In The Grove, near Alton, Hants

If an architect were to measure all the rooms on the ground floor of The Grove and then attempt to draw a plan of the building based on her measurements, she would soon discover an apparent inconsistency.  There would appear to be a gap, or void, between Doctor James's office and the staff staircase.  Further investigation would reveal that one of the bookcases with which Doctor James's office is equipped may, if the spine of a certain volume pertaining to Egyptian antiquities is depressed, be made to rotate, allowing the inquisitive architect access to this empty space.

She might smile to herself upon making this discovery.  Doubtless the secret door leads to a private library, where one may peruse volumes of a particular kind, not suitable for ones wife, children or servants to see.

She would be wrong.  For two hundred years, this room has contained, if that is the right word, something far more interesting.  In fact, the house was built around this room, whose name appears upon first consideration to be self-contradictory, bearing in mind that it is completely surrounded by eighteenth-century brickwork.

The Window Room…  Henry Latrom sits in Doctor James's chair, waiting for him to appear.  At his back is the singular bookcase, through which, over the years, has passed the traffic that is the basis of the Latrom fortune for, notwithstanding Doctor James's intentionally deceptive account of the history of The Grove, it has in fact belonged to the same family for the past two hundred years.

Henry Latrom, like his predecessors over the centuries, is a pragmatic man.  He does not care what goods pass through his window, only that a reasonable profit should be derived from them.  Naturally, the window is not suitable for the passage of heavy, bulky, low-margin commodities, as it is not large enough.  No, the effects in which he prefers to trade across the worlds are small, but valuable.  For example, each world produces its own varieties of recreational narcotic, and there is a ready market for them on both sides of his window.  He has some wealthy customers who have a special taste in reading matter of an illustrated nature.  Henry does not care for this kind of material himself – he finds the adult figure more aesthetically pleasing – but he is more than happy to meet the demand for it.  Henry Latrom is a great believer in the free and unfettered operation of market forces.  Everything has its price – the marketplace has no morality – and so this truly pragmatic entrepreneur knows that if, for example, there is a body that needs to be disposed of in a completely untraceable manner, he can, for a consideration, assist.  If he does not take this business, somebody else surely will, and that would be a shame.

Spices and slaves, silks and jewellery, drugs and pornography.  They have all been grist to the Latrom mill.  But now the window, the foundation of his wealth, has been taken away from him.  Even more than the consequent threat to his life, he feels, like a physical assault, the risk to his business.  It has taken time and research, precious time and expensive research, to reach the point he is at now, with the Knife and its Bearer in his hands.  And this fool James has put it all at risk with his clumsiness.

Doctor James enters the room and, seeing that Henry has taken his own chair, sits down on the other side of the desk.  Greaves takes up his position by the door.  He is not a big man, nor a particularly intelligent one, but he is effective.  Very effective.

'You are a complete fucking cretin.'  Henry's parchment voice crackles in the air.  Doctor James stands up indignantly.  He has never heard Mr Latrom speak in this way before.

'Sit down.  You are a great disappointment to me.  When I chose you for this job I had no illusions about your intelligence, but I did not think that you were stupid. 

'Who told you that you could mistreat the woman Malone?  Or threaten Mrs Parry?  Do you not realise that we must have the boy's complete heartfelt cooperation in this matter?  If he believes that he is being coerced, he will not consent to open a new window for us.  Either we will lose both him and the Knife, or it will have no Bearer.  I, and many others, will die, but I can assure you, James, that I will see you dead before that happens.'

'But the girl?  Elizabeth…' Doctor James is sweating now. 

'She may not be enough.  In any case, I have had to tell the boy that I will deal with you.  You are dismissed from your post, with immediate effect.  Greaves will accompany you to one of our guest rooms now.  I will decide what to do with you later.  Get out of my sight!'

Doctor James is white-faced and shaking.  He offers no resistance to Greaves as he is escorted from the room which used to be his office.

'Greaves!'

'Sir?'

'When you have made Doctor James comfortable, would you please send Miss Morley to see me.'  The efficient blue-coated Miss Morley will make an excellent replacement for Doctor James.

Kirjava slinks from her hiding-place in the corner of the room and follows Greaves and Doctor James out into the hall.

Will and Lizzie are sitting together in the conservatory.  Outside, the January afternoon skies are grey, but it is warm and comfortable on the wickerwork sofa they are sharing.  They spoke little in the car, but Lizzie is naturally talkative.

'It's not uncommon, you know, people thinking I'm a junkie.  I don't normally look like this.'

'You mean, it's because you've been too long in this world.'

Lizzie looks around, but there is nobody near to overhear them.  'Yes, I do.  You should have seen me at the Hunt Ball at home!  I love riding, but if I had a fall now it'd kill me.'

Will, who has never ridden to hounds, smiles.  Lizzie's loss is his gain.  She resembles his Lyra far more in her present state than she would have if she had been completely well.  Soon they will be taking the Knife-shards to the place where they will be made whole once more, and he will be able to find the real Lyra.

He spots a face he recognises on the other side of the conservatory, by the window.  He indicates it to Lizzie.

'Hey, doesn't she sing with…'

'Shush!  Remember what Uncle Henry said!'  Lizzie squeezes his arm.  'And look.  Don't worry about last night.  It happens to everyone some time or another.'

'Not if they're girls, it doesn't.'

'You wouldn't want to swap.  Believe me.'

In Salisbury

Giancarlo pushes up his collar, turns and looks back at the railway station.  The bus stop should be somewhere nearby. Ah, here it is!   He joins the queue.  To the north and west, the storm-clouds are piling up over Salisbury Plain.