The Palace of Westminster

The windsock, which had been threatening all day to pull itself free of its mountings and go flying down the Isis estuary and across the Northern Sea, suddenly stopped its desperate flapping and hung down against its gantry. The sun had been invisible behind grey scudding clouds for most of the day, but now it shone out of the west, illuminating a red and silver disk which was rapidly growing larger in the east; a second sun or moon.

'Ship to Dock!' The on-watch of the Deptford Naval Station ran from their ready-room, alerted to the incoming airship by the clang of the alarm bell. The ship slowed as it approached the station's mooring mast, and the duty stop-captain wondered why only two of the aircraft's engines were running. They've got no safety margin at all. And what on earth were they doing up today? All flights were grounded this morning! Stars above, they've taken a bashing!

The ropes were dropped and fastened to the ground-quoits. Slowly the airship nosed up to the mooring mast, but just as it approached it, the starboard engine spluttered and stopped, making the ship veer off to the right. What in the name of the Holy Magdelena and all the saints are they up to? Are they mad? A quick tug on the forward port groundline pulled the airship back to the mast and with a clank and a sigh the static cup engaged the nose-pin and the craft was safely moored. The ship's covering fabric was ripped and hanging loosely from the frame, which was visibly distorted. The starboard tail-fin had been torn away.

The go-captain dropped his lock-token from the gondola window to the ground, surrendering command of his vessel to the stop-captain. He turned to Lyra. 'Madam Professor? If you would care to step down from the ship now, I will arrange for your luggage to be offloaded.'

'Sir Captain, you must call me Lyra. I owe you very a great deal. I have rarely seen such skill and courage as you and your men showed today.'

'Thank you, Lyra. I believe that without your assistance we should all have been lost. Please, the next time you are in Witney ask for Captain Isaac Hollins. It would be an honour for me and my fellow officers to entertain you in our mess.'

'I should be delighted, Isaac.'

They shook hands and parted as friends. A naval car stood by the station gate ready to take Lyra to the Palace of Westminster. She took a seat in the back and Pantalaimon wrapped himself around her neck. The car drove out through the iron gates of the dockyard and into the streets of south London.

The woman and her daemon looked over the left shoulder of the driver at the road ahead. It led past street after street of grey houses, hard to make out in the growing darkness.

'Remember the last time, Pan?'

'The last time?'

'The last time we came to London by Zeppelin. Twenty years ago, to my mother's flat on the Embankment. Before we met Will. Before you took your settled form. Before everything.'

'Twenty years ago!'

'More than that.'

'It's funny.' Lyra sat back. The car was driving along the south bank of the river now, heading for London Bridge and the crossing to Westminster. 'It's like history repeating itself. We've left Jordan, and we've arrived in London, and just like last time we've no idea of what's really going on, or what we're letting ourselves in for. I feel almost like a child again.'

'Why not ask the oracle?' The daemon pointed a paw towards Lyra's pocket.

'No, Pan. The alethiometer has saved our lives once already today, telling us which way to steer to find the calm eye of the storm. Once is enough, don't you think?'

The Palace of Westminster stood next to the River Isis, by Westminster Bridge. It was by far the largest and tallest building in the vicinity, rivalled only by St Paul's Cathedral in the City of London, two miles to the east. Lyra's car pulled up by a side entrance and the driver got out.

'I'll go and find someone to let you in,' he said and disappeared into the darkness.

The driver was gone for ages, it seemed to Lyra and Pan, and they were starting to wonder whether he had not made a mistake and taken them to the wrong part of the Palace. Lyra was feeling tired after the journey and beginning to slip into a doze, when there was a knock on the car's window and a palace servant opened the door.

'Lady Belacqua? Lady Lyra Belacqua?'

'Yes.'

'If you would come with me, my lady, I will show you to your apartments.'

Despite her weariness, Lyra could hardly suppress a smile as the servant, gorgeous in blue velvet and gold braid, led her through the entrance and into the Palace of Westminster. A poodle! He's actually got a poodle-daemon! It matches his wig!

'Your things will be brought up to you presently, my lady.' They walked down long dim corridors, past wide oak doorways. From time to time, the servant pointed out a feature of interest, 'There is the Whig Office,' or 'That statue is of Sir Clarence Heston, the first Father of the House,' or 'Through that door is the Lobby of the Chamber of Commoners,' or 'The Holy Legate's Oratory is down that way.' They mounted a wide elm staircase and ascended to the second floor.

Lyra was beginning to wonder if the Palace extended for ever in all directions; an endless succession of committee rooms and private offices, Members' Dining Rooms and Civil Service canteens, when the servant stopped outside a green baize door. 'Would you please wait here a moment, my lady.' He passed through the door.

'We seem to be doing a lot of waiting, Lyra.'

'I'm sure we'll be kept waiting around a lot more yet, Pan.'

The servant reappeared, accompanied by a young woman in a white apron and starched cap. 'Now, my lady,' and they started off again. Lyra and Pantalaimon prepared themselves for another long trek, but it was less than five minutes before they reached her room. The marble floor had given way to Turkey carpet, muffling the sound of their footsteps. The woman took out a key from her pocket and opened the door, on which the number eight was painted in gold leaf. She reached inside the door and turned on the anbaric light.

'This is your room, my lady,' she said, and held the door back so that Lyra and Pantalaimon could enter.

'You've got your own bathroom in here, and this is your sitting room, and here's the bedroom. Just let me get the fire going.' The maid struck a lucifer and set its burning tip to a pile of wood in the fireplace. 'There! That'll soon be nice and warm! Now my lady, if you need anything you only have to ring.' She pointed to a bell-pull hanging by the door.

'Thank you. Sorry, I didn't catch your name.' The servant was momentarily nonplussed. 'My name? You want my name? It's Molly, my lady.'

'Molly and?'

The maid clutched her fox-daemon. 'Nicolas, my lady.' She could not hide her astonishment. Why would anyone want to know the name of a servant, let alone her daemon?

'Then thank you Molly, thank you Nicolas. This is Pantalaimon.'

'Thank you, my lady. Welcome, Pantalaimon. Now, there's an official reception in the Amber Hall at eight. It's six o'clock now, so you've an hour to rest. Someone will come at seven to help you dress. Is that all right, my lady?'

'Yes, Molly.'

After the maid had left, Lyra looked around the room. It was panelled with wood and there were heavy maroon hangings at the windows. The furnishings were of mahogany and old oak, dark and massive. In the alcoves hung paintings, yellow-brown with ancient varnish, of politicians or courtiers in mediaeval dress. A blackened suit of armour stood in the corner by the door. There was a musty smell, compounded of dust and wax polish.

'What a place!'

'What a place indeed, Pan.'

Molly knocked on the outer door of Lyra's apartments at seven o'clock. There was no reply, so she entered the room. In a chair by the fire sat Lady Belacqua still wearing her travelling clothes, fast asleep, with her pine-marten daemon on her lap. The servant looked down on the pair and felt a warm rush of affection for them. Such a little thing it was – but so kind, too – asking her for her name, and dear Nicky's as well. She shook her mistress's shoulder gently. 'Wake up, my lady. It's time to get ready.'

Lady Belacqua must have been dreaming, for her lips were moving and she was smiling.