlds for very long.

'He was sick because his daemon had been too long away from her home world.'

'Yes.  Lizzie, you tell him.  I'm feeling tired.'

Lizzie looks up at Will.  She is Henry Latrom's most effective argument.  The boy is nearly theirs, now.

'Darren, you showed the angels how to close the windows.'

'Yes.'

'They did close them.  But Darr… William, I mean, they didn't wait for travellers like us to return to our home worlds before they closed them.  We're stranded here, in this world.  We can't go home, unless you help us.

'We're going to die here; me, my uncle and all the rest of us.  Quite soon now. William, you're our only hope.  Come with us.  Mend the Knife.  And, please, please, help us to go home.'

They have him.